Painting images with words
Feb. 24th, 2004 12:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kohakuNow to my poems.
I like the way form restricts me, and I like the way poetry demands to be economic. I like that I have to be very sure of which words I'll use. Poetry is harder to write for me, but much more fulfilling somehow. And it's harder to share, to be honest. Most of my poems are unfinished work. I like to go back and change things. While I picked poems for this compilation, I had to resist and re-write some of them. Especially "Yellow".
But here they are: unfinished, raw.
From: Home
Home is a compilation I wrote during summer. Some poems are older ones that I re-wrote during that time.
Ladybugs
My stepfather's family stares at me
Their smiles frozen on their faces
Like I don't know the difference
Between hospitality and hostility
And there's always ladybugs
Around my table like I'm ten
Which I'm supposed to be
I have to play with their children later on
Serving cake my new aunt excuses herself:
"We expected a younger child," she says
looking at my mother accusingly
Who dared to get me at such an early age
I glare at them angrily
Everytime I take a bite of the cake
Which could have been anything really
I urge it down with lemonade
Their children are well behaved
And don't get dirty, they don't swear
They laugh at me saying "Shit"
Instead of "poop" but that's what it's called.
"I have a parakeet," I tell them
but they just look at me blankly
"It's a bird; a blue one." Two smiles.
It's scary how they resemble their parents.
I don't have fun like I'm supposed to
But they don't enjoy it either
My mother finally rescues me
Her smile means we're leaving
At the door my aunt takes hold of me
"What did you talk about?" she inquires
I'm tired and before I know it I answer.
"Ladybugs," I hear me say.
******************************************************************
Players Fate
In the receding daylight
They stand there
Watching silver globes traveling on rough ground
Their faces are locked
Onto the wooden ball
Eager to get within closest proximity
They're tense, I can see it
Over the distance
Is playing still fun I want to ask.
Yet I don't.
4 p.m.
She should be napping
on this summer's afternoon.
Her head droops from time to time,
heavy with dreams undreamt.
The corners of her eyes
are already full with sleep,
yet she reaches out, carefully,
to stroke her mother's hair.
Don't Feed the Sparrows
He hops towards you, a tiny ball of feathers,
so small, delicate.
He looks at you with round black eyes
waiting, judging.
When you reach out with your hand,
the sparrow retreats ever so slightly.
You cannot tame him with good manners;
he will only fly away.
Ever since last summer I envy them. They are
almost cheerful, so free.
Please don't feed the sparrows.
Don't make me fall in love with you.
A Day at the Lake (June 26, 2003)
Mercury droplets
I lose my reflection
my gaze averts to things below
under the surface
the lake unites opposites
a sparkling mirror.
Sunburn
shows my greed
I shouldn't have listened
to whoever said
Too much of a good thing
was wonderful.
Only a Fool
Only a fool
would sit here and
whisper to himself.
Only a fool
would daydream on
a drunken afternoon
full of feathers,
sleepy bees and
whistling trees.
Only a fool
would smile at the sun
and be glad that he is
Only a fool.
Summer's Child
For Silme
I idly play
with a golden string of your hair
Letting the sun fall on it
Little reflections, like sunrise
on a summer's morning.
No wonder you love the sun
It is embedded in your skin
Inked between your shoulder blades
Yearning for its companion.
I lazily trace
the stars on your shoulder
Which forever remind me
of a Dylan Thomas poem
I haven't recited to you yet
And probably never will.
My finger moves fondly across
My own little secret
Kept by your skin.
**********************************************
Clouded
The air is heavy with sound.
Forgotten melodies among
Unspoken accusations hang below
The summer sky.
There is much I haven't said.
The old woman at the corner
Said it would rain
She saw the thunderstorm
Long before the clouds gathered
And whispered to the wind.
I turn my face to the depth above
And wait for the downpour.
***********************************************
Nan
I want to do something drastic
With my hair
Cut it all off, maybe
Shave it.
The shock it would give my mother.
My hands on the scissors
I remember my grandmother
Her silvery threads of hair
Being shorn off at hospital,
Like sheep's wool.
She had been able to sit on hers, but
It never grew back.
Short spikes instead of
Mercury waves accompanied her
In her coffin.
My own short hair grew
Slowly, steadily
Ever since I realised
She could not grow hers anymore.
***********************************************
From: Scottish Summer
Allof the poems from this compilation were written in Glasgow or Edinburgh.
Tune Your Pipes and March
Pipes and battle drums
Echo over George Square
Answered by another marching band
Playing a different song.
Tune your pipes
And march
This August's day
Sir Walter Scott
Is looking down from high above
Never minding the tandrum at his feet
But the seagull on his head.
Tune you pipes
And march
Towards Glasgow Green
A Tartan caleidoscope
See the colours swirl
Black and blue and red and yellow
Perked by the midday sun.
Pipe your tunes
And march
This summer's day
Drums a-drumming
Can you tell the tune?
I can't but my heart
Knows the beat all along.
Tune your pipes
And march.
*******************************
Revealed
I swear I didn't look on purpose
A young man
Jumping over one of the wooden rails
On George Square
One hand gripped tight
His legs flying
An adidas sports short
Under his kilt.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Untitled I
I've never seen a cooler thing
Than a bagpiper
Wearing sunglasses.
Glasgow piping championships.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Untitled II
A German couple
Asks me where the best shopping mile is.
I direct them to
Buchanan Street
Sauchiehall
Queen Street.
In English.
Incognito.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Glasgow University
Drinking ice-cold coke
From a real styrofoam cup
My nail carving spirals into it.
A finger dipped into a coolness
That melts on my tongue.
Glasgow discovered summer this year
Leaving me to sweat
And hide in museums.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Kelvingrove
"There is a certain affinity between painters and poets; a painting is indeed nothing other than a wordless poem."
~ Mc Lellan Galleries
Three years to refurbish Kelvingrove
Their relocated treasures now at McLellan
I look at wordless poems
Which can say more with just
A paintstroke
Than I can with
Larynx, lips, teeth, tongue
The pen my only hope.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Edinburgh
She presents herself to me
All fur-coat and no knickers
Two-faced, two-lived
As if she cannot decide
Which life is best.
I want to shake her ignorant people
Ignorant of her beauty
And tell them how lucky they are
That coffee can never be as
Important as this view
Out of the café's window
Edinburgh castle
Will still be there tomorrow
Still be there when
Another generation sits, sips, chats
But coffee grows cold.
I can't bring myself to care.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Long Distance
Your voice sounds metallic
There are clicks and clinks in it.
I wonder if you are speaking
Through a can, a pretended phone
Like a child.
The ocean that separates us
Somehow crept into the line.
I can hear the waves breaking and
My love buzzes.
Can you decipher my words?
Longing knows no language.
You do not need to
Reassemble my fractured speech.
I hang up, angry
At the cost and sad
Because your voice didn't sound
like your voice at all.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Lady Edinburgh
Edinburgh itself is not mad
She is patient.
She takes everyone that wants to see her,
Bids them in
Here's the parlour, the lounge is over there
Make yourself comfortable.
And they do.
Tourists never fail to ring her bell
Showing up on her doorstep,
Tired, dirty
Expecting glory of past times now
All wrapped up in tartan, aran wool
and pipes.
And Edinburgh, trying to be a lady,
Does all that.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Royal Mile
The Royal Mile is home
To the most common.
Stretching from Castle to Holyroot
Shops in Tartan
Wool Mills
All the cliches live here, door to door.
There might be a museum somewhere
But we have forgotten where it is.
The crooked streets devour things unlooked-for.
History, like the cobblestones,
Vanishes when dreaded on by several million feet.
See ye Jimmy hats
And Hong Kong Tartan.
I retreat to Arthur's seat.
The tourists are there too.
But the view is prettier.
The next one was discussed in my poetry workshop. I like it, but it's still work in progress somehow. I'm not satisfied with the last line of the second stanza. But here it is, flawed and all, because![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vegetariansushi asked very nicely and I couldn't say no.
Yellow
You set yourself apart
Being an artist rather than an actor
Painting images with words
Writing poetry with your old pentax
Claiming it made better pictures than you ever could.
Collages out of words, cloth, driftwood
show how you felt while drifting
I saw your son growing up
In awe with the Eiffel Tower
He was wearing nail polish in the next picture, proudly
Poet, Painter, Photographer
Political activist on press conferences
Speaking of a new Babylon
Not afraid, but with your head up high
Never silent about what should be said out aloud.
"Yellow" was the result of a creative writing assignment. The task was to write an hommage. Extra cookies to anyone who know who the person is I'm refering to. Easy peasy. I couldn't possibly be much clearer than that. :)
I like the way form restricts me, and I like the way poetry demands to be economic. I like that I have to be very sure of which words I'll use. Poetry is harder to write for me, but much more fulfilling somehow. And it's harder to share, to be honest. Most of my poems are unfinished work. I like to go back and change things. While I picked poems for this compilation, I had to resist and re-write some of them. Especially "Yellow".
But here they are: unfinished, raw.
From: Home
Home is a compilation I wrote during summer. Some poems are older ones that I re-wrote during that time.
Ladybugs
My stepfather's family stares at me
Their smiles frozen on their faces
Like I don't know the difference
Between hospitality and hostility
And there's always ladybugs
Around my table like I'm ten
Which I'm supposed to be
I have to play with their children later on
Serving cake my new aunt excuses herself:
"We expected a younger child," she says
looking at my mother accusingly
Who dared to get me at such an early age
I glare at them angrily
Everytime I take a bite of the cake
Which could have been anything really
I urge it down with lemonade
Their children are well behaved
And don't get dirty, they don't swear
They laugh at me saying "Shit"
Instead of "poop" but that's what it's called.
"I have a parakeet," I tell them
but they just look at me blankly
"It's a bird; a blue one." Two smiles.
It's scary how they resemble their parents.
I don't have fun like I'm supposed to
But they don't enjoy it either
My mother finally rescues me
Her smile means we're leaving
At the door my aunt takes hold of me
"What did you talk about?" she inquires
I'm tired and before I know it I answer.
"Ladybugs," I hear me say.
******************************************************************
Players Fate
In the receding daylight
They stand there
Watching silver globes traveling on rough ground
Their faces are locked
Onto the wooden ball
Eager to get within closest proximity
They're tense, I can see it
Over the distance
Is playing still fun I want to ask.
Yet I don't.
4 p.m.
She should be napping
on this summer's afternoon.
Her head droops from time to time,
heavy with dreams undreamt.
The corners of her eyes
are already full with sleep,
yet she reaches out, carefully,
to stroke her mother's hair.
Don't Feed the Sparrows
He hops towards you, a tiny ball of feathers,
so small, delicate.
He looks at you with round black eyes
waiting, judging.
When you reach out with your hand,
the sparrow retreats ever so slightly.
You cannot tame him with good manners;
he will only fly away.
Ever since last summer I envy them. They are
almost cheerful, so free.
Please don't feed the sparrows.
Don't make me fall in love with you.
A Day at the Lake (June 26, 2003)
Mercury droplets
I lose my reflection
my gaze averts to things below
under the surface
the lake unites opposites
a sparkling mirror.
Sunburn
shows my greed
I shouldn't have listened
to whoever said
Too much of a good thing
was wonderful.
Only a Fool
Only a fool
would sit here and
whisper to himself.
Only a fool
would daydream on
a drunken afternoon
full of feathers,
sleepy bees and
whistling trees.
Only a fool
would smile at the sun
and be glad that he is
Only a fool.
Summer's Child
For Silme
I idly play
with a golden string of your hair
Letting the sun fall on it
Little reflections, like sunrise
on a summer's morning.
No wonder you love the sun
It is embedded in your skin
Inked between your shoulder blades
Yearning for its companion.
I lazily trace
the stars on your shoulder
Which forever remind me
of a Dylan Thomas poem
I haven't recited to you yet
And probably never will.
My finger moves fondly across
My own little secret
Kept by your skin.
**********************************************
Clouded
The air is heavy with sound.
Forgotten melodies among
Unspoken accusations hang below
The summer sky.
There is much I haven't said.
The old woman at the corner
Said it would rain
She saw the thunderstorm
Long before the clouds gathered
And whispered to the wind.
I turn my face to the depth above
And wait for the downpour.
***********************************************
Nan
I want to do something drastic
With my hair
Cut it all off, maybe
Shave it.
The shock it would give my mother.
My hands on the scissors
I remember my grandmother
Her silvery threads of hair
Being shorn off at hospital,
Like sheep's wool.
She had been able to sit on hers, but
It never grew back.
Short spikes instead of
Mercury waves accompanied her
In her coffin.
My own short hair grew
Slowly, steadily
Ever since I realised
She could not grow hers anymore.
***********************************************
From: Scottish Summer
Allof the poems from this compilation were written in Glasgow or Edinburgh.
Tune Your Pipes and March
Pipes and battle drums
Echo over George Square
Answered by another marching band
Playing a different song.
Tune your pipes
And march
This August's day
Sir Walter Scott
Is looking down from high above
Never minding the tandrum at his feet
But the seagull on his head.
Tune you pipes
And march
Towards Glasgow Green
A Tartan caleidoscope
See the colours swirl
Black and blue and red and yellow
Perked by the midday sun.
Pipe your tunes
And march
This summer's day
Drums a-drumming
Can you tell the tune?
I can't but my heart
Knows the beat all along.
Tune your pipes
And march.
*******************************
Revealed
I swear I didn't look on purpose
A young man
Jumping over one of the wooden rails
On George Square
One hand gripped tight
His legs flying
An adidas sports short
Under his kilt.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Untitled I
I've never seen a cooler thing
Than a bagpiper
Wearing sunglasses.
Glasgow piping championships.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Untitled II
A German couple
Asks me where the best shopping mile is.
I direct them to
Buchanan Street
Sauchiehall
Queen Street.
In English.
Incognito.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Glasgow University
Drinking ice-cold coke
From a real styrofoam cup
My nail carving spirals into it.
A finger dipped into a coolness
That melts on my tongue.
Glasgow discovered summer this year
Leaving me to sweat
And hide in museums.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Kelvingrove
"There is a certain affinity between painters and poets; a painting is indeed nothing other than a wordless poem."
~ Mc Lellan Galleries
Three years to refurbish Kelvingrove
Their relocated treasures now at McLellan
I look at wordless poems
Which can say more with just
A paintstroke
Than I can with
Larynx, lips, teeth, tongue
The pen my only hope.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Edinburgh
She presents herself to me
All fur-coat and no knickers
Two-faced, two-lived
As if she cannot decide
Which life is best.
I want to shake her ignorant people
Ignorant of her beauty
And tell them how lucky they are
That coffee can never be as
Important as this view
Out of the café's window
Edinburgh castle
Will still be there tomorrow
Still be there when
Another generation sits, sips, chats
But coffee grows cold.
I can't bring myself to care.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Long Distance
Your voice sounds metallic
There are clicks and clinks in it.
I wonder if you are speaking
Through a can, a pretended phone
Like a child.
The ocean that separates us
Somehow crept into the line.
I can hear the waves breaking and
My love buzzes.
Can you decipher my words?
Longing knows no language.
You do not need to
Reassemble my fractured speech.
I hang up, angry
At the cost and sad
Because your voice didn't sound
like your voice at all.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Lady Edinburgh
Edinburgh itself is not mad
She is patient.
She takes everyone that wants to see her,
Bids them in
Here's the parlour, the lounge is over there
Make yourself comfortable.
And they do.
Tourists never fail to ring her bell
Showing up on her doorstep,
Tired, dirty
Expecting glory of past times now
All wrapped up in tartan, aran wool
and pipes.
And Edinburgh, trying to be a lady,
Does all that.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Royal Mile
The Royal Mile is home
To the most common.
Stretching from Castle to Holyroot
Shops in Tartan
Wool Mills
All the cliches live here, door to door.
There might be a museum somewhere
But we have forgotten where it is.
The crooked streets devour things unlooked-for.
History, like the cobblestones,
Vanishes when dreaded on by several million feet.
See ye Jimmy hats
And Hong Kong Tartan.
I retreat to Arthur's seat.
The tourists are there too.
But the view is prettier.
The next one was discussed in my poetry workshop. I like it, but it's still work in progress somehow. I'm not satisfied with the last line of the second stanza. But here it is, flawed and all, because
vegetariansushi asked very nicely and I couldn't say no.Yellow
You set yourself apart
Being an artist rather than an actor
Painting images with words
Writing poetry with your old pentax
Claiming it made better pictures than you ever could.
Collages out of words, cloth, driftwood
show how you felt while drifting
I saw your son growing up
In awe with the Eiffel Tower
He was wearing nail polish in the next picture, proudly
Poet, Painter, Photographer
Political activist on press conferences
Speaking of a new Babylon
Not afraid, but with your head up high
Never silent about what should be said out aloud.
"Yellow" was the result of a creative writing assignment. The task was to write an hommage. Extra cookies to anyone who know who the person is I'm refering to. Easy peasy. I couldn't possibly be much clearer than that. :)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-02-23 04:11 pm (UTC)I love 4pm, Don't Feed the Sparrows, and Summer's Child the best, I think. They're beautiful, though. I'm fascinated by poetry, by the way that the cadience of the words can totally alter the feel of the whole poem, you know?
I'm also very fond of Untitled II and Long Distance - I really related to Long Distance, I think.
Really, though. Less shyness about posting your stuff! Poetry = good! Your poetry = good!
Also, strangely, my favourite stanza of Yellow was the second, especially the last line. It was so telling, I though, so demonstrative of the refusal to fear art, where ever you find it. Though that might be me reading into it too hard.
Okay, I really, really have to go feed the baby now, so I'll read the stories after supper. *loves*
Re:
Date: 2004-02-23 06:38 pm (UTC)Long Distance is one of the few love poems I wrote. Maybe the only real one. And although people suspect it to be autobiographical, it's not. I didn't call my hubby, although I missed him like crazy. It's about what makes me sad if I call home. So, yeah, maybe there's more of me in it than I first thought.
"Untitled II" is autobiographical though and it belongs to a series of poems written on George Square. It has a much lighter tone. It was a good day.
Summer's Child, now, that is one that I like. I like references to other poems or poets in other works, and I kept on citing the Dylan Thomas poem I mentioned. This day at the lake the pieces clicked and there it was. One poem I do not change anymore.
4 pm is just a glimpse of a hot day in the park. She was one of the cutest little girls I ever saw.
I'm glad you like Don't feed the Sparrows. I wasn't very happy with the first version, and cut some words, rephrase some line. So, yeah, very happy that you like.
As for Yellow... it is always good to hear a second opinion. It seemed right when I wrote it. And I like the way it captures the passing of time. So maybe I keep it. It seems right, and maybe my feeling is wrong. And you're right of course. Never fear art. The photograph touched me somehow otherwise I wouldn't have mentioned it. I still remember it pretty clearly. My creative writing teacher wasn't so sure about the nail polish, but he doesn't know the picture I'm talking about. Thanks. :)
You can never read too much into something. You're comments mean so much to me. If my writings speak to you and if they make you think or give you an idea or show you something new than that's more than I could hope for. That's what I want to do.
Again. Thanks for asking me to post it. Thanks for commenting. You have no idea of how much I treasure this.
Re:
Date: 2004-02-23 09:10 pm (UTC)Are you kidding? This is fantastic stuff. I have some fucking amazing writers on my friendslist, and you're very much included in that group, I should think.
"Untitled II" is autobiographical though and it belongs to a series of poems written on George Square. It has a much lighter tone. It was a good day.
Oddly, I wasn't so keen on this one until I got to the last line, and then I went "OH!" and started to love it. And then I had to go and reread it and decided that I kind of loved it. It sounds like a good day, though, that whole series.
I like references to other poems or poets in other works, and I kept on citing the Dylan Thomas poem I mentioned.
Out of interest, what's the poem?
4pm reminded me of my daughter, I think, which is probably part of why I like it so much.
It seemed right when I wrote it.
I sometimes find that this is the most important thing, the "right feeling" when things are written. Once I've got a poem on paper (or hard drive, as it may be) I rarely add anything - All I can do from that point is subtract, or maybe change a single word here and there. Though that might just be me.
Never fear art.
I think that a lot, but I don't think that I've quite learnt it yet if you know what I mean. I'm easily frightened by art, especially by people who create art. It took me forever to start commenting in people's journals, even people on my friendslist that I knew wouldn't be offended.
I still remember it pretty clearly. My creative writing teacher wasn't so sure about the nail polish, but he doesn't know the picture I'm talking about.
I actually have no idea what photo you're speaking of. I mean, I've gathered that it's Henry Mortensen in that stanza (correct?) but haven't seen the photo. So my interpretation there was strictly from your poem.
You can never read too much into something.
Oh, I'm sure I can. I just have to try harder :)
You're comments mean so much to me. If my writings speak to you and if they make you think or give you an idea or show you something new than that's more than I could hope for. That's what I want to do.
Well, you're doing it, love. Seriously, will you keep posting things as you write them? Please? Asking nicely, again. . .
no subject
Date: 2004-02-24 09:03 am (UTC)Out of interest, what's the poem?
It's "Death Shall Have no Dominion". I don't even really know why I had the connection tattoo- poem, but there it was. Maybe the line "Stars at elbow and foot" got me here. Oh, I don't know if you got the reference to the tattoo... it isn't important for the understanding of "Summer's Child". But here:
No wonder you love the sun
It is embedded in your skin
Inked between your shoulder blades I'm talking about a tattoo of a sun. :)
Once I've got a poem on paper (or hard drive, as it may be) I rarely add anything - All I can do from that point is subtract, or maybe change a single word here and there.
It's not just you. I strip words away if I change anything. Or rephrase, but that's almost the same with me, because words get lost during rephrasing.
You have to show me some of your writings sometime.
I mean, I've gathered that it's Henry Mortensen in that stanza (correct?) but haven't seen the photo.
Yeah. And somehow that made me smile. It is him, and if you want to I scan the photo and put it up in LJ. Come to think of it, I really should scan the one with the Eiffel Tower. It's briliant.
I adore Viggo Mortensen's work, especially his poems, but his photographs do something to me I cannot describe. I feel too fangirlish to add anything here, but yeah.
And since you ask so very nicely, and I'm getting the impression that I hardly can resist such lovely begging, I will post more. Promised.
*hugs*
I'm grinning like a loon at getting all this fab feedback from you. You spoil me, love, you spoil me.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-24 09:15 am (UTC)It's not just you. I strip words away if I change anything. Or rephrase, but that's almost the same with me, because words get lost during rephrasing.
I know what you mean. I tend to vascillate wildly in my poetic tastes; Some days I love intensely descriptive lines, sometimes I can't stand having a spare adjective in there and find myself wanting to take scissors to my books and pull them out.
You have to show me some of your writings sometime.
It's mostly incoherent crap, and there's blessedly little of it, really. If you're fascinated by bad poetry I'll post some this evening, though.
Yeah. And somehow that made me smile. It is him, and if you want to I scan the photo and put it up in LJ. Come to think of it, I really should scan the one with the Eiffel Tower. It's briliant.
Do it - Now that I've read the poem, I want to see what it's . . .You know? See what it's talking about, I guess.
I adore Viggo Mortensen's work, especially his poems, but his photographs do something to me I cannot describe. I feel too fangirlish to add anything here, but yeah.
Don't feel too fangirlish! That's the point, no? That here we can be unabashedly fangirlish? I mean, that's what this journal's meant to be for me, anyhow. (Not, really, that one would ever guess that from recent posts, but . . . )
It's too personal somehow, and I'm afraid that it desn't ring true or is just plain embarrassing. Sharing with you is one thing; sharing with the person it's about another.
I understand. It seems a sort of false intimacy, almost, I think.
And since you ask so very nicely, and I'm getting the impression that I hardly can resist such lovely begging, I will post more. Promised.
Yay! You're so nice.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-24 03:46 pm (UTC)I don't think you write bad poetry. I'd really like to see it. *hugs*
As for the pictures, I have to ask a friend if I can use his scanner. He doesn't mind, it's just that it will take a bit longer. I'll put them up in my journal then. I won't forget. But it make take a few days.
I hope you like the other poems and stories too. I think that's almost all of my finished work at the moment. The stuff I produced more than two years ago is awful. Maybe not in content but language-wise. I chose English to be my language of writing although I wasn't that fit. I feel much more confident now.
:)
no subject
Date: 2004-02-24 10:51 pm (UTC)I did find the poem, and I liked it a lot. I'd never read it before, though I'd read some of his other stuff. My background in literature, poetry especially, is very spotty, because it's not much studied here anymore, and I went through school rather quickly, so ended up maybe not knowing everything that I should. (Though I maintain that this is as much the fault of the school as it is me, since they're the ones who made me spend hours learning the names for various muscle groups and things that I will never ever need to know.) Um. Moving on. Sorry.
I don't think you write bad poetry. I'd really like to see it. *hugs*
You're very dear, hon. I posted a few poems and an original fic that I'm writing with a friend of mine in my journal. Along with giving the notorious ninja monkey haiku porn its own post, because I'm all about the friendslist spam tonight, apparently.
As for the pictures, I have to ask a friend if I can use his scanner. He doesn't mind, it's just that it will take a bit longer. I'll put them up in my journal then. I won't forget. But it make take a few days.
Oh, don't worry about it, hon. Don't go out of your way on my account. There has to be a copy of it on the net somewhere, wouldn't you think? What's the photo of? I'll try and find it tomorrow evening. . .
I hope you like the other poems and stories too. I think that's almost all of my finished work at the moment. The stuff I produced more than two years ago is awful. Maybe not in content but language-wise. I chose English to be my language of writing although I wasn't that fit. I feel much more confident now.
You know, I said this to