speccygeekgrrl42: (*FLAIL* : Kermit)
So this chapbook thing is DEFINITELY HAPPENING. I basically put the whole thing together this afternoon and got things into the order I want them and got it all laid out. I am waiting for a couple more people to proof it for me and then I am taking this sucker down to Staples and hashing out the gory details to get it exactly the way I want it, and then I am going to spend a significant amount of money in order to make my vision a reality.

If you would like a copy, please let me know here so I can come up with a relatively accurate tally of how many I need to get printed (/whether I should be planning on making a second run with my next paycheck, christ I just got paid today and I'm throwing like a third of my paycheck at this, but I can afford it, I want it, and this is a better use of my money than saving up for a tattoo, I think!)

Also let me know whether you would be willing to contribute an amount of money equal to or greater than the amount it costs to mail it to you! I'm not going to tell people they have to pay me like $10 per book or anything, it'll probably cost about $2.50 to mail, but hey, if people want to give me money, that would be super nice. I'm not under the impression that my poetry is so amazing you need to pay me for it, though. Mostly I just want my friends to have a nice thing by me, and give Professor Bennett one more chapbook to add to his office full of chapbooks.

Also if you get a copy I will absolutely sign it for you because signed chapbooks are awesome, and what is the point of printing my own damn book if I can't be personal and awesome about distributing them?

(I am pretty sure I am getting manic. Lots of creativity, decreased need for sleep, increased spending, elevated mood. But the nice thing about being manic is I GET SHIT DONE. Tomorrow: more jewelry. I made four pieces on Tuesday, I have four more to make that I promised for people, and then I can start thinking about an Etsy shop or doing commissions or things like that.)

Ideally I will get to Staples on Saturday or Sunday. I don't know how long a print job will take... these are going to be 5.5x8.5 booklets with a color image on the cover, so maybe it will take a week or more... but maybe it will not. I have no idea because they won't let me design booklets in the online print shop, only bound things, which I don't want. But I am hoping that it will be less than $5 per book.

So... yeah, please let me know if you would like a copy.
speccygeekgrrl42: (cupid's-bow : Sherlock)
Sunday: The Self in Five Acts: A Guide to Iconography
Monday: Ode to the Triple Word Score
Tuesday: The Calm and the Storm
Wednesday: Mocha (Ode to My Sister's Cat)

I am trying to write proper sonnets instead of just fourteen line poems now. At least, I've got the rhyming back. Not so hot with the iambic pentameter. I hate meter. I'm no good at it.

But anyway, here's my first check-in post. So far, so good.
speccygeekgrrl42: (writing is hard : Chuck)
A Round of Words in 80 Days is a writing challenge community. I'm coming to it two weeks late, but they say you can jump in at any time, so I'm taking the plunge now.

Here is my goal: I want to write a poem every day.

It doesn't have to be a long poem, or a formal poem. It doesn't have to be something I ever do anything with. But if I can manage to do this, I will set a good practice for myself that I will hopefully carry beyond the challenge. It supposedly only takes a month to set up a good habit... I would like to get in the habit of poetry every day rather than writing a lot of poems every week or two.

I will post my daily poems at [livejournal.com profile] metaphorliteral. You will probably see a lot of sonnets. Maybe some haiku if I'm really stuck for words. Probably not a sestina unless I suddenly overcome my seven year writer's block for sestinas. Probably will be a few villanelles. I'd say I'd try a pantoum at some point but those are super fucking complicated. I'm going to try to avoid free verse because my free verse is not very good compared to my formal poetry, but I might come out with a couple. Anyways, my independent study is for formal poetry, so I'm going to try to stick to that and make Professor Bennett happy. Who knows, at some point I may start trying to imitate other poets. I'd like to try Sapphic verse at some point (the stanzas end with lines that match the meter of "strawberry jam pot". I would like to actually use the line "strawberry jam pot" and write a poem about Stupid Watson, but that may be too gimmicky.), and I may give Eliot another shot, although I've already written one takeoff of J. Alfred Prufrock.

If I get super ambitious, I will extend this project to last the rest of 2012. We'll see how I feel about it in 66 days.

Also, because I'm not that creative, I'm either going to start scouring prompt comms for ideas, or you can leave me prompts and I will try to write a poem on whatever topic you assign me. C'mon, you know you want to give me something to do.

I started writing one at Ryan's that I only got three lines into, I'm going to go finish that now. Because writing about my tattoos is totally valid and also awesome of me.
speccygeekgrrl42: (sleep. : Rusty)
If you see this, post a poem

Sonnet to Sleep
John Keats

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,--
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

Actually here's a twofer, because I like this one too:

Elizabeth Bishop

The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

By the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.

And if you are in the mood for sonnets, I just posted two four new ones at [livejournal.com profile] metaphorliteral. Because classical mythology is inspiring. I'd really like input on them, especially Psyche on the Dock.
speccygeekgrrl42: (Gabriel is sweet.)
Okay, if you have five minutes, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read this and tell me what you think of it. I'm submitting it for a poetry contest on campus and the theme was "food". I have until midnight to submit it.

Sweet Tooth

I can't help it, I want candy.
Strawberry laces, Smarties, Andes
mints, Sour Patch Kids, gummi bears,
all kinds of chocolate. I don't care
about the sugar high or cavities.
I'll take my insulin and brush my teeth. You see,
I've got this craving that I just can't seem to kick,
and my mother never told me I'd get sick
from indulging my sweet tooth. Give me Skittles,
Raisinettes, Junior Mints, Warheads, a little
bit of fudge-- don't get me started on cakes and pies!
A bakery's like Heaven. Would I lie
about how much I love an ice cream cone?
No, you can't have any! Leave me alone!
speccygeekgrrl42: (busy writing : Russian Holmes)
Okay, I wrote a sonnet and I think it's pretty good. I've put it under a lot of revision since I wrote it, but it could probably benefit from a little more constructive criticism. So would anyone with a poetic bent mind looking it over and just telling me what the weakest points are and whether I could be wording things better, or what you like about it? You don't have to go super in depth, just think about it for a minute and give me your honest opinion, please.


Take this poor broken heart and tape it back together,
use glue if you've got it, staples if you're feeling cruel,
put in careful stitches with your deft fingers,
and once it's back in one piece, give it back to me.
Your toolbox and your kindness will ensure my gratitude,
because no one else who's had this heart has shown it any care,
but you're not like the others. You're a specialist,
and even if you deny it, you're the kindest of them all.
Don't give me your heart in return; it shouldn't be mine.
Keep it safe yourself, although I'd try to take care of it.
Even the things I treasure end up in pieces these days,
and my stitchwork's nowhere near as neat as yours.
So keep your heart, and give me mine back as it stands,
and when I see these scars, I'll remember your kind hands.

Also, if you really enjoy looking over poetry, I've been posting everything I turn into class and a few things I wrote a long time ago at [livejournal.com profile] metaphorliteral, and I always appreciate getting people's advice on my work. The most recent thing is a poem it took me seven years to finish, and the beginning is a lot stronger than the ending, so any kind of feedback would be really helpful. And there are a few sestinas and villanelles there if you like formal poetry.
speccygeekgrrl42: (busy writing : Russian Holmes)
Okay, I really don't know how to edit poetry, so I'm just going to put this up and ask what I can do to make it better. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

It turns out that I am made of nylon.
I always thought I was made of tin.
I found out when your jagged words caught and snared on
when I thought they'd bounce off and I'd be safe in.
I guess it makes sense now that I think of it
although I'd much rather the reverse had been true:
it'd be nice for my words to make a direct hit
when I have sharp words to be said to you.
But nylon's got a lot of things in its favor
like tights and rope and colorful kites
and seatbelts that act as a life saver
and parachutes that bring people down from incredible heights.
So maybe the fact that I'm not made of metal
shouldn't be cause for any alarm.
Metal, after all, rusts and gets brittle
but you can sew nylon up after any kind of harm.
So what if now I've got runs up and down me
from all the cruel things you saw fit to say?
I've got needle and thread, and scars will look gutsy
and I'll live to save lives another day.
speccygeekgrrl42: (an excellent listener. : John)
There was a 38-line subsection of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" called "Prufrock's Pervigilium" which was all but five lines excised from the poem. And it makes Prufrock sound nuts, in a way that makes me love him even more desperately than I did when I was 14 and came across Love Song in my mother's old college lit textbook. How did I not know there was more to my favorite poem?

- I have seen the darkness creep along the wall
I have heard my Madness chatter before day
I have seen the world roll up into a ball
Then suddenly dissolve and fall away.

Prufrock was insomniac too, clearly, walking the streets at night in a way I used to back when I lived on more interesting streets. Not as interesting as his streets, at any rate.

Once again, fandom makes me smarter. What would I do without it? (Be a much sadder person, that much is certain.)

I slept in fits and starts all night long, just long enough to dream about going to college being more like summer camp with books, not deeply or well enough to feel rested at all now. I need to do things today. What things, I'm uncertain, but definitely something.
speccygeekgrrl42: (*tub time*)
Today my mother and I traded favorite poems. I gave her The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock to read, and she made me read Love Is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Millay and When We Two Parted by Lord Byron. My mother is secretly fourteen years old and emo... but my favorite poem hasn't changed since I was fourteen, so maybe I shouldn't talk.

Nothing will ever change my mind about loving that poem, though. It will probably be my favorite poem for my whole life. Sappho comes in second place. It's probably weird that my favorite poem makes me identify with a balding middle-aged man... and probably weird that I've been so willing to... well, this:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I am nowhere near drunk enough to be this introspective. I think it's time for me to take my whiskey and go take a bath, since we watched two episodes of Quantum Leap instead of one and if I do yoga now I'll be awake all night.

It's been raining all day, but tomorrow it's supposed to get up to almost 60 degrees and clear up a little bit. Good. I've been getting kind of uncomfortably weird on rainy days. It'll be good to be around people and have to act like a real human being all the time instead of just when I'm out in public.

Oh, crap, I should probably finish copying all these DVDs my brother wanted before I go to Plattsburgh, shouldn't I? I guess that's what I'll be doing tomorrow: copying Pushing Daisies and Ocean's Eleven/Twelve/Thirteen.
speccygeekgrrl42: (assistant asteroid : Astrid)
When you see this meme, post a poem on your LJ.

I cheated and used lots of pieces of poems, lacking one entire one to post.

Sappho, translated by Anne Carson

Fragment 5

O Kypris and Nereids, undamaged I pray you
grant my brother to arrive here.
And all that in his heart he wants to be,
make it be.

And all the wrong he did before, loose it.
Make him a joy to his friends,
a pain to his enemies and let there exist for us
not one single further sorrow.

Fragment 24A

you will remember
for we in our youth
did these things

yes many and beautiful things

Fragment 36

I long and seek after

Fragment 47

Eros shook my
mind like a mountain wind falling on oak trees

Fragment 105A

as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch
high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot--
no, not forgot: were unable to reach

Fragment 118

yes! radiant lyre speak to me
become a voice

Fragment 130

Eros the melter of limbs (now again) stirs me--
sweetbitter unmanageable creature who steals in

Fragment 138

stand to face me beloved
and open out the grace of your eyes

Fragment 162

with what eyes?
speccygeekgrrl42: (dear lj stardate 4242.4 : Spock)
[Error: unknown template qotd]

Slept 'til two again.
At least I found my glasses...
But where's my muse gone?

Why is "keep dreaming"
a negative phrase? I quite
like to keep dreaming.

"I'll get you some weed"
is a nice promise, but one
that rarely comes through.

Student loans, online
classes, forgotten reading...
crap I need to do.

Harry Potter? That
came out today, didn't it...
accio ticket?
speccygeekgrrl42: (stay with me lay with me: Sid&Cassie)
when you see this, post your favorite poem.

I am not going to post The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. (SHOCK.)

24A, C, D; Sappho

]you will remember
]for we in our youth
      did these things

yes many and beautiful things

]we live
the opposite
]in a thin voice

from If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, translated by Anne Carson
speccygeekgrrl42: (sad Dean in snow)
When you see this, post your favourite poem in your journal.

As I am pretentious, and my favorite poem is still "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by T.S. Eliot, I will post excerpts rather than the entire thing, all right?

And if you are interested, here is an mp3 of T.S. Eliot reading it.

Lines 15-34
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

Lines 104-119
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

Lines 129-131
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
speccygeekgrrl42: (sick of it and of you : Torchwood)
Oh... it's Friday. I forgot about that. ._.

You know how sometimes you go back to look at old RP logs, and sometimes you find out that the community has been deleted (in a fit of spite) and you can't go back no matter how you want to remember what was going on there? Man, I hate that. -_- Whatever, Olbermann is going up on the Big Wall of Ex-PBs anyway. He was there however briefly, and it was entertaining. Over three years ago. Dear god, I am old and pitiful. I remember when I could spend 18 hours just going at RP and pausing for food and barely for sleep... now I can't even stick to a game for more than a week.

I don't know if i miss being like that. It was fun, but that was right about when I started seriously losing it, and doing things like flunking and getting stupidly attached to the people behind the characters and then came backbiting and infighting and all that soul-crushing stuff.

No, I don't miss it.

Maybe a little.

ANYWAY. What I am going to share right now is not music. It's spoken word and poetry by Utah Phillips, over acoustic accompaniment by Ani DiFranco. I'm going to repost the text to each under the link, because these are flippin' amazing.

Utah Phillips - I Will Not Obey

the new ruling party is holding the aces
the rest of the cards are all missing faces
i'm sorry i can't know you today
what can one say?
i will not obey )

Utah Phillips - Korea

We never traveled together at all, you know, since the kids been little they've always known that I vanished from their lives periodically. And they never really had any idea of what it is that I do. What do I do? If I don't know why should they?

Yeah, Brandon, the fourteen-year-old, he got to travel with me, during the summer. But we got a chance to talk to each other as adults, you know, as - well - as adults, instead of just father and son. We left Boston - we were headed up to the Left Bank Cafe in Blue Hill, Maine - and Brandon, just above Marble Head, turned to me and he said, "How did you get to be like that?"

It's a fair question.

I knew what he meant, but he didn't have all the language to say exactly what he meant - what he meant to say was: "Why is it that you are fundamentally alienated from the entire institutional structure of society?"

what can one say? )And I realized right then, I said, "Brandon, right then I knew that it was all wrong, and it all had to change. And that that change had to start with me."

Please listen to those. I know most of you ignore me when I say that usually, but really this time: please.
speccygeekgrrl42: (*twilight waterside*)
Damn. I definitely had a significant revelation that I've forgotten.

Ratface is wonderful, catpants is bitey. I myself am in love with the water and the earth and the air. Not so much the bugs. But definitely the camera.

Candles are lovely. I'm in love with fire too. It's all good, my thirst and gravity's wobbly hold and cherries I haven't eaten yet and a cold bag of wonderfully smelly herbs on my head. Hippie is in my blood.

Katamaris and air conditioning, refuge from mosquitos and a return to domestic animal love. I can't even express how much I love my friends. The ones who aren't here I think of all the time and gather tiny things for, little things that just mean "I wish you were here".

If I had sunrises. Or the clouds with the full moon describing their silver curves. If I could take one of my mother's Mason jars and keep a sunset as perfectly peach-ripe and violet at the edges as the best summer day could bring, I'd bubble wrap it up and mail it to you. Because I love you. All of you.

I saw a shooting star, I know it wasn't a figment of my imagination. It swept an arc maybe a few minutes long, only a blink of the eye, and I wished.

Everything will be all right. I made a wish for all of us and everything is going to be just fine.
speccygeekgrrl42: (colors! so many pretty colors : Pintsize)
I had this dream again last night
you and I went down to the rocks on clark's cove, looking for shells
there wasn't any light, we found our way through the sand by toetips and fog
I stepped on a shell, slept on the rocks, high tide kissing my cheek.
you brought me elephant toenails and scallops lined with mother of pearl
sand between your toes
beer bottles being turned into seaglass
your rough edges smoothed by the ocean.
speccygeekgrrl42: (this isn't as easy as it looks)
Let's start a war.
It's not like we have anything else to do today, right?
Crappy jobs with crappy hours leave a lot of time for...
Let's start a war.
I'd say I'd let you take the first shot, but you already did.
Come on, follow it up, don't stop now.
We're the same person on different sides.
Let's start a war.
Get personal, baby, lay it on me.
I won't take prisoners, you may as well be savage.
Do you even remember why you liked me once?
Let's start a war,
Because I'd rather remember a strong enemy than a weak friend.
You know my soft spots. I know yours too.
Teeth and claws, let's leave the bombs for amateurs.
Let's start a war.
I haven't forgotten you enough to remember you favorably.
Not yet, at least. Throw a punch.
Hit me hard enough I'll think we were in love once.
Let's start a war.
You start.
I'll end.
speccygeekgrrl42: (this isn't as easy as it looks)
Because any time is a good time for poetry, a meme as stolen from [livejournal.com profile] dougs:
When you see this meme, put a poem that you love in your journal. Only if you want to, of course.

So because I'm indecisive and I have not nearly enough poetry on hand, I think I'll put up something new, something old, and something audio. Bear with me here. I'm on a kick.

Dear Ginsberg, by Brian Martinez )

Footnote to Howl, by Allen Ginsberg. )

And the audio poem: Ginsberg, one more time, reading his own A Supermarket in California.
Here's the file.
speccygeekgrrl42: (working)
in a haiku mood:
summer sun, office crazies,
a broken printer.

fish, corn, potatoes:
a soup kitchen too hot for soup
at least it's free food.

phone just keeps ringing
and ringing, and ringing, and
no one will answer.

Oh no. Goddammit!
I said I wouldn't buy more
BPAL... I'm so weak.

okay, memes are cool
and so is insta-haiku
it's the last one. Here.

Haiku by speccygeekgrrl
twenty years ago
i was kicking the inside
of my mother's womb
Haiku! by Hutta.

I lied. This is the
final haiku of the day.
(except in comments.)


Jul. 5th, 2005 02:00 am
speccygeekgrrl42: (this isn't as easy as it looks)
I can't do it. Sleep, I mean. I'm not tired even though I should be exhausted.

The internet is slow tonight. I don't know if he meant to sign off or if it's Charter being stupid.

I'm too tired to be thinking about this but I'm not tired at all. The drunks are yelling at each other across the street, walking home from the bar a few blocks down, and my dogs are going wild, my dad is going sharp with "Shh! Don't bark."

I almost would rather be a drunk across the street than where I am curled up on the floor with my neck steadily developing a resistence to going back straight. It would be better for my back. To be a drunk, I mean, over a geek at her computer.

I should restart my computer. Maybe go stand on the back porch and get a few more bug bites and a little perspective.

I killed a daddy longlegs today for no reason other than it scared me. It wasn't even moving, just still on the bathroom wall beside me, and I slammed it flat with a Reader's Digest and wiped its thready legs off into the trash can.

Maybe I deserve to be a bug.

The internet is slow tonight, and I can't sleep. If I don't restart my computer I'll never know who's to blame for all of this-- is it me or was it me? or him? or the spiders? I'd point a finger at Ginsberg but he's only where it began tonight, not the weeks before.

It's the spiders. Aah.


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