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| Taken by me 10/25/14 |
Perspective
Imagine a plane, endless, and open
Every point named, as hopeless, or broken
Now picture the world in which we exist
Just as easily dammed to cut at its wrists
This body is nothing but an image
This life not but a matrix;
A single possibility causing contention
By Conor Oberst
When I look at my Grandma's garden at night I see a whole new world. Her solar garden lights mark the perimeter, giving light to all her beauties. If I could see her garden from up in the sky I would picture the signal lanes for a landing plane down at the airport. That is what I see.
Every point named, as hopeless, or broken
Now picture the world in which we exist
Just as easily dammed to cut at its wrists
This body is nothing but an image
This life not but a matrix;
A single possibility causing contention
By Conor Oberst
When I look at my Grandma's garden at night I see a whole new world. Her solar garden lights mark the perimeter, giving light to all her beauties. If I could see her garden from up in the sky I would picture the signal lanes for a landing plane down at the airport. That is what I see.
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| Taken by me 10/01/14 |
CACTUS
Thorns are my language.
I announce my existence
with a bleeding touch.
Once these thorns were flowers.
I loathe lovers who betray.
Poets have abandoned the deserts
to go back to the gardens.
Only camels remain here, and merchants,
who trample my blooms to dust.
One thorn for each rare drop of water.
I don’t tempt butterflies,
no bird sings my praise.
I don’t yield to droughts.
I create another beauty
beyond the moonlight,
this side of dreams,
a sharp, piercing,
parallel language.
I announce my existence
with a bleeding touch.
Once these thorns were flowers.
I loathe lovers who betray.
Poets have abandoned the deserts
to go back to the gardens.
Only camels remain here, and merchants,
who trample my blooms to dust.
One thorn for each rare drop of water.
I don’t tempt butterflies,
no bird sings my praise.
I don’t yield to droughts.
I create another beauty
beyond the moonlight,
this side of dreams,
a sharp, piercing,
parallel language.
Cactus are always thought of as ugly and dangerous just because they are covered in thorns. This is unfair, it is like criticizing a young teenage girl because she is covered in pimples. Your appearance has a great effect on what others think of you but it does not mean you are useless. Cactus are a great reservoir of water which is beneficial in a dessert area. My grandma sees beyond appearance, and throughout her garden you can find many casual plants.
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| Taken by me 10/15/14 |
The Wind Chimes
Two wind chimes,
one brass and prone to anger,
one with the throat of an angel,
swing from my porch eave,
sing with the storm.
Last year I lived five months
under that shrill choir,
boxing your house, crowding books
into crates, from some pages
your own voice crying.
Some days the chimes raged.
Some days they hung still.
They fretted when I dug up
the lily I gave you in April,
blooming, strangely, in fall.
Together, they scolded me
when I counted pennies you left
in each can, cup, and drawer,
when I rechecked the closets
for remnants of you.
The last day, the house empty,
resonant with space, the two chimes
had nothing to toll for.
I walked out, took them down,
carried our mute spirits home.
A lot of times you tend to hear noises you never hear before when you are in an unusual mood. When I hear the wind chimes that are hung off a Sycamore tree in front of the porch, it is either because I am tired and silent or eating. I hear the dings (just another language of the wind) outside and I wonder, why do the chimes not sound harmonic? It is not a melody or tune it is just noise scattered and unorganized. Wind chimes represent emotions.
Flowers In A VaseSat in a vase
Colourful and lonely
A mind looks at them
Wondering
What is it they have to say
Are they a thank you
Or a gift of love
Are they an apology
Or given in remorse
Perhaps they are for nothing
Given to bring a smile
The mind looks on
Wondering for a while
The flowers sit in their vase
Unmoved by thought
Or the reason given to them
A little water at their base
To keep them fresh for a while
They are the end of the day
Just flowers in a vase
by: Matthew Holloway
Do you ever receive flowers and just stare at the vase and tell you admirer "What a pretty vase!" ? Why is it that the flower is the gift and not the vase? The vase was probably more valuable than the flower in the first place and it will never vanish. The flowers will dry up and be forgotten but the vase can be kept, and why not, used to hold other flowers. My grandma has an infinite amount of vases, none of which match in color nor size. There is no theme or structure they just pile up in different areas. Some vases are decorated, others are plain, some have been spray painted and others say 'to the best grandma in the world'. Vases are the beholders of the plants, they will hold their soil and water. If these plant were all on the native Nevada grounds they would parish. These grounds are too dry and harsh, so give thanks to the vases.
Look beyond the usual and boring structures around you. Don't take what you have for granted, look at it and you will see much more than I. You are a creature of wonder. You are a poet. You are a poet not because of what you write but because of how you see.
Do you ever receive flowers and just stare at the vase and tell you admirer "What a pretty vase!" ? Why is it that the flower is the gift and not the vase? The vase was probably more valuable than the flower in the first place and it will never vanish. The flowers will dry up and be forgotten but the vase can be kept, and why not, used to hold other flowers. My grandma has an infinite amount of vases, none of which match in color nor size. There is no theme or structure they just pile up in different areas. Some vases are decorated, others are plain, some have been spray painted and others say 'to the best grandma in the world'. Vases are the beholders of the plants, they will hold their soil and water. If these plant were all on the native Nevada grounds they would parish. These grounds are too dry and harsh, so give thanks to the vases.
Look beyond the usual and boring structures around you. Don't take what you have for granted, look at it and you will see much more than I. You are a creature of wonder. You are a poet. You are a poet not because of what you write but because of how you see.
Works Cited
Oberst, COnor. "Perspective." AllPoetry. 2011. Web. 09 Nov. 2014.
K. Satchidanandan. "Cactus." PoetryInternationalweb. Konorak. 2001. Web. 09 Nov. 2014.
Buettner, Shirley. "The Wind Chimes." PoetryFoundation. Harriet Monroe. 1995. Web. 09 Nov. 2014.
Holloway, Matthew. "Flowers In A Vase." PoemHunter. 10 June 1978. Web. 09 Nov. 2014.
I think you are a born blogger. I love the cactus poem and your discussion of it. Actually, all your poem choices are lovely and illuminating. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteYou bring up an interesting point. Many think of scrubs as nothing. But they have much life and beauty just as much as a rose pedal does. Each peom brings the inner beauty to the surface of each item. It's lovely ��
ReplyDeleteI love your blog! it reminds me of my grandma's yards she also has many pants and bushes, trees (my favorite's the pomegranate tree) as well as birds (parrots, dove, small yellow bird, a white one spotted ones). But I liked how you described everything and how you see things so differently, I plan on getting my grandma a cactus and my uncle a pot of flowers ( he has a lot of cactus in his house, "for good luck").
ReplyDelete