So... This is definitely crunch time

Yeah. I prematurely reinstated the twice a week posting, but from here on out there is going to be a lot of running and probably not a lot of poetry. Sorry.

New rule: from here until the end of finals (Relax, only two weeks), I'll be posting sporadically. If I find time to post a poem, I will on the day I write it, but if I can't/ won't/ don't, there will be no new posts. Though the chances of me going an entire fortnight without writing a poem are very unlikely.

Hope your May's are going better than mine.
-CD

Wildflower in the Cemetery

So with all the nice weather we've been having, little purple wildflowers have started blooming in the cemetery. Though this and other blossoming flora have been fantastic for my allergies, I still can't help but find them alluring.

You take birth for granted,
As if you were a weed.
And how much nature panted
Would not augment your need.

Why do you take your roots
On someone else’s death?
Your beauty so pollutes,
But I could lose my breath.

And how you sway,
How your eyes flow;
Purple in the day,
At night like snow.

How your eyes stare
As I examine your face.
You give a familiar glare.
Have we the same base?

Oh, unknown of fear,
Incognizant to die,
You really shouldn't be here.
But then again, should I?

I'm Really Bad with Titles

I hate adding titles, so this is a poem about spring. Like that narrows it down at all...

Who lit up the green flame?
Who invigorated the grass, the trees?
Who never gave up on spring’s game
Even when she gave not a breeze?
Who clung to her verdant name
As if their faith would bear no shame?

Who watered all the colors today?
Why are the blues brighter, the whites
Crisper than the words they say?
Why do the leaves hold daytime lights?
I’ve but forgotten what is “gray.”
The hue is banned when it is May.

Who reversed the film of fall?
The buds emerge like nothing’s wrong.
A winter’s reign can seem so small
When broken by a vernal song.
And yet the cold I can’t recall
Can be remembered with a squall.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

A POST WHAAATT?!?!

So... Ironically since I've been on this one post a week schedule, I've been writing a lot of poetry. I've written two poems in the past two days, and I actually wrote two poems last week but only published the latter. With this I'm going to tentatively reinstate the twice a week posts and see if I can keep it up again. Anyways, here is a poem I wrote in Spanish on Sunday night, after reading some Neruda. I haven't written a poem in Spanish in at least three years. Yay, Neruda. Yay, Spanish. I'll post a translation too.

Por cuanto soy la ciega, ¿en cuantos idiomas
Tendría que decirte que yo no veo bien?
¿En cuantos mal momentos harían palomas
Que vuelen por nada, y en nada estén?

Por cuanto soy la sorda, ¿con cuáles movimientos
Te mostraría los huecos que sin razón
Me han tratado malo? ¡Tantas son los sentimientos
Que chupan a la vida de mi corazón!

Por cuanto soy la muda, que solo pueda caer,
No tengo nada a decir a ti.
No tengo nada que podría traer,
No tengo nada por que quedarme aquí.

Translation:
Because I'm the blind one, in how many languages
Would I have to say to you that I don't see well?
In how many bad moments would there be doves
That fly for nothing, and are in nothing?

Because I'm the deaf one, with which movements
Would I show the holes that for no reason
Have treated me badly? Many are the sentiments
That suck away the life of my heart!

Because I'm the mute one, that only can fall,
I have nothing to say to you.
I have nothing that I could've brought.
I have nothing to stay here for.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Cemetery

Hey guys-
So about once a season-ish I go outside and sit and write a poem without my computer. It's something I've been doing since last year and an exercise whose results I generally like. My free-verse poem this winter was written thus, as was another poem I wrote in the fall that I haven't posted up here but maybe will if I feel particularly autumnal. Which probably won't happen until... autumn.

BUT ANYWAY, since the weather's been nice, I've revived my walk through Dartmouth's very own cemetery in order to get back to the dorm. It's faster, prettier, and quieter than going other ways, so I figure why not. I often eat lunch there on a little ledge in a clearing, so today I decided that was where I was going to write this poem. Yay, dead people. Yay, inspiration.

Eternal sight of
Silent growing in
The cemetery. Flight of
Frost, green flowing in
Like the spring vacuum
Needs more assurance
That what grows on the back tomb
Will have element servants.

Perpetual waxing, waning,
Cool colors to fiery shades
To nothing, cold sustaining
Until the last winter fades.
The people also stayed the same.
They slept as the trees do,
But did nothing when May came.
Even tombstone color flees too.

They can watch the stages
Forever, and stay objective.
I am privy to its rages
But at least they share their perspective.
I sit, for now's eternity, here.
And bask in what they can feel.
Things here remain, so sincere.
I almost think change is not real.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre