Marvel

This is the freshest you will ever get a poem. I did my seasonal outside hand-written poem, and this was finished at 1:31. I then walked back to my room.

Marvel

It is a marvel to be a leaf on a tree
In February. The distinction of survival,
To be bound to your mother like a child,
To be in salvation, hovering over your self-same sea.
That all could be enough for me,
Even if the wind is mild,
The definition of harsh defiled.
The elements are not your rival.

I cannot say the same about the plumes
Of my heart. They wither under the frost
Detached from the skin. This makes decay.
The lanky grass between the stones blooms
Because it opportunizes when a breeze grooms
The snow. It is also where it's meant to stay:
In the presence of winter gray.
And I feel so lost.

Unpublished Material, ©2012 Cali Digre

Catharsis

This term has been the roughest term to date for me, by far. I've had some serious problems with one of my courses (Hint: not creative writing.... THANK GOD) and have thus had to find a lot of ways to destress myself, some working better than others.

Not surprisingly, poetry has been GREAT! I wrote this particular poem by hand in one of the reading rooms in the library yesterday. I literally finished it in fifteen minutes... It was crazy. Good to have, though. Really needed it.

Apathy

The brass fittings on my brain are too atonal
For what I want to complete right now,
And so I venture, incognizant of "how"
Into the facets unknown. Null.
At times I breathe a propensity of eternal
Questions with the caveat that I pursue them,
But with their immensity I rue them,
Preferring the silence in nocturnal.
One day I'll remember the joys of curiosity,
Rolling in uncertainty, sighing at naïveté.
But have none of that desire today.
The indifference. Its lulled viscosity.


This second thing is something I wrote in Spanish class not two hours ago, so it is FRESH! We're studying poetry now in Spanish and my prof had us practice by writing quatrains. I wrote this and later shared it with the class just to prove to my prof that my writing in Spanish was not entirely "incredibly deficient." I pumped this out in two minutes. I'll include a crappy literal translation.

En la lengua de colores
Hay la gran actividad
De ser bello como flores
Pero lleno de piedad.


"In the language of the colors,
There is a great activity
To be lovely like flowers
But full of piety."

Unpublished Material, ©2012 Cali Digre

Nothing but Questions

Third exercise was to write a poem completely comprised of questions. I wrote this one.


Darken the Frosting

Should I use butter cream or fondant today for the cake?
How on earth is it already four o’clock?
Now, where did I put that cake knife?

Hello? Yes, speaking?
Why is this bowl so slippery?
No, he’s not… may I take a message?
Hello? Hello?

A lady just called inquiring… Why do you look so defensive?
Of course I’m making this for today. Isn’t it his birthday?
What is the matter with lavender frosting?
What do you mean, “Is Callahan a girl?”
Is Ms. Froid a man?

Oh, so you want me to darken the frosting? How?
Do you even understand how hard it is to roll fondant?
No one’s gonna tease Callahan about this cake… Really,
What is the matter with lavender frosting?
Oh please, don’t throw it away! Don’t you know how hard I’ve worked?
Please, please… Just, who’s Ms. Froid?
Someone from work? Oh, okay…
So am I just someone from the bank?

Can’t you help me clean up this mess?
Someone’s gonna slip and fall on this butter cream!
Oh, you’re leaving? When will you be back?
Samuel? Samuel?

Can I still use the fondant today for the cake?
Why is this cake knife still out?
Why so slippery?
Did it touch my wrists?
Oops.


Unpublished Material, ©2012 Cali Digre