NaNoWriMo

You know how I thought I was going to post more but didn't? Yeah... haven't done that before, now have I.

Here's the super super abridged version of a long story: I've been home since the beginning of July. I had a really rough go at school last year and needed some time to rest and recover. Since then I've been feeling a lot better. Unfortunately, things that have not happened much include, but are not limited to: poetry, prose, and basically anything creative.

Until now. Inspired by a few friends who did it last year, I'm doing National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short (don't ask me how to pronounce that third syllabe; the linguistic marvel that is this acronym goes beyond my phonetic understanding). I'm a little behind because I started about four days late, but I've gotten so into it that I'll be back on track in a matter of days. I'm SUPER EXCITED, YO.

Anyways, here's a link to my profile.
http://nanowrimo.org/en/participants/marlie-cage/novels/the-poetry-space

Feel free to follow me if you're planning on doing it. I'm also probably going to post chapters/ excerpts up here, so look for frequent updates! I SWEAR I'll get to writing poetry again. I half-wrote a poem like a month and a half ago and it's been just sitting on a notepad being like WTF U DOING BRO. It's very stressful.

Bottom line, it feels great to be writing again. I'm so proud of myself for undertaking this project. And for those who have supported me throughout the years, thank you. Behind every writer is a support, be it a person or a handle of scotch. In my case it's people, thank God. Scotch isn't all that fun to talk to.

-CD

Parables of Dawn Part III

I'M ALIVE!!!!!!!!!

I feel like I've forgotten how to write, but this is my first poem in like... Three and a half months? How embarrassing.

This is a poem I wrote last night at like 4 in the morning. I know I'm a little rusty, but I'm really hoping that this HUGE break is exactly what I needed and that I can start posting regularly again.

So, without further ado...


Parables of Dawn Part III

A needle
Hangs on the edge
Of darkness
In the unstitching of the night
The hot blue waits
On the heavy clouds
And they fan
Curdling away
The dim light fizzes
Between the spaces
And the parted
Orange invasion
Clouds peel away like grafts
And the injured
Night slips under a tree

Before the Tide Dries

A NEW POEM?!?!??!?! Well, yes and no. I wrote this poem as a closing piece to my poetry class's portfolio. It's the most recent poem I've written, though that was like about a month ago.... :(
This poem's sole purpose is indulging in sounds and slant rhymes. It's riddled with them. I'm not sure what else to say about it. Meh.

Also, between this poem and now, I contracted mono, the current bane of my existence. Not that you REALLY care, but I'm feeling particularly excusatory or whatever (pretty sure that word is misused, but I'm still construing the meaning I want it to have!!!!)

-CD


Before the Tide Dries,

The patchy thatch hangs strange in the ebb.
A web of wood, if it could, would drain the creek.
The plump branches are bland from leaking and seeping.
Weeping willows with soft plumes keep pillows of seaweed
Submerged in a looming urge to attach themselves to shelves
Of wispy algae. Sleepless fish went beyond their gentle genes
To fight the stream, with their dreamy passion fastened to their fins.
Live! It’s only a sliver of a river, and then the pond! Live for what’s beyond!
Nothing goes where it knows it has already gone. There! To the delta,
The snow melting like glass bows, arching in the parched sun,
Ice pooling on the still cool grass, the last of the white. All so fast.
The complex pleasure of survival. Nothing to measure it next to.
Not cleansing your senses, not dipping your lips in the briny water
Covered in fishy shine, maggots dragging themselves over the surface.
Not letting ambrosia flow over your tongue in sweet erosion,
Pastel fastened to emotions or slanted, rosy, tinted reality.
Not even to silver gills. Not to the last frost lost in the dry islands
Covered in another river’s sand. Not at the cold mouth of the sea
Holding in what it is about to free.

Extended Break

So you may have (definitely) noticed the sparseness of my posts in the past few months. I've been stressed with other life things and haven't been able to keep the stringent schedule I created for this blog. That and I'm (shockingly) poetry'd out for the moment. My poetry class has been super intensive, and having two creative writing classes in a row has fatigued me a lot. What does this mean for this blog? It will still be up, and you bet your behind that I'll come back and post in the future. But for now I need a very definitive, nominalized break. I'll post a poem that I wrote most recently for my poetry class that got a pretty good response.

I'll write again soon, just when poetry seems more of a pleasure than a chore.

-CD


When it is Winter,

The solstice storm takes the old oak hostage
And straps her to the wind
And waves her arms

Fresh limbs
Fall, fall,
Yes, yes to the ground

A child doesn’t see the end of the frost
She is tied to mortality
And dropped into the earth

Fresh limbs
Fall, fall,
Yes, yes to the ground

And now it’s spring

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