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Unpublished Material, ©2012 Cali Digre

POEM!

I just proved to myself that I can't be away from poetry for too long... While on the way to Cornell with the skating team I wrote this poem about birch trees by the highway. I like birch trees. I also got back into the swing of rhyming. It's nice to go back to things sometime, though you may see a lot of free verse in the future..


The Last Birch


Protrudes like a bleached bone
Out of emaciated soil,
A semblance of decay, a highlight
Of how November makes one alone.
She shivers at the frosted coil,
She shivers at the frosted night.

Her leaves escaped a week ago. They were right to flee
With the vitality, the grass, the flat green,
The violence of a changing scene,
The forest tracing a skeletal sea.

Where are her companions now? Oh, yes.
They splinter from the ground up, like trauma
Seizing hold of a child. But I digress.
A tree cannot feel drama.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

100TH POST?!?!

I'm legitimately surprised that I made it this far on this blog. If you had told me last year that I would be still writing fairly regularly, I would've patted your head and told you to divorce yourself of your idealism. But yeah... this actually happened. Thanks to all my regular readers; I would be lying if I said that you all are my reason for maintaining this blog, but I do certainly appreciate the support I've gotten :)

So in honor of this momentous occasion, I decided to do my once a season write-up outside on the Green. I usually write in nice weather, but yesterday it was drizzly and kind of gross. This is a sonnet. However, because my class is all about me trying new things, this isn't your typical Elizabethan or Italian sonnet. This is a modern sonnet: no iambic pentameter, no fixed rhyme scheme. It does, however, have more skeletal aspects: the fourteen lines, and the volta or "turn," that changes the mood between a group of six lines and a group of eight. Without further ado, here it is

Orange Peals

I have the damndest time peeling this orange.
The trauma of its gory failure will retain in my nail beds:
Pressure too little, pressure too great.
The rinds pattering into my waste basket like hail,
Its own measurement of time: thick, saccharine exhalations every twelve seconds or so.
An organic pointillism makes a canvas out of milk cartons, blue wrappers, taciturn tissues.

Wanting to prolong the mnemonic nocturne of skin on plastic,
I stop and look at the oak tree outside my window.
Its rind is peeling too, peacefully, like a new year's ball celebrating the early rain that gave it this color.
The process is consensual, and each liberated leaf illuminates itself on the asphalt.
It doesn't even need a breeze; they both let go at the same time.
They synchronize the pealing of both clocks:
The one accepting death,
And the one accepting loss.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

DOUBLE POST!!! Again.

Hello all-
So as promised, here is something sort of special. These two are fairly simple poems whose inspirations were during fairly mundane tasks: cleaning my room, reaching into my pocket. I figured I write so much about bigger things, it'd be nice to write about something... simpler. Anyways hope you enjoy them! Oh and I'm going to be gone this weekend, so this is kinda my post for Friday... Yeah.

~CD

Scissors

The manicure shears
I’ve been looking for
Have yet to make themselves
Known. On my shelves
I’ve made myself pour
My attention. Hope appears.

The stacks of stacks
In broad harmony
Across my desk
Leaves my room grotesque,
A slow-borne sea
Of too much lax.

By now I perhaps won’t find
Them. Things like to walk away
When their place is not known.
So for now I may be alone,
In the clutter of today,
In the clutter of my mind.


Hole in my pocket

The contents not within my grasp,
My palm empty, dissatisfied,
The realization, a well-worn gasp,
My inner voice, a well-thought chide.
What was there when I left today
Has just so happened to go away.

It does not do to dwell in the trust
Forsaken in that lazy tear.
Eroded fabric, now I must
Patch you up. It's only fair.
As if its purpose were but to mock it,
Much is lost by a hole in a pocket.


Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre