poem

Oct. 6th, 2010 07:48 pm
abigailnicole: (dreams)
“In the painting by Degas, the dancer is not
on a cell phone, but holding her head. I left the museum.
Ann was sick. There were shoes all along the bridge,
and the senseless branching of ambulance sirens: one going west
on Henderson, another east. Technicolor weather. A man
in white coveralls was carrying a traffic cone
over his head, he was an Elmer’s glue tube.
In the painting of terns on rigging,
when you remove the terns from the rigging, there is
only canvas behind, not sky. Ann vomited
off the bridge, the way a single page can slide
from its binding. It became harder for me to read on
in the biography, knowing there is no part of the body
a bullet hasn’t pierced. Piercework. I worked in a chowder house
and got to bring home all the innards we extracted
from bread bowls. I had a friend who was a trumpet player
who’d come from home from a show and, sleepless, play more.
His apartment was so small, his trumpet
stuck into the alley. Ann slept for two or three months.
Snow like tissue after tissue pulled from a box.
I drove Ann to the hospital. On the first day of spring I saw
the Elmer’s man standing on the traffic cone point
of his head at a rave. Trees blossomed outside the hospital
the way champagne bottles christen ships. I wheeled Ann
to the museum and we watched the Indian out front
raise his arms to the weather. I talked about the Caravaggios
facing each other in Santa Maria del Popolo, the pose
of Paul, receiving, so close to the pose of Peter,
received; saints open their arms. Pieced through.
My friend the trumpet player emptied his spit valve onto pigeons.
He watched a woman climb onto her fire escape, nude,
her husband cursing from the window. I gave up on
the biography. I left the rave. Ann held her head.
The ambulances were just roaming, moving things around.
I put on some shoes I found on the bridge, then left the bridge.
Ann bruised. Her mom shows up. It was July.”

— “Serenade”, Zach Savich, Full Catastrophe Living

a sestina

Mar. 10th, 2010 11:00 pm
abigailnicole: (Default)

the sestina I wrote for hannah, using the words
organic, eyelash, science, windy, irritated, and waters.


Starting up the car. A thick, organic
smell in the air. I blink back an eyelash
"make a wish" my sister said. Superstition, not science.
The road home is dark and windy.
The road is rain-slick and I am irritated
watching the asphalt under the waters.

Last week my sister and I got ice cream and waters
scoops of vanilla and yellow-ripe bananas, organic.
The waiter got it wrong, cursing and irritated.
She thinks I didn't see the tear on her eyelash...
the air was chilled, she shivered in the windy
afternoon. She is dying slowly of science

But my sister was a great advocate of science--
biology, chemistry, test tubes in baths of water.
Late nights at the lab, leaving in the windy
darkness. She always trusted the organic
chemistry, the alkenes of vision, magic in an eyelash.
Her ability to see beauty in chemistry made me so irritated

I am not now. Watching her struggle, I am not irritated
with her chemotherapy, the betrayal of her science.
Losing her hair, her eyebrows, thinning eyelashes.
Her soul is buried in the rising waters
and all of the products, healing and organic
do not cure her melancholy, her voice thin and windy.

Now she is frail, emaciated, threatening on windy
days to blow away. I am still irritated,
upset, frustrated, powerless. All her organic
chemistry could not save her. Her science,
powerless as my mother's tears--empty waters.
My mother cries out her prayers, loses her eyelashes

but accomplishes nothing. My thick eyelashes,
shiny nails, healthy skin, robust, wind-
blown hair are wrong. I want to drown in these waters
just to rid myself of this guilt which irritates.
There is nothing I can do that science
cannot do for her. Her heart, frail and organic

fills up with waters, her eyelashes fall out.
Organic smells, earth and wind, become her.
I am no longer irritated. She moves beyond science, into belief.
abigailnicole: (not envy)


when I think that eight
legs is all that gets me by. bus stops, coffee
cigarettes, long hair caught under a scarf that
will get caught in the door of the bus otherwise.
I should have been an octopus
squirting my inky trails out across the ocean floor
like a sack of grocery bags dropped into the river
from the window of the bus
off the arm of the lady across from me, unicolor pantsuit,
poor dye-job. she does not meet my gaze.
I do not relish this
ride, this long chore of plastic seats and strangers on cold days in the city
public transportation. when I was little I used to dream of a ferry to take me back to where I belong.
now I wish that ferry would sink
and leave me a piece of skeleton, half-sunk in the sand,
hair waving with the current on the ocean floor.


I've been having an earworm. for about a month. and there's this couple here who listen to all this music, all Okkervil River and fun indie and bands I've never heard of. and it's lovely. every time I hear it I want it all on my iPod right now, I want to delete all the music I used to like and fill it up with all the new sounds people are making that are about their lives and a little bit about my life too.

studying just makes me want to take pictures. my left-brain right-brain balance wants to reassert itself as I study for calc, chem, bio, compensate by sneaking in short fiction/poem/pictures at night, when nobody's looking, when my roommate is asleep.

and all this is just, just beginning. I am out of kleenex and finals haven't even started! shit.
abigailnicole: (not envy)


Ode to a Sinus Infection
the sinus pressure, oh the pounding
of my poor head, the victim on the pillow.
how glorious! for an array of kleenex
strewn across my comforter, like sheep on a field.
I dreamed
of roaring seas, pounding waves, fifteen-foot swells
and awoke to blow my nose with disdain.

My Fortune Cookie Says: La verdad, como el aceite, siempre queda encima.
abigailnicole: (Default)
you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

I'm tempted to write my entire three-page poetry response on these four lines by margaret atwood.

instead I'm doing this poem by Linda Pastan, "Marks", which is almost as bad:

My husband gives me an A
for last night's supper,
an incomplete for my ironing,
a B plus in bed.
My son says I am average,
an average mother, but if
I put my mind to it
I could improve.
My daughter believes
in Pass/Fail and tells me
I pass. Wait 'til they learn
I'm dropping out.

How do you think a three-page poetry analysis on this 12-line poem works out? It's shorter than a sonnet. Jeez, I'm crazy. At least it's done. Now all I have to do is figure out how to calculate the pH and [OH-] of a .085M Na2S solution. Wish me luck on that one.

I hung out with Jaime Chaney tonight which was completely unexpected but fun. She's apparently back in town and I have lots of pictures.

I start work tomorrow! Whoo, employment!

also what do I want for my birthday? everyone wants to know. you tell me.
abigailnicole: (Default)
the chemistry test is OVER! I can finally stop stressing out and move on with my life. hurray :D

my complaints with creative writing center on us doing nothing (not writing). However, she lets us and wants us to do presentations (so she doesn't have to teach? suspicious? I think she is at a lack for ideas), so I think I will play the appassionata and show some pictures from [info]raptamakeout and maybe we can write. ugh. I'd love to teach a creative writing class just so I could make up prompts to have people write. and it's a good excuse to listen to the appassionata.

speaking of creative writing:

abigailnicole: (Default)
poems I wrote earlier today in creative writing.

day 1
HOLIDAY
sex video
dreams of delight

day 2
real fish
do good COMMIT feel good sex
marshmallow blueberries
nutritioner
i
your
our
cancer

detox


day 3
look good
Duplicate. You're Sweet
scars ask Stories! (in the Mirror)
stop YOURSELF
Medicine is hungry like the wolf.
drink
DETOX (how can I)
Vital for You
Choose

fail.

perhaps I should mention that I wrote this by cutting words out of magazines and them picking them out randomly and taping them to a piece of paper. I kind of like the way it worked with days, though. the day 1, day 2, day 3 were three days of relaxing yoga poses. it was a health and wellness magazine.

Items.
1. I don't want to write cheesy college/scholarship essays. Geez, this is all I blog about anymore. Because I constantly feel like I have to get it done, I suppose. maybe I should just close all these open files that keep reminding me to do it and just read Stardust again.
2. I was reading Stardust earlier and it was nice.

Song:
 Now She Sleeps In A Box In The Good Soil of Denmark. Someone uploaded this on [livejournal.com profile] audiography and it's slowly creeped into my head and heart.
abigailnicole: (Default)
I just wrote a poetry response for "I Sing the Body Electric". I actually do like writing poetry responses, after all that crap I gave everyone about poetry after GSA. It's much better when it's real poets, with poems that mean something. I think poetry would be so much cooler if it were a rebel thing to do. If writing poetry is respectful and expected, no one wants to do it. We've been watching the Dead Poet's Society in Creative Writing and that's what I keep thinking. Poetry was so beautiful because it was outside the rules, and it was about real life. You can't have it forced on you, you'll die of it. Poetry has to sort of sneak up on you in the middle of the night. It has to be a song that gets in your head and associates itself with things. Does that make sense? I don't, I know.

We also finished season two of House today, which was...eh. It all went downhill after Euphoria, I barely liked any of the episodes after that. The last episode? Where he hallucinated the entire thing? Man, I hated that so much. Ugh. It drove me up a wall! I read a recap as soon as I finished watching it just because I wanted to know that someone else was as mad at that as I was. Everything went wrong at the end of season two, it was terrible. We did get to watch some with Jaime and Jared, though, which was exciting.

I was so distraught I came upstairs, played piano and ate ice cream and Lucky Charms. Then we went back down to watch Lupin III movies. Oh, Lupin III. I still have to read the Adventures of Arsene Lupin at some point, if I can get my hands on it. Right after I read Lysistrata and A Million Little Pieces and Memoirs of a Geisha and write my essay on Atlas Shrugged and read HP7 again and and and....

It is now 10:41 and all my homework is done. O frabjous day!

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Nicole

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