in honor of my almost entirely finished rough draft, I've decided to post the present versions of the three poems and blog entry from each sequence of the second half of my thesis. if nothing else, I expect these will be amusing to look back on in a month's time when they'll hopefully have undergone some major transformations.

Technical note: Tildes (~) indicate page breaks.

( 'this string that drew me back' )

( 'what I write as actual' )

( 'a sort of ugly aspect to it' )

( 'write out from that place' )

( 'to live again after the collapse' )

-M

with the vision of
lightning, I loved you.
flashbulb romance.
simple.

thunder, always your
weapon, rattled my essence;
opaque with anger un-
expressed

flickering storm light,
fumbling love light, we
collided then
dissolved

in the deluge.

-mrs 2.11.2007

The words only pour when they probably shouldn’t; my meeting looms, responsibility calls. But there’s a quiet desperation with which I feel I must write these lines. They’ll be gone by the time I’ve got a spare minute.

This city morphs into what you want it to be: we only see what we want to see and there’s so much to choose from. Think of a lost lover and there you’ll see his eyes, her hair; battle with a craving and there it will be in his lips, her hands. Its streets are formless, blank, until we imprint them with our thoughts.

I love the little things, details time forgot. The Mansions on Bloomsbury, unwashed since the coal days; the edifice on Titchfield, defiantly anachronistic. The pigeons have watched, cooing softly in that bower, since carriages roamed these streets and Victoria sat the throne.

It’s easy to forget, sometimes, the history dripping from these streets. The greatest minds have walked here; time’s unknown geniuses sat there. Treachery and murder, love too immense for words, all here, all buried under layers of innovation.

And there it flies.

-mrs 26.10.07

about vicky's alcoholism. marvelous.

( sentries )

-mrs 10.8.07

so I've been milking every situation I encounter here for every ounce of creative possibility. Naturally, the silly little fling I had over the past week or so is ample opportunity for such creativity. It's not that I've been horribly emotionally involved [if I had been, you wouldn't be seeing this for several months, if not years] but I'm just taking a creative outlook on it all. My writer's prompt book suggested that I write about 'between the lines' and things not said in a recent conversation. So I wrote about our 'breakup,' of sorts. Anyway, I'm justifying far too much to give you this tiny little piece of prose, thus here it is:

( yeah... )

-mrs 27 september 2007

and here is my page from a few days ago - back when I still wasn't actually going to kiss her. the first one is with the prompt of talking about light. so here it is:

( poetic-ish rambles )

-mrs 20 september 2007

these aren't much and they're certainly not edited, but I'm just glad that I wrote something... and it sheds some light for those of you who haven't heard about my current erm... situation with one of my roommates =) don't read too much into it, though - I took quite a bit of artistic license!

( anyway... )

-mrs 10 September 2007

moonlight dances on up-
turned arms through safety
glass, gone steamy, with our
presence. Love is the space filled
by warm sour milk in the
niche I've grown between my gut
and my Heartbeat. dim-bulbed flash
lights in deep-dug tunnels wavering
gently, three hours down the road; still
moonlight dances on the voids in
my labyrinth, I glow with the
light that you loan me.

-mrs 6.29.07


[it's been a while]

the rainbow encircled moon drifts
among dark (rain-heavy?) clouds
casting a dull shadow on my cold,
shaven head. if but for the wind,
I would not notice its nakedness; if but
for the clouds, I would not notice her beauty.

-mrs 3.2.04

"So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no firend
Take not of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their silent mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeoun, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

-William Cullen Bryant

the clear nights are the coldest
when each breath feels like
a thousand icicle darts, and you’re
forced to cough to release them
again. the sun sets
spectacularly and you’re reminded
of dog days long gone, and still
far away. the moon rises and her
crescent of a half-smile lets you know
she sees you, she remembers you,
and you’re gonna make it until
the dog days settle back in.

-mrs 2.18.2007

[inspired by something tim said today and written walking back from the library]