She was a barren cage,
Of a shrewd ol’ master,
Who bought her a songbird,
And placed them together.
The master was fair to she,
But not just to he,
For she – a companion who sings,
For he – two stolen wings.
She broke his canorous heart,
But he so blissfully made hers,
With his hundred carols of joy,
And thousand ballads of tears.
Then as the days like the wind sweep by,
So does the Delphian years.
She knows he feels caged in,
She knows how the sky calls out,
She knows he feels at home,
Yet still is filled with doubt.
Ah, the cage and oh, the songbird,
When all is said and done,
Is it not painfully beautiful,
How the two became as one?
But if one day ol’ master should open the cage’s door,
And lay down the songbird his carpet of sky,
Would he stay at home, with home,
Or will he spread his wings and fly?
For the cage will be pleased to let go,
But wordlessly, secretly, the cage will solemnly cry.
The songbird then mournfully thought,
“His freedom or her bliss?”
Thus the cage soothed him so,
And it goes something like this:
“Fly, my precious songbird,
With memories that are ours to keep.
Fly, as what makes you smile,
Should not make me weep.”
So off flew the songbird,
And cried the cage did.
But a flame of hope was kindled,
For no ending farewell was bid..
by ~Fiachrette
Note: This is my number one, after Koch's One Train Hides Another.
It's been a long while since I wrote in this little space of mine.
The result for electives had just been released. I failed to get a place in HZ101: Introduction to Creative Writing. I guess it's not too bad as it gives me ample time to think about all things poetry. I'm still stranded in an alien world full of technicalities. For example, what's a sonnet?
To whoever that may stumble upon this blog, if you're in the class, do leave some pointers, thoughts, anything regarding class in the comments. Perhaps I could attend class without actually attending class. haha. Perhaps I could be of assistance to you and to myself.
Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
Head's splitting into pieces as I weave the right words together. Is this how it feels whenever one dives deep within the innermost confines of one's soul?
I'm deep.
Pitch black.
Where are my hands?
I'm lost.
Im scared.
I'm drowning.
ASPHYXIATED.
But I'm not there yet.
Need... to go .. deeper,
I told myself.
And you know what marmamook, every time I feel like turning back, I always see her. The girl I've been telling you about - the beautiful marmaid. Then the same mysterious rush of oxygen through my tired lungs.
I'm a sea lion.
Renewed energy,
I'll keep diving.
I wish I was Superman -
there's a wall in need of X-Ray.
The wall of words I've been stubbornly staring
uncreatively
Feeling's not lovely.
Wrapped in dreams,
twisting out stories
like thread between fingers.
Her word's been looping like
Derulo's Watcha Say
Like coals burning
why isn't the train moving?
He looked out the window
Saw himself,
both hands pushing against the train.
It hurts.
And the feeling's not lovely.
He's no Superman.
Can't see through walls.
No superhuman strength.
But he is a mule.
Never will the train move.
Not when train tracks are still being laid.
I'm glad the graffiti is on a wall -
not on paper.
Had they been on paper,
I wish I was Jordan.
Stubborn. Creative. Love.
Dugaldo once wrote, "Dreamers... Our gift is our curse."
Curse,
How could it be a curse?
Outrageous!
But what he wrote seem true
As to the why, I've got no clue
Or maybe I do.
Introverts are thinkers, dreamers,
story writers.
We want things to go our way,
and no other way.
We're stubborn yet open -
we still do listen.
But in the end,
our heart is our friend,
we'll do as they say for as long as we can.
Take for instance writing,
The only writing I did was blogging,
Only a few years of blogging and suddenly I feel as though I'm good at what I'm doing
Why do I bother writing?
When I know a thousand Lit Majors out there are trying
While I'm studying Engineering
Take for instance endings,
The ones that I hated
Like Water for Chocolate,
and 500
Days of Summer - She's an idiot.
So let's take love for instance shall we,
I'm as stubborn as I can be
They said to say hi, make eyes,
smile.
But can't they see?
It's not as easy
as ABC
or 123
I can do that with most people,
just not her,
or her,
or her.
And just so you know, I do ask myself why
But I've yet to receive a reply.
So when Dugaldo wrote, Dreamers...
Our gift is our curse,
I might have just quenched my thirst,
My thirst for an answer.
And the answer cannot be any clearer:
I'm an Introvert
I'm my own group of thinkers, dreamers,
story writers.
I want things to go my way,
and no other way.
And if things go my way (and I know the journey will not be a smooth one),
I could do a Sinatra and sing:
I've lived a life that's full -
I've travelled each and every highway.
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.
Regrets? I've had a few,
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.
I planned each charted course -
Each careful step along the byway,
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.
Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of the book Eat, Pray, Love couldn't have put it nicely in her speech above:
Don't be afraid. Don't be daunted. Just do your job. Continue to show up for your piece of it whatever that might be. If your job is to dance. Do your dance. If the divine cock-eyed genius assigned to your case decides to let some sort of wonderment be glimpse for just one moment through your efforts, then Ole. And if not, do your dance anyhow. And Ole to you nonetheless. I believe this and I feel that we must teach it. Ole to you nonetheless just for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up.
Ole to me, I guess, for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up. Ole to Dugaldo for that single poetic line that managed to inspire a lengthy piece of nothing. I guess one has got to start from nothing before he gets something. And Ole to a friendly stranger friend, for her "I would say that lit students have been exposed to a lot of writing, so there are those among us who wants to create something of our own. That does not mean you would not be just as good. My mantra with writing is 'Just Write'..."
Ole!
Mother Love by Rita Dove.
Calling upon the ancient Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone, Mother Love examines the love between mother and daughter, two tumblers locked in an eternal somersault: each mother a daughter, each daughter a potential mother.
Note: Why can I not find her poem "Mother Love" online?
