Of A Writer's Written Word on Writing

To write, oh, to write is to get up from bed
Let your spirit soar above your head
Dream the undreamable!
Think the unthinkable!
I know it's cliche, but it borders unwritable
To write the unwritten, what can't be wrote
Is the sweetest song in a songbird's note
To write is to free, restrict, simply to breathe
Unbreathe the air, breathe in the world
Breathe the breath that breaches the barrier
Let yourself go, connected by sever
The cord, the chord that ties you to song
Song of the living, the unliving, the dead
The word isn't spoken for it to be heard
Sometimes it flies or swims like a bird
Go out to the Earth, go into yourself
Find the word, the word that's a song
Think, just think, let your spirit soar
Go into the song-land, the unwritable, the heart's true folklore


Inspiration: Walt Whitman, Song of Myself (http://www.daypoems.net/poems/1900.html)

Of VMFA Poetry Reading

Last Thursday, I participated in a talent show-type thing at the VMFA in which I read my poem "Formed Poetry" (text form of poem also on blog). I know people wanted to go, but weren't able for various reasons, but still wished to see the performance. So, here you all are! Bad quality, I'm sorry - it was the only format I could use to upload it. :P Nevertheless, enjoy.



BTW this is my first video! :) A milestone.

Of altered books

Ok, this is a new type of poem. I discovered it on StumbleUpon. It's called "altered books." What you do is you (carefully) take out a page from an old book and choose words from it to form a poem. You decorate it, too, to fit the mood of your poem. It's fun! Don't worry, this was one of the worse-for-wear books I owned - it was destined for the recycling bin anyway. So sad, but I figured this is a better future for it. ;) Check out two I did:




Try making your own! I have plenty of pages left over - ask me for one. :)

For more altered books: www.logolalia.com/alteredbooks

Of Tiptoe

This one I wrote back in February and meant to post, but got too lazy. So, here we go.

For some reason when you tiptoe
Your steps come out louder than ever
You notice every crack of the floor
And the thump your foot makes
No matter how lightly you step
Your footsteps always seem to boom
Every step a shout out
For some reason when the world is silent
No footstep can escape notice

Of Universe

Double post! Turns out people actually read this blog, which made me feel extra guilty about not posting in....4 months. So, here you go. It's called "Universe."


I can reach the stars
Like silk, like water, river
Universe rippling through, around
Twist around
Fingers scrape around
Brushing Neptune, Sun, farther galaxies
Twist around through me
Like a breath of fresh air
Locked in that fantastical chest for so long
Air sprinkled with stars
Breath it in
Feel rush by rush
Little bits of shivering hope
Dust dust flying
Each bit a tiny fleck, speck
Feel
Universe
I can reach it
Reach the stars
And so much more

Of Formed Poetry

Alright, I showed this one to a few people at school, but regardless, here it is! Anyone in the area should come see me read this aloud at the VMFA Teen Talent event on May 26th at 7 pm. See, now you know about it, you HAVE to come! :) Enjoy this poem.


Why does poetry always have to be so formatic?
Opening with a question, to probe the mind
Before delving further, deeper into it?
A second question, to cover more
Is asked at this time.
Do we make the format, or are we following others?
Then elaborating more
A metaphor, or maybe two
I am the unquestionable teacher
This is the format
You follow or fail
No questions asked
And if you go back far enough you’ll see
Everything was written in iambic
Like Shakespeare did, it sounds so wonderful
To imitate such a creative style
And don't forget a rhyme or two
Make it sing-songy, something old or new
Even go triple lines, wahoo!
...and I can’t think of a rhyme. Oh, boo.
And then short lines
To emphasize a single
Point
Like a triangle
Rigid in its formation
And now we wrap it up
Begin the line with "and"
Restate the opening phrase
And
Answer the question with one of your own
Here we go
For who says poetry must be formatic?
I certainly don't.