sane people don't share the inner-workings of their mind.

poetry failure:

for my issues in contemporary art and art criticism class we have a project where we have to pick something we will surely fail at. i love the assignment, but it is probably one of the hardest, most thought-provoking things i have had to do all year. just coming up with what i wanted to fail at was hard enough, but thanks to preston i eventually decided upon poetry. 

somehow my previous education skipped over poetry and i have always wanted to study/write it, so i thought this would be the perfect opportunity. i gathered dozens of books and sat myself in the empty corner the children's section of barnes and noble. i was surrounded by all of these famous and brilliant poets, but didn't know where i should start, so i asked recommendations of all the english-minded people i am close to and started there. i even persevered after three failed attempts to get a library card and read the books i checked out in the park for hours today. and while i was reading and putting off the actual writing part i realized how inadequate i am and that i have no idea what the heck i am doing and there is no way i want anyone to ever to see what i am going to write. and i was going through carolyn's blog thinking all these really great writers are going to read my poems and see how awful they really are and i felt so incredibly self-conscious. {and it doesn't help that all these beautifully written song lyrics kept popping into my head mocking me}.

but i guess it's like this: it is the same thing with art, you don't start out being good, you fail and practice at it until you reach a form of greatness. but the problem is this: i would never show anyone my first failed attempts at art, but i am showing everyone my failed attempts at poetry. such is life. no pressure right? {actually i was having a mini stress fest earlier today. and i don't stress easily. it's just that i don't want to be vulnerable or have others to think poorly of me, you see}.

but after talking with my sister audrey, i figured i would just break the ice a little bit:

i don't know what i'm doing:

 writing poetry is hard,

excuse me while i pick up my confidence's broken shards.

who knew i would have to count and number, 

so in the park i took a slumber. 

haiku?

bless you.

now i have begun thinking about cats

and how they look so cute when they wear hats.

and as i try to rhyme, 

i apologize, for my writing is a real crime. 

i am starting to feel like this is a trap, 

because after all, shakespeare never had to put up with all this crap.

now back to composing real poetry i go, 

in hopes that this poem will help my courage grow. 

{oh my goodness, what did i just do?? it is so silly and such awful attempt at a sonnet, and not like me at all!} oh well. and guess what? i actually really do love poetry and want continue on with this little project, and who knows if i am feeling especially brave i will share with you all. but only if you promise you won't laugh at me...i have a tender little heart after all, and it is easily wounded. 

oh hey, i guess i failed, A+ for me...

{i also have just been informed that if you take the "s" off of my blog address it takes you to another blog full of poetry. funny little world innit?}

vast spaces.

tumbled by bowtie life 

O Solitude

"O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,-
Nature’s observatory - whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.
But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,
Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. "
-John Keats

akos major

the brick house

enric adrian gener

david anderson

peter almgren

tumbled by the bowtie life

paul octavious

christopher jonassen

charlotte ortholary

Ode by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

We are the music makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,  

And sitting by desolate streams;—

World-losers and world-forsakers,      

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers  

Of the world for ever, it seems.
...

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself in our mirth; 

And o'erthrew them with prophesying

  To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

{read it in full here}

http://poppytalk.blogspot.com/