A Twist of Mystery

This excerpt from Katie's work is descriptive and mysterious, almost like a dream. The language is poetic. I almost feel as if, broken into lines, this could be a poem. I think Steinbeck would be proud of this word choice and Tolkien would celebrate it's mystery. The first line of this passage fascinates me too, for it could go so many different ways . . .

The black world began four days ago. The day was beautiful, warm but with a slight breeze from the south keeping the humidity in check. I was wandering in the forest that surrounds my house separating it from the rest of the town. I started down a slope that brought me to a ledge that attached itself to the side of the cliff. The ledge was my viewing point of the whole world. It seemed to sit up on top of every thing.I gazed out at the wilderness around me smiling out of sheer joy. I glanced back up at the mountainside looking for where my house should be and was.

I got a strange surge of comfort as I was alone, independent, and full of life. I didn’t need to be with others to feel alive, I just needed myself. Suddenly, as I stood out on the edge, the rain started to pour out of the sky like bombs. The water draped over everything it touched, making it a new world. It felt as if the rain was taking pieces off of me with each splat to my body. Even through the pain, I felt joy seep through my body, mimicking the rain.

A Thinker

I guess the title of this post applies just as much to the poet as it does to the poem. Usually, I caution students to shy away from abstract language in their poems, but in this case, I think it's the rhythm and juxtaposition of the words, even abstract ones, that begs the reader to think deeply about war. The repetition of the word "never" especially interests me. It also feels like war could even be a metaphor for internal conflicts, the "battles" we all face that no one sees. Way to go, Max!

War

Inevitably yet unnecessarily occurring,
During the darkest moments of humanity.
Penetrating the holes of men’s soul.
Twisting, perverting, corrupting the mind,
Devoid of all thoughts, emotions, and ideals
Dissipating into a holy mist.
Leaving only a shell lustful for another to fill it
If only to fill the awful void.
Devastatingly ripping apart the mind,
Shred by hateful shred,
Only adding depth to the void’s control.
All of the will power of the mind,
All of the passion of the heart,
Seem enough to resist
Only until one has fallen.
Unfurling the heart,
Turning a man on which he once loved.
Giving in to the passions of lust and strife
Ever corrupting a man as he falls,
Falling deeper and deeper into the darkness of the void.
Deeper and deeper the corruption goes
When the mind final feels its presence,
One’s will to resist is only a faint wisp of smoke.
No man a stranger, no man immune,
The pull works on all through its corrosive ways.
No man’s soul is without holes,
Unreachable by the dark corruptive force.
It calls to every man in a way all the same,
Promising to give a man his wildest dreams.
A man will only resist for so long,
Until the price is too much.
A man can never entirely resist the darkness’s pull.
Never is a man allowed to resist
The power of the darkness’s evil
Never does a man have the power to resist,
Or the hope to resist,
They always fall, every time.
The darkness can always pull on men,
But the darkness has no pull on never,
For never, never is
Never ebbs and flows, pulling away from man.
Many a man dreams of never,
Maybe even spends a lifetime searching for never,
But will never find it.
Peace is only accepted never
Never is not today, but only war.

Metaphors and Musings

Now we fast-forward from poems about the autumn and arrive at a poem about the winter by Kaitlin. This poem, like Pete's poem below, is inspired by the Art on the Move painting Winter Street Scene found in the right-hand column of this blog. Though it takes a more traditional approach to the painting, the metaphor of the title and the precise, intricate word choice makes this poem stirring in a different, quiet way. I'm partial to the alliteration "warming the wintery wonder" in the last stanza. Doesn't that perfectly capture the melting of snow?

White Butterflies

Unknowing people sleep,
Behind windows shut tight,
The silent world outside,
Freshly transformed overnight.
The street sides are iced,
With a frosty quilt.

Colorful vibrant houses,
So sneakily disguised
By winter’s frozen mask.
Once clear blue skies,
Are now veiled behind,
A curtain of grey clouds.

A flurry of snow flakes,
Pours from the skies,
Dancing, fluttering,
Delicate white butterflies,
Feathering the earth,
Kissing the ground.

Sleepers awake,
To this fairyland of sparkle,
Their warm breath fogging the windows.
Slipper worn feet patter the floor,
Scuffing the cold hard wood.

As noon creeps closer,
The sun peeps out,
Warming the wintery wonder.
The frosty earth is hugged by its warmth.
Its radiant rays make the white world glimmer,
But dancing, fluttering, pouring from the skies,
Melting white butterflies.

It is autumn in the Northeast, perhaps one of the most inspiring seasons for artists and poets alike. The following two poems both describe the descent of a leaf, but in strikingly different terms. The first examines the unique facets of the first leaf to fall, whereas the second poem looks at how each dying leaf ends up stikingly similar to others in its fate.

Feel free to post comments with praise and/or suggestions.



Leader

The fire-enriched leaf sits on the green tree,
Leader of the bunch, he is the one that is proud.
He finally signals other leaves it’s their time to turn their colors.
Proud and strong like a purebred horse,
He fights hard for all of his nation, head high,
He is the first one out of all the leaves to say "Adieu."
He tumbles and turns as if in a nightmare,
But not a soul seems to help since they cannot hear
The millions of cries of dying leaves,
Falling forever more
Season after season
Again and again
He will come again
Our leader.

Julianne


The Same

The leaf lets go of the tree.
It has ripened into colors.
It spins,
It flutters in the air,
Floats for only a moment.
Its color is a variety of gold and ambers,
Splashed with spots of orange.
It shines like the morning sun,
Bright against the green grass.
It has a free spirit.
The leaf touches the ground.
Another leaf lies beside it.
It is brittle,
Withered.
It looks like the others.

Elizabeth

Today's post is a revision of a poem from our Art on the Move exhibit. Remember the painting of the snowy street scene? Well Pete's imagination helped him to see this as a one-of-a-kind snowboarding slope! The poem is about half of its original length, for Pete worked to sharpen the imagery and language in his poem by taking out words he didn't need. Don't be afraid to include suggestions in your comments for further revision! It's a wonderful poem that keeps getting more wonderful!



Snowboarding on the Rooftops


The sky pours snow,
It lies peacefully on the rooftops.

Soon to be ruined,
The board is sharp.

I flip and twirl through the air,
It felt like a dream.

I can't feel anything,
I'm not even there.

I'm ecstatic,
The end is near.

Soon I will need to jump,
When there are no more roofs.

I'm on the final roof, I squat down,
I'm ready to soar.

My body glides through the air,
I'm in complete relaxation.

The air swooshes by my ear,
The sound of nothing echoes throughout the sky.

The ground looked awful rough,
But I never landed.

This piece, by Melanie, is begging to become a full-length novel. The assignment was to create a story that is reminiscent of The Outsiders, and she definitely succeeds. It also reminds me of one of my favorite young adult novels Inventing Elliot. Now I want to read Chapter 2. Enjoy!

Color Blind – Chapter One

A sharp, stinging pain in my chest hits me. That’s it, I’ve gone too far. I consider stopping. No, I must go on. If I stop, a larger pain will overcome me. So I’ll keep running. Running past stores and restaurants and houses. Nearly ramming into poles and cars and people.

“You can’t run forever, you freak!” That twang-like sound of 180 pounds of muscle roaring behind me. Close behind me. Closer than I’d like. I move faster. It doesn’t last long.

My breathing begins to fail me and my lungs cramp uncomfortably. I’m finding it harder and harder to move. No, that’s it. I’m done. I can’t go on; I’m too tired.

I leap into the nearest alleyway I can find, hoping to confuse the train of attackers coming after me. For a moment I think I am safe, and I lean against an old building’s wall for support. Several strands of my thick, white hair cover my eyes, and I push them away as I gasp for air.

As another moment passes, I listen quietly for my hunters. Silence. I risk a look around the corner. Nothing. A large sigh escapes my lips. I’m free.

My feet try to lift themselves, but are too weak to move. I decide to just let myself slide down the building until I’m sitting, my back leaning up against the wall. Luckily, the rest of me can still move, and I lift my arm up to my pale forehead and wipe the sweat from my face using the sleeve of my black jacket.

Suddenly my heart stops as I hear a voice near me. “There you are, Samsicle.” He calls me by that stupid nickname. “You really thought you could get away from us?” His dark brown hair is slick with sweat from all the running. His green eyes hold a cruel fire as he nods to one of his friends. He’s only got two with him, but they’re both just as large and strong.

The one he had nodded to, a blonde with a large bandage over his nose and ratty clothes, chuckles and makes his way slowly to wear I sit helplessly. My legs try to move. Nothing. I curse under my breath as the blonde lifts me harshly up by my arm. I attempt to slug him with my free one. He simply grabs it, and with what I assume must be lighting speed, twists it around to my back and applies pressure upward. I wince; it hurts.

The brown haired one (whose name is Cal), smiles and grabs my hair, lifting my head up to look at him. I struggle, but the blonde applies the pressure again and I stop immediately.

“You know,” Cal starts, “that’s very unkind of you, running away from us.” He grins and the other two (the third being a black haired guy with a scar in between his eyes) chuckle a bit. I begin to whimper, as they proceed to beat the heck out of me.



Hi. My name’s Sam Devens. I’m your average 15 year old guy, trying to get through life. You know; school, parents, friends, girls. Oh yeah, and did I mention I’m an albino? Yeah, I have white hair and pale skin. That’s why, for as long as I can remember, I’ve been beaten up, made fun of, called names, and excluded from a lot of stuff because of it. I only have a few friends, and they get bullied for being friends with me. It makes me feel really bad. They tell me not to care so much, but I can’t help it.

Those guys who you just read about, Cal and his gang, are the ones that beat me up and bully me the most. I’m getting really sick of it. But they’re stronger and bigger than me, and I just can’t fight back.

Still, they’ll get it one day. I just know it. They’ll stop picking on me, and leave me alone. Some day…

So the piece I post today is a story fragment. Could it be the start of a short story or even a novel? It reminds me of the style of Ray Bradbury, for, in my opinion, it engages the reader with the rhythm of its language and startling nature of its plot. Perhaps we can talk its author, Jake, into finishing it!

October 27, 2008



Time; over time we loose, we live, we love. Time is our measure of our daily life up until our unfailing death. One man, John Sedmour, is the father of time.

John had spent the last 82 years watching time and watching the world change and evolve. Not from a television or from a computer screen instead from a naked eye simply sitting at a park bench right in New York City. An old, lifeless and cold bench it was to anyone else in this city. Not to John; John felt comfortable in this bench. It was the perfect place to watch the people of his city. It was a time portal, a pair of binoculars. A mirror reflecting all the change in the world was really the true meaning of the bench. From seven till seven John sat watching and waiting.

Today was not a normal day, but James didn’t realize that until exactly 6: 43 while eating dinner at of course the bench. As he finished eating his New York styled hot dog, John looked up and saw a man. It was the usual man in New York; a suit and a cell phone in his hand talking away ignoring the rest of the world in order to maintain “perfection” in his own life. John happened to catch a glimpse of an1993Camero drive off course blasting into a concession stand nailing the business man who was so wrapped up in his own life he never seen anything coming let along a thundering car blazing down the road. The thud of the man’s heart had stopped. The innocent, normal man died instantaneously. As well as the teenager driving the car who was obviously intoxicated way beyond anyone should be. Time had stopped moving in New York. The population of the ‘big apple’ halted. It just watched. But then, people began to move again, carelessly, walking or driving home to be with their families, eat dinner, or catch the 7:30 Yankees game. The world continued to move, except for two people; John and a middle-aged woman who just became a widow.

After witnessing such an event John knew it was time to leave. He walked home not with a smile on his face like usual, but a stare of shock. John needed his home; it was all he really had left other than the bench. Instead of turning on the television, or reading the paper to check what other sort of terrible incidents happened on this planet he just changed and fell right to sleep. Not even to stop for the picture of his deceased wife. John somehow was able to sleep through all of the never endless police and ambulance sirens taking care of the crash. Lucky for him he could but for Christine Miller- Rachels that would be impossible.

Christine threw opened her car door and rushed the key turning on the ignition. She had a twenty minute drive to get to center New York. She hauled out of her driveway and stepped on the gas, hoping she would get their much, much sooner. She grasped the steering wheel tightly as she thought of what life could possibly be like without a husband. Thoughts of her three children raced through Christine mind. She could even speak the words “My husband is dead.” Tears began to drop and roll onto the leather wheel. Christine prayed over and over hoping for soul mate. She made her final turn only to see the site of flashing lights and flaring sirens. Again, she shoved the car door open. This time Christine sprinted to the nearest ambulance. She caught the site of her husband, Brad, lying lifeless on the cold, hard street. She ran to the body of her husband to lie down beside him hoping he was still alive. Christine hoped her husband was still living life and not watching down. Her voice crawled out of her mouth to say,



“Honey, are you there?”

There wasn’t a reply. Not one body movement. She began to sob harder and harder. Sharon shouted at an emergency doctor. “Is he alive? Please tell me is he alive?” The man didn’t respond and took her husband onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. The Doctor was shutting the door very slowly. He never did respond. Instead they drove off not giving any answer to the woman. All Christine wanted was to think. So she took a seat near the scene on a bench. This bench now meant something to two people in the world.