Michangelina's Universe: Scraps of Poetry

Showing posts with label Scraps of Poetry. Show all posts

Sestina

I was exploring different poetic forms to write in, and I came across the sestina. Intrigued by the idea of having to write thirty-nine lines, I took the challenge. It was actually a fairly easy poem to write because there is no rhyming or meter involved. However, I became bored of the six words I chose. Next time I write a sestina, I will chose words that have more than one definition! Nevertheless, this poem gave me a lot of good experience.

A sestina follows a pretty picky pattern. Each line must end specifically with one of the following six words I chose: escape, burn, forget, memory, black, and candle. The rest can be written in free verse.

Here is the layout:

First stanza: Escape, Burn, Forget, Memory, Black, Candle

Second stanza: Candle, Escape, Black, Burn, Memory, Forget

Third stanza: Forget, Candle, Memory, Escape, Burn, Black

Fourth stanza: Black, Forget, Burn, Candle, Escape, Memory

Fifth stanza: Memory, Black, Escape, Forget, Candle, Burn

Sixth stanza: Burn, Memory, Candle, Black, Forget, Escape

Seventh stanza: Burn-Black, Memory-Forget, Candle-Escape

The narrator of this poem is a girl who has many suppressed thoughts and uses regression as a defense mechanism. (Please don’t ask me why my blog has been full of so much psychological stuff lately. I honestly have no clue.)

Sestina I

Since I was a young girl, I dreamed of making an escape.

Inside me was a sensation I could not explain, a pulsating burn…

My thoughts entangled my imagination; it formed images I cannot forget.

They haunt me till this day— permanently encoded into my memory.

Trusting and so naive, my white innocence tainted black.

I saw nothing of it; I thought I was just following a candle.

For years, I was footsteps behind the flickering candle…

The candle was my muse each night before sleep, my escape.

I desired the candle each night the sky turned black

My hands wanted to feel its warmth, and feel its burn.

But the candle was always from my grasp, it was only a memory.

Only the tender sunlight could help me forget.

On days I felt alone; everything but the candle, I would forget.

And on days I felt cold, I would remember the fragrance of the candle.

It was an arousing scent traced deep inside my memory.

I was ashamed; my friends never needed an escape.

My friends had no tensions that they wished to burn—

I realized regression was wrong, so I watched roses turn black.

Years later, I prayed for forgiveness, and the candlewick turned black.

Strange how my monomania was something I could forget.

The past was behind me; but I found other ways to suppress my burn

My thoughts were blinded without the candle

But soon, I found a different way to escape—

I created one new memory after another new memory

Was this the solution to completely clearing my memory?

I felt like I polluting my mind and blazing my heart black—

I questioned if what I was doing was really a healthy escape

I discovered the answer when it was too late to forget.

Inside the cover of a book, there was the candle.

After the truth was revealed, I accepted my burn.

I was not the only one still crying from a childhood burn.

At last, I found someone like me, who liked to live in old memories…

We hid together as I watched his eyes gaze at the candle.

We would inhale the night air as our pupils dilated black

Together, guilt was something we grew strong to forget.

He and I would plan out our beautiful escape—

Now that he is gone, the burn hollowed my heart into an abyss, so black.

I would do anything to live another memory with him. To laugh and forget

How I held my candle, and he held his during our vacation’s escape.

Sonnet II

My first sonnet was lonely, so I wrote another one to keep it company. This sonnet is about some of my intrinsic values. I am a very self-conscience person, and this reflects how I feel about myself most of the time. There is a hint of self-acceptance at the end much like Amanda Palmer's "In My Mind". It is a very uplifting song if you need to get out of a state of depression.

Sonnet II

From the beginning, I can remember,

There were flaws in me I wanted to change.

In the mirror, I saw my eyes burn ember.

My irises bloomed brown to green; twas strange.

There was a girl who smiled in the mirror--

We stood like twins, but she was no reflection

When I looked away, she grew much nearer,

But further from my need for perfection.

I could only see my limitations,

She desired nothing less than ideal.

I made impossible expectations,

She hated me not being surreal,

In the mirror world; one of us is trapped.

Sonnet I

After finishing The Winter's Tale, Shakespeare's ghost haunted me to write in iambic pentameter. So finally, at last, here is the sonnet I promised. Before you read it, feel welcome to read my interpretation and inspiration or just dive right into the poem. (I would.)

INTERPRETATION:
I do not normally explain my poems because I enjoy hearing my readers' multiple interpretations, but I am making an exception today. My poem is about the psychology of sleeping and how there are five different stages. I refer to these stages as "doors". The fifth stage "door" is mentioned at the octave of the sonnet because that is when REM begins.

Furthermore, notice that the first word I chose is "exhaling" and the last word is "hallucination". I always found it interesting that some scientists theorize that the hallucinogen DMT may be naturally produced in the pineal gland when one is dreaming or having a near death experience. So question whether or not the speaker of my poem is really dreaming or under the influence.

INSPIRATION:
Besides the psychology of sleeping and the science behind DMT, I was deeply inspired by two more things. First, I fell madly in love with Shakespeare's sonnet: Sonnet XLIII (Great website). Secondly, I was deeply moved by this beautiful work of art: Door Within a Door. Reminds me of my analogy.

Enjoy,

SONNET I:

Exhaling my day's thoughts into the night--
The sense of falling startled me awake,
But then my mind becalmed from the stage fright.
Entranced, I could not tell real from fake.
I opened a door that appeared unlocked,
Behind it came three more doors, so it seemed.
Through each one, my mind deepened as I walked.
Finally, I passed the fifth door and dreamed.
Dreamed of memories and patterns that swirled,
Lost fragments from a time-space hurricane,
People who lived on a parallel world,
Created by a compound in my brain.
Will I ever find an explanation?
A lucid dream or hallucination?

P.S. Real is two syllables. American Heritage Dictionary: Real

Eleven Last Words

I would like to begin this post with a quote, “Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore” (Andre Gide). I know this quote by heart because it is tattooed in Chinese characters on the left side of my significant other's chest. He and I both understand the powerful meaning of this quote. Traveling takes courage, adaptability, and respect. These are the three fundamental elements that represent my life.

(I was going to write a transitional phrase just now, but then I realized life and death are opposites. If I wrote a transitional phrase, it would expand into a short novel. What you're reading in parenthesis now is so you understand that my mind does not simple wander, but rather it thinks so expeditiously it doesn't have time to explain. I hope this suffices.)

When I greet death someday, I hope my last words will be poetic. Perhaps I should prepare something now because my death could tragically appear at any time. I was thinking of something short and to the point. Something I could whisper under my breath effortlessly. It occurred to me that the best type of poem for this occasion is a haiku. A haiku has a total of seventeen syllables. That is three less than a rhyming couplet written in iambic pentameter. So here is what I have written, hopefully, I won't be reciting these eleven words any time soon:

The autumn waters
Of this world enlighten me,
From this delusion.

Autumn represents death because during the everlasting cycle of the four seasons, the climatic changes of autumn appear to be withering. Water represents an inescapable force as well. I am not sure if there is an afterlife, but if I could have whatever I wanted, the afterlife would be a gigantic library of everything one has ever desired knowledge about. All the world's universal truths explained at your fingertips. I hope Heaven is enlightenment.

Next week, I am going to give a few tips on writing poetry. As an aspiring English teacher, I should take this "how to" guide seriously, but writing a parody of one is far more entertaining.

The Land and the Sea

This poem was inspired by two people who I have grown very attached to. Maybe one day I will go back and edit this poem so it is not longer in free style. I don't know why I hate free style so much.

Anyway, let's talk about something cool: my birth. I was born inside a beach house, not a hospital. My mother went into labor two weeks early when she was relaxing in the sand letting the waves crash into her legs. I think the ocean excited me and I was ready to come out.

One of my lovely friends claims I was meant to be a mermaid. Maybe I was! :) Haha, anyway. I thought I would share one of my favorite websites that is full of secrets: Post Secret ... It's a great website if you want to hear some sad, beautiful, and interesting confessions. I plan on sending them a post card sometime soon.

The Land and the Sea

He fills me with excitement;

I love keeping him a secret—

The way he calls me “beautiful”,

His warm hands,

Dreamy eyes that secure me in a place of wonder,

A void that travels oceanic depths,

To visit a lonely seashell, where I live.

We talk through echolocation...

He hears my frequencies, pitches, and tones,

Listens to every pulse

Because it resonates his mind.

Communication unlike any I have ever had--

We do not need words;

We share breaths, moans, and whispers.

I want to swim with him to a place no one knows about.

A place where we can watch a blue world turn technicolor.

I want to watch the sunrise and sunset with him,

Resurface home by evening,

And know

That he is deep under the water,

My Atlantis

At home, I collect these soothing memories,

And stash them away between two pages in a book.

Where no one will ever dare to look--

Home is where I am loved.

He and I walk on this earth together;

We march in unison, perfectly happy.

So why?

Why do I need to hide under the water?

Why do I hold my breath every time,

I think about a part of me that lies on the ocean floor?

Don’t I belong on the bedroom floor?

In a perfectly white room?

In clothes that fit just a tad too tight?

Be down to earth?

I would rather complete go bare,

And dive into my escape.

The ocean calls me while

The land wonders why I leave him,

The land fears me drowning,

The land fears me leaving him to join the fish,

The land does not know where to find me.

I inspire to be with both the land and sea,

Live in a little beach house,

The ocean will always see me,

The land will always support me.

I cannot trust the ocean because he does not know where he is going;

Sometimes he make me seasick with uncertainty,

Unpredictability, and doubt...

The land protects me,

I just fear earthquakes and tsunamis.

The tide coming too close,

Flooding my home,

Ruining the foundation.

The place where I belong,

No longer has a roof over my head.

Coexistence is unobtainable,

So I will go on my vacations,

And tell the land to wait.

Hoping he will trust me

I wish I could breathe underwater...

And not feel asphyxiated for air.

Sweet oxygen tormenting my lungs!

My salty tears are capsuled memories

Of how much I miss the sea...

The sea floats on without me,

He is so expansive...

I wonder if he really misses me.

Should I ground myself and bury my heart in the ground?

Or swim in the waves where they may take me?

Solitary Confinement

So, remember that sonnet I promised? I'm still working on it, but I have written the first four lines:

Solitary Confinement
My home is my prison, my shrouded cage--
The sunlight become dimmer than moonlight,
The key is buried beneath my cold rage.
Nested here, my winged night mares take flight,

It sounds much more morbid than it really is. It's about me being lonely and cooped up in my apartment all the time.

Also, for any aspiring poets, be sure to visit Rhyme Zone. It's a great website when you want to make a poem rhyme, but you can't think of the right word. Yup, whenever I'm writing poetry I have three tabs open: Rhyme Zone, Thesaurus, and YouTube. What do I listen to on YouTube? Purely instrumental music because if I listen to a song with lyrics, I often begin to plagiarize words. My favorite instrumental band is Explosions in the Sky. Their music is beyond inspirational.

Photosynthesis

Alright, I know I promised a sonnet. Here's a rough draft of one. Yes, another poem with a scientific analogy in it.

Photosynthesis

Encase me inside the walls of his heart,
Lock me away like a piece of golden treasure,
Hide me inside me his aging chest--
Bury me beneath six feet of soil.

Two trees grow above me intertwined,
Their love flourishes through photosynthesis.
Words warmer than sunlight,
Touch soft lighter than raindrops,

The breath of their existences is carbon dioxide.
They exhale oxygen into the atmosphere,
They grow together and closer--
A beautiful cycle that never ends...

Living for thousands of years,
Without believing in any fears.

Radioactive Heart

My poetry block disintegrated in my cerebrospinal fluid. Please excuse my scientific terminology. I often radicalize concepts to their simplest of means: principles of science. This poem is written with seventeen syllable lines with internal rhyming. (Same as the song, "Unintended" by Muse.) Also influenced by Kraftwerk's song, "Radioactivity". The format was a challenge to work through but I defeated it.

[Radioactive Heart]

Darkness obscured your danger sign, imperceptible but not benign.
My dreams flowed into a high electric field, our minds taped and concealed--
Your heart was radioactive; all my emotions were refractive.
I sacrificed full support before the strings were cut short.
The promising harmony in our memorized words matched us backwards.
"There is always a possibility" . . . caused susceptibility . . .
Bitten by beating betrayal was a poor, pitiful portrayal.
Heart radioactive, skin magnetic, and eyes apologetic--
I emitted isotopic tears as I enveloped my vile fears,
A sharp gamma knife damaging our decayed friendship by a half-life.
Heart radioactive, skin magnetic, and eyes apologetic--
The nuclear attraction in the atmosphere of chain reaction.
Exponentially drifting apart in your radioactive heart.