Second Beginnings

A 50-word piece that might make it into The Novel, if I ever get that far.

Her face looked bleached, but in a delicate, doll-like way. Like she would fall over if you didn’t hold her up, because her porcelain body was unable to shift and find balance. It was unnatural, and he didn’t know whether to fall over in worship or to run in fear.

I heard a Fly buzz -

by Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died -

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air -

Between the Heaves of Storm -

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry -

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset – when the King

Be witnessed – in the Room -

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable – and then it was

There interposed a Fly -

With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz -

Between the light – and me -

And then the Windows failed – and then

I could not see to see -

I've always found this poem inspired. Not necessarily inspiring; it's pretty depressing when you think about it. Even if you don't think about it. But it's very cleverly written; there's real feeling in it. And there is a certain beauty in finality, so that it's not entirely depressing. You just have to look for the bright spots, but this is between the heaves of storm. It's not stormy right now. There's still a portion of the person that's not assignable; there's still a presence of the King; there's still the arguably insignificant life in death - there's a fly present. The fly's existence is shorter in duration than a human's, but it's still existant, and its buzzing has charcter and purpose - for if it had no purpose, it could not be uncertain. And there's light at the end of the tunnel, and stillness and peace.
There are so many cliches in this poem, but they're so skillfully referred to that you don't notice them. The fly on the wall, the light in the tunnel. And while I hate atttributing emotions to poets, since half the time the interpretations are things that aren't even possible for the poet to have thought or felt, Emily Dickinson probably did feel all of it - the depression, the tension, the silence, the peace, the seriousness, the death, the hope for the future. The greedy heirs, still trying to maintain the solemnity of a deathbed. I think she did feel it. And she certainly made me feel it.

Don't Let It Go

Maintaining even one's a challenge

Let alone maintaining two

But the outlet shouldn't die

Just because ideas are few

 

This poem's written a second time

Although not once in Blogger - true

Even Gmail fails, it seems -

They're both maintained by the Google crew

 

I thought it was so clever -

I'd never a post lose

But nothing's foolproof, don't you know

As Murphy loves to prove.

 

So here's to posting the second time

On blogs of every stripe

And here's to the second(ary) blog

Which hasn't totally died

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This is one of my favorite Frost poems. It's kind of ironic - snowy evening, Frost. Corny, I know. Still one of my favorites.
It snowed today, and as I was walking home tonight, in the dark woods of Manhattan, this poem kept running through my mind. Except that there were a couple of lines I couldn't remember. So I had to come home and look them up. And share the sentiment with the world.
I especially like the last stanza; it so ably summarizes how I feel a large majority of the time. But I did some homework tonight (never enough, but some. The pile never goes away.), so maybe I'm closer to sleep than Frost says.

Procrastination

A field planted every season
Soon wears out its soil
It can't support the constant growth
Despite the farmer's toil

It must lay fallow once a cycle
However long the cycle be
If it cannot, it will rebel
Proven fact in history

The field of the mind should not
Follow this example through
It should delight in bearing fruit
Be they many or just a few

It seems, however, that the spur
Necessary to sprout words
Is impending work; it begs
Imagination to be heard

No is not sufficient stop
For the active mind at play
The only way to buckle down
Is to reprove all delay

It's been a while; no excuse
It never was before
It's only now it takes import,
In the face of a daunting chore

So Stop I say, and no more lies
There's naught you can protest
It's waiting for attention now
Get to it - now - lest . . .

Pane

Sorry. I know, it's been a month. I haven't been feeling very poetic recently. No creativity whatsoever. Bear with me; it may come back eventually. I did OneWord today, in guilt. I guess I'm thinking in homonyms right now.

A pane of glass is only a small piece of a window. So much pain can be caused by one pane of glass. Even more can be caused by a sliver. Interesting, how pain increases as the size of the cause decreases. Strange.

CROSS (from One Word)

Today's One Word exercise:

sometimes i get angry. but then i go backward, over myself. then, you see i look up into the heavens. don't doublecross me with crossed-out meanings! Too much is also not enough. Crossing guards should be paid more. They're so important.