No Poems Today

Because I am not done with my homework even in the slightest, and I need an excuse to procrastinate. "I haven't posted in two whole days!" I notice, and gravitate to this blog.
I've been working on Procrastination Story instead of editing or writing. It even has a title now: The Wishmaker. Oh! How I miss my dear Keoluvent trilogy! I wish I knew what would happen next! I feel so sinful, cheating on you with this dreamy little novel idea.
I am, no joke, less than 30,000 words away from the end of THE WHOLE SERIES, and I am just at a complete stop. I haven't written a word since NaNo (November, for those of you who what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-if-you-haven't-heard-of-NaNo?).
Anywho, so I think I'm going to post the prologue for The Wishmaker on here. Maybe the prospect of wonderful poetry, my fantastic life stories and recommendations for books and French songs, a poetry contest, AND a chapter of a captivating Procrastination Story (too captivating- I apologize, The Gold Door, ever so sincerely! I long for the day of my return!) will get some real readers... I mean, I've been posting on Figment, but I do believe my user name scares people to death and makes them run like the wind. 
So, if you're at all interested in Procrastination Story (why would you be, though?) go read it, and then yell at me to edit The Eraser and return to my dear Investigators, waiting so patiently in my novel.
I'll write some poetry soon.
-magic*esi

Two of My Favorite Poems of Mine

Ugh, I have to work at the library in a little over two hours, and I still have a chem chapter to read and do work for, then a trial write-up for US History. And I feel icky. I'm not even out of my pajamas.
Thought I'd post on here. BTW, I think my post yesterday was excellent. Don't read it if you think you personally know me, though. DON'T.
Yeah... So it's January 8th, 2012. And here are two lovely little poems.
The first one, Enigmas, was written in October or something. I posted it on Write It and a few people told me it was really good, so...

Enigmas

Someone help me make sense of it all

Why school is my home

But Italy is my home

And home is not home at all

Someone explain to me why I feel what I do

Why despite all my sense

I still think I love you

I’m sorry, but I felt 

Like I was falling apart at the seams

And now every time I walk in there

It’s like someone’s watching, watching,

Watching me

How come I write and I write and I write and I write

And I read something ten thousand times more powerful

A million times more profound

How come I study and I study and I learn and I learn

And all of my hard work amounts to no one giving a damn

How come I don’t care if anyone thinks I’m pretty

Or worth it

Or anything at all

And I care so deeply about what you, of all people, think.

Why does it feel like our souls are patterned the same way?

When I know perfectly well there’s no such thing as soul-mates.

Why do I dream of a future with you and only you?

When I know perfectly well I want to write and live alone and be

Independent.

Why is it I even bother to hope anymore

When I know my teachers think I’m just another overachiever

And the other writers think I’m a snob or an amateur

(depending on their own level of skill)

And my friends don’t want to be my friends

They’re just too charitable for their own good

And my family is sick and tired of my 

Stupid art-history rants 

And my 

Utterly perfect good grades

And you-

You couldn’t care less!

I’m not the girl you want; you want Cho Chang

Or Juliet Capulet or Bella Swan

Don’t you?

You want some pretty girl who’ll fall at your feet and put up with it all

And who’s smart but not even close to how smart you are

I’m just the obnoxious girl in your English class

And that’s all I’ll ever be

No, not a great writer

No, not a great scholar

No, not a great art historian

No, nothing.

Just an annoying English-loving

Art history fact-spewing

Harry Potter dork writer who’ll amount to nothing.

But I swear I love you

Even though I don’t even believe in love!

Even though I don’t even know what that means!

I thought it was love, but maybe I’m wrong-

It’s something more than that.

My world is words, but I wonder if ‘love’

Really fits here.

The thesaurus doesn’t help (were you paying attention to that class?

Probably not.)

It’s indescribable.

I’m ranting for no reason.

You are warmth, light, music

And I keep trying to block you out because I can only catch a single note...

Of what must be the world’s greatest symphony.

And if I can’t hear it all, what’s the point of standing at the

Oh-so-exclusive door?

I’m working towards some sort of purpose in my life

There’s a light at the end of this hellish high-school tunnel

And I’m wondering,

Can I break down the doors as I bolt out at graduation

Drive to the airport

Fly to Italy

And never, ever, ever come back?

Or would missing you be too unbearable?

The next one, 'Hope', is something I wrote during a poetry spree a few months ago late at night. This was probably the best outcome of that. The rest of the poems I wrote then aren't too fantastic.

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers

That got shot in its first attempt to fly

Shot down from the blue sky

Blood and dusty bits of feathers littering

The blackened ground.

Hope perches in the soul

Until the soul freezes over

From lack of caring for it

And hope shivers and shudders

And shrivels away.

Hope sings a tune without words

That sounds so hopeful, youthful, beautiful

But is laughed at as though it is

A scratchy, immature attempt to sound

As beautiful as it truly is.

Hope never stops at all

Except for when it is so beaten and bloodied and bruised

That it cannot walk, cannot perch, cannot fly

Cannot sing its song

That’s when hope dies.

Violent, eh? Like I say, artistically violent. :)

So I'm listening to that song by The Cure again. For more, read yesterday's post, like I said. Damn... I am such a good writer. Ha ha. 

Well if I am, maybe I ought to EDIT. Or at the very least write NOTES for CHEMISTRY or a TRIAL WRITE-UP for US HISTORY instead of my poetry blog.

Gosh... I'm like twenty minutes away from the three-year mark of just-read-yesterday's-post-if-you-want-to-know, and I'm in my pajamas. Grrrrr.

Let me go change, and then I'll probably listen to French music while doing my homework.

Hope you enjoyed the poems.

-magic*esi

Enigmas

A poem about confusion and anger with the world.

“You are warmth, light, music

And I keep trying to block you out because I can only catch a single note...

Of what must be the world’s greatest symphony.

And if I can’t hear it all, what’s the point of standing at the

Oh-so-exclusive door?”

October 2011

Hope

A cynical twist on Emily Dickinson’s poem of the same name.

“Hope never stops at all

Except for when it is so beaten and bloodied and bruised

That it cannot walk, cannot perch, cannot fly

Cannot sing its song

That’s when hope dies.”

November 2011

A Love Poem

You may not know it, dear nonexistent readers. No one does, indeed, except for me. But tomorrow marks something for me, something that happened three years ago on January 8th. You don't care, I know, but let it be said that there is providence in the fall of a sparrow, and that perhaps someone somewhere does care.

Yesterday the sun rose and set in brilliant dragonlike enchanted red, but today it is the haunting moon that leaves its imprint on my soul. It whispers to me, "No hope, dear... not in this world... not for you."

I'm listening to The Cure's 'Love Song'. The lyrics, However far away, I will always love you/ Whatever words I say, I will always love you made me think of Hamlet's "Doubt truth to be a liar/ But never doubt I love".


UPDATE FROM THE FUTURE: Yeah, guess what? I will not "always love you." Sucks, but there it is. Maybe if "you" didn't suck so much, things would've been different.

From your dear lost poet,

magic*esi

To You

A poem about everlasting love.

“Because look-

my fallen bird of a soul

In its black despair

Has taken flight

On just the music of your eyes.”

January 2012

The Figures of Raphael and Architecture

I'm in French class right now! Aaah! Technically, I'm allowed to do this, because the announcements are on right now so no one cares what I do, but I feel like an undercover blogger spy person.
Anywho.
I'm in an unusually good mood- this morning I had Art Club, which I love, and I'm not feeling sick anymore like I was yesterday, and I even edited a little last night- I KNOW. And I still somehow got to bed early.
So, I've been looking for a poem in my poetry collection to match my good mood. But all my poems are angsty! Argh! I'm never in a good mood! I wanted to post my whimsical poem, 'The Queen's Ball', BUT I'M NOT FEELING WHIMSICAL, I'M FEELING HAPPY.
So finally I found two poems about my favoritest subject, art history. Here you go: one about Gothic architecture and one about Renaissance artists.

Architecture

Vasari would condemn me

For I really should not creep

Past the tiptoe-border of the year fourteen-hundred

Bramante and Brunelleschi follow the rules

And Santo Spirito’s walls stay grounded.

But I cannot help but wander to a world

Where color and light are fused

Titian would understand, I think-

With the passionate reds he used.

Stone is transcended into what the sun makes

For the world of scholars today

For the soaring spirituality of Gothic architecture

Is where I sinfully stray.

1509- Raphael smiles-

1194- Gargoyles leer.

1550- Palladio’s composition

Makes no comparison to Notre-Dame, here.

Higher and higher I soar

Through the stained glass windows pour

A world where I would rather be

I’d rather have an orchestra play

And sing with my heart as I fly through the world

Yes, ‘tis true, this is what I see.

The Figures of Raphael

The figures of Raphael

Are elegant and delicate

Flowing across the beautiful landscape

Their features glow warmly

Beautifying all around them

Like flowers in a heavenly garden,

They take their place in the lovely art

Of the centuries.

But you do not recall to me

The figures of Raphael.

To me, 

you are painted by Michelangelo

Strong, intense,

And powerful

The mark made is cut deep

Into the soul of those who come near

Light shines out

Blinding all who can see

The intensity and power

Hidden in thee.

OK, G2G, French is starting! Bye!

-magic*esi

The Figures of Raphael

A poem comparing a subject to figures in paintings

“To me,

you are painted by Michelangelo

Strong, intense,

And powerful

The mark made is cut deep

Into the soul of those who come near”

December 2010

Architecture

A poem comparing the spirit of life to Gothic architecture

“But I cannot help but wander to a world

Where color and light are fused

Titian would understand, I think-

With the passionate reds he used.”

December 2010

A Poem About How I'm Feeling Today

Despite what the title might make you think, I did not actually write this poem today. I've been looking for excuses to not edit, so I thought I'd post on here, so I was scrolling through my poetry file and found this poem. It matches how I'm feeling today, so I was like, "Yes! Finally, something not random."
I wrote this, oh, a month ago or more. Just something I scribbled out in lunch or something. The words began playing in my head as I left AP English for Open Studio. Now they play in my head on that path all the time; it's awesome, except for the fact that it's real...
Ah well. Here's the poem, and after that I have some 'I'm a pretentious artsy person' news.

Running

Hands on glass

Handprints on glass

Rapid footsteps down the hall

Swish goes the door

Down the secret staircase

Running down the stairs

Bang goes the door

Fly across the hall

Down the second staircase, swish

The scent of paint and charcoal

Safe.

Sometimes I wonder why I keep

Running from you

When I’m stronger now.

Gah! I keep accidentally opening my editing file instead of my poetry file. I thought I minimized you, The Eraser! STOP REMINDING ME THAT I'M PROCRASTINATING! Seriously, I got home from work (at the library) at 5, and I finished my homework early STILL, and I'm wasting time on here.

Whatevs. I'll edit in lunch tomorrow. I have Art Club in study hall so I can't do it then.

ANYWAY. My pretentious person news is... two things.

1. I just slid into the finalists for the Probability of Miracles contest on Figment! Whoo! And now you can't do anything to help me, it's up to Wendy Wunders whether I win or not.

2. I just listened to three French songs in a row, and they are not all from Les Choristes, for once. The first one is "La Peur" by No One is Innocent. It means 'The Fear'. The second is 'Je Veux' by Zaz. It means 'I Want'. The last is, um, 'Vois sur ton chemin' by, you know, those people. It means 'I Love this Song' :)

Yeah. So, like, thirty words of actual poetry and several hundred of ranty crap about my life. Feel free to ignore all the fringes around the poem. I adore that poem, actually. Like I said, I always think about on the way from AP English to Open Studio. Not that I would want to run away from AP English! That's my favorite class. No, the poem refers to something else.

Si la peur fait bouger, elle fait rarement avancer... Oh, yeah, I listen to French music, and what do you listen to? Is that Nicki Minaj I see in your playlist? HA HA, I'm classier than you!

I totally wrote a 'Superbass' parody about NaNoWriMo. I still hate Nicki Minaj.

Goodbye, before I lose sleep from all this procrastination.

I shall post more another time in the future (probably tomorrow, with the title 'Hey Guys, It's Friday and I'm STILL NOT EDITING')

-magic*esi

Running

A poem about being afraid of something you don’t understand.

“Hands on glass

Handprints on glass

Rapid footsteps down the hall”

November 2011

Yell at me to edit!

I'm not editing! Finally, a day with no homework, and it's 6:15 and I have not even touched my editing file! GAAAAHHHHH!!!!!
On the bright side, voting has ended for the Probability of Miracles contest and Gray Girl is in fifth place! I just scraped into the Chance to Win section, something that has NEVER happened before! Woohoo!

Anywho. I ought to post poetry (I gots a laptop now, a loaner but whatevs) so let me just randomly select something from my collection. Let me select two, because I know one will suck.

OK, first one: something I wrote last year while riding in the car at night and being all, "Ech, I don't want to edit [do you think this is just a recent thing, readers? IT'S NOT] so I'll write poetry about, like, my surroundings."
I told you the first one would suck.

Highway

O, twisting labyrinth of the night

Black tar spider-thread spinning back and forth

Marbles rushing in the bowl, crashing pebbles upon sight

Once the maze is entered, exit will not be so short

O, pitch dark sky with not a single star

As I disappear under road smothered by road

And the red burning flames of the headlights of a car

Are the eyes of the devil in its abode.

O, who would choose this place as home?

This unforgiving traveler’s land

Trees crushed by molten chrome

Far away from God’s loving hand

Yet beauty lurks in this hellish place

For as engines simultaneously run

The highway of the night warms to your embrace

With a sharp intake of breath before the sun.

The road is not so wrong

As you fall into its folds

The hum of wheels becomes a song

And the night stops being cold.

O, find a place to stay

And to rest your tired eyes

As the night turns into day

And the sun begins to rise.

Yes. Cars are not made of chrome. I know this. It's a life of struggle, being a poet.

On to poem two... OK, I'm not doing the first thing that showed up because I want to post it some other time... Fine, how about 'Vanitas', I'll never have some other occasion to post that anyway.

Vanitas

Shiny red lipsticks lined against the wall

Glimmering mascara containers

Eyebrow pencils and foundation

Eyeshadow, and a scattering of lip glosses

The hair straightener leans against

A pink-and-purple box of combs

Shampoo, conditioner, spray, gel

And the mirror in the center of it all

Beads and pearls spill out of the spangled

Jewelry box, and gold bangle bracelets

Sparkle in the incandescent light

(Meant to flatter my features)

Perfumes of all scents stand like knights

Guarding the entrance to my dresser

But hidden amongst it all is the broken clock

As a reminder that like life,

This beauty will not last forever.

Totally cool if you skipped, like, half that poem. Just read the last three lines. P.S. You just learned about an aspect of Dutch Baroque art. CALLED VANITAS.

Ugh, it's 6:23 and I haven't edited a mite. And tomorrow I have to work for two hours at the library (what, did you expect me to have an unwriterly job? BLASPHEMY!) and then I probably have a lab report and a super long chapter in chemistry and probably some stupid Algebra 2 problems and feeling guilty about doing a sucky job in the Andrew Jackson trial in US History and AARRRRGGGHHH, I MUST EDIT NOW.

I'm still listening to 'Caresse sur l'ocean'.

My sister's here. Somehow, this is her fault.

OK, if I come back for any reason and I haven't edited, IT IS YOUR TIME TO RISE UP, HIDDEN TROLLS OF THE INTERNET, AND BLUDGEON ME.

Coolio.

Bye.

For real now.

Bye.

magic*esi

Highway

A metaphoric poem comparing driving on a highway at night to life

“O, find a place to stay

And to rest your tired eyes

As the night turns into day

And the sun begins to rise.”

February 2011

Vanitas

A poem about the frailty of life, described in makeup. (Allusion to Dutch vanitas paintings).

“But hidden amongst it all is the broken clock

As a reminder that like life,

This beauty will not last forever.”

April 2011

Grotesque

Guess who ought to be editing on her last day of winter break? Guess who's not editing?
P.S. Figment guys, HEART MY STORY 'GRAY GIRL'.
Anywho, I wrote a poem yesterday, or the day before, I don't know, and I wanted to post it to have an excuse not to edit. It's called 'Grotesque', and I warn you- it's grotesque. (shockingly)

Grotesque

All manner of ooze and vile filth

Gathered in the hall

Worms that crawled through mud

And spiders that creeped through blood

Monsters that ate flesh and hung it on their eyes

And birds that cawed and ate those eyeballs

In cannibal feather pies.

Caves that dripped with ooze and sweat

And were drenched in vomit too

The stench reeked from the mucusy blood

Where slime caked into goo.

But reigning more disgusting

And more evil than them all

I sat in filth on a throne of flesh

In the bloodstained hall.

If mud came out of my eyelids

And vomit out of my toes

If blood it stained my very skin

I could not be more gross.

You all know that you hate me

So don’t you try to hide it

You hate my every inch of life

And wish you could subside it

Hair grows on my very legs

And red boils on my face.

No dainty maid am I, for I

Think rights are mine to take!

I am no man, so who am I

To say that I am smart?

You think I am disgusting

Because I dare to love art.

You never understood me

And I know you never will.

In my world, I don’t look like filth

I am a young beauty still.

Yeah... Nonexistent readers, yell at me to go edit.

I'll post more some other time. I guess it's good my brain is so damn fried because I'm not filling the post with the usual crap I put in besides the poetry.

See ya later,

magic*esi

Grotesque

A poem about defiance against a world that sees me as grotesque

“You think I am disgusting

Because I dare to love art.

You never understood me

And I know you never will.”

January 2012