hells_half_acre: (escher)

I wish I had something to post here this week. I haven't been writing much. I haven't had many good ideas. I want to write "The Search" again for the first time. It's by far my favorite piece of my own writing. If I could make it into a book I would, but it tells a complete story without the ability to really elaborate. If I elaborated I'd lose the anonymity - I'd have to give people names and genders; I'd have to give them personalities.

The problem with writing is that it's personal. Even if you are writing fiction, you are giving information about yourself away. I've never been really good at being honest when it comes to personality or desires. I started this journal in the hopes of getting past that, but it's easier said than done.

So, while we wait for me to once again get over my eccentric insecurities. Here is a picture and a poem. The poem isn't by me, quite obviously. It's by an actual poet. I just like it a lot, and thought it deserved a picture.

Atlantis — A Lost Sonnet
Eavan Boland
How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder
that a whole city — arches, pillars, colonnades,
not to mention vehicles and animals — had all
one fine day gone under?
I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then.
Surely a great city must have been missed?
I miss our old city —
white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting
under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe
what really happened is
this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word
to convey that what is gone is gone forever and
never found it. And so, in the best traditions of
where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name
and drowned it.


May. 3rd, 2007 10:37 pm
hells_half_acre: (meanwhile)


We live in holes, you and I
Finding place among monoliths
Eking out our existence
Amid a myriad of shapes and colours
Holes in the ground, the walls, the sky
Holes carved out of the mountainsides

(Photo: Gabe in front of the Limerick train station in Ireland way back in March 2003)


Aug. 30th, 2006 01:50 pm
hells_half_acre: (oberreid)
Because Gabriel left today, I present to you a short poem about a silent language:


There are things between friends
A twist of word
A casual touch
Intangible things
That flow like poetry
Between us
hells_half_acre: (lilypads)
I like reading short stories.
Romances, but not just any.
Not the stories that are perfect, 
where everyone lives happily ever after,
like teen-movies.
They make me angry,
because life isn't like that.

But the stories that are imperfect - where things are left ambiguous,  where people are left broken shells, but somehow still alive and
strangely content. 
Those make me want to love someone.
Those are the ones that leave me lonely.

I have no one to look at and say:
"Life is fucked up, and we are crumbling behind perfect facades. Breaking, with wide smiles on our faces,
but not completely,
because we both know the truth,
and strangely that makes us happy."

Instead I go to sleep an hour early. I'll lean my extra pillow against my back, and it'll feel like someone is there if I pretend hard enough. When morning comes I'll check my email. Nothing important will be there. I'll read some comics and laugh while I eat cereal. Then I'll look out the window to see what season it is, put on the corresponding coat, and step outside.

No matter what the weather, part of me will say 
"Right now, life is perfect,"
and I'll smile at everyone I see.
hells_half_acre: (gabe)
How come everyone I know hates their lovers?
Except a few.
I think I'd rather be alone
Then lie and pretend I'm happy
Just to have someone
I'll be ok alone
I'll lie on the carpet and sip hot chocolate and answer to no one.
hells_half_acre: (oberreid)

The problem with time
Is that it's ever marching on
Ever forward, ever forward
Wouldn't it be nice to stay awhile?
Just a little while

And the future is uncertain
Holds no pleasant warmth
And you see the pond
And you love the trees
But cannot linger
Ever onward
The march

And the past stretches on behind you
When did you start the march?
What colour was that autumn leaf?
What shade was the green of the last blade of grass?

Crude memories forged in the depths of the mind
Impressionistic paintings
One crisp image surrounded by vague
Of him loving you? Or him leaving you?
Of the way the sun danced on the water
That day everything was perfect
But what was it he said? How did his voice sound?
Amidst the trees, echoing off the water
Did he laugh loud or smile quietly?
What was the song playing in your mind?

Let's go back, to the pond, the trees
Back to the autumn leaf, that green blade of grass,
Pause long enough to hear his voice
Echoing off the water still

But no, ever onward
The passage of time
Towards the uncertain future
Ever forward, never back
And you can weep while you walk
Or hold your head up high
Eagerly mapping new memories
In the recesses of your mind
So one day, when he smiles at you
You'll say, "yes...it was just like that,
On that day long ago, when everything was perfect
Just like now, and ever onward"


hells_half_acre: (Default)

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