i wrote this for my class. it should define what is poetry. i got this lines from my closet and wove them. see if the lines sound good. feel free to give comments and murderous criticisms. tankzz ^_^
A second before the rot.
The image of a memory,
still, unmoved. The vision
of a white heaven and
the screams of hell. A time
before passing. A pause
before death. The walk
through the mist towards
eternity, before the
beginning of an endless
and silent whisper.
The ghosts of the evening
raided the dead in
the middle of the silence
passing from one nose
to another disturbing
one’s happy dream to a nightmare
a short man
with
thick
and
kinky hair
wrapped in a
bear’s skin
that he hunted days ago
giving
a woman
with
the same outfit
a rub in the nose
their Siberian kiss
I woke up before six a.m.
Cooked rice and swept floors
While singing Sugarcult’s Memory.
Before I wake at 7, but not today. Not today.
When was the first time I cooked rice and swept floors?
I can’t remember. I can’t tell.
Classes will bell at 10. Have I studied?
Or at least read readings?
No? Not yet? Why? Is the dream of Suma
Used up? Or perhaps it will only remain as it was? A dream.
Oh I remembered. I dreamt kissing
Kierra Knightly on the lips. How I miss my ex
Who now spends royalty on top of the Sears.
Is there anything else to be done?
The laundry is heightening like the Everest.
How I wish someone would come and wash all these.
I’m tired of working and studying, eating and sleeping.
Is there anything else to be done?
It’s almost 9. Something’s burning. Shit the rice!
I won’t read the stories. Guess I’ll skip class.
Set the laundry for tomorrow.
It’s the same excuse like yesterday.
We planted a seed and now it
grows a sturdy little tree
sprouted from nothing. I
supposed it was just nothing.
or was it really nothing?
Then why can’t we cut down
this tree we grew from planting?
Do I keep it in remembrance of you
or do you keep it with my memories?
It’s not a tale that I fancy.
It’s cold rain,
sharp daggers that
falls from the heavens.
The visions of the past that
I see in that sturdy little tree.
Ang kalisud sa mao rang usa
Pareha sa langgam
Nga wa jamoy sa’ag
Nga hing lupad sa kawanangan
Ug way mahugpan.
Busa ngari na
Aron mutabang ka naho
Pagpanapok sa mga
Lajang sagbot
Aron gam-ong sa’ag.
Beneath the tree we used to climb
I wander in the midst of
Dead and rotting earth.
Where no light shines
And shadows cover the surface.
A ray of hope is dying,
Like a lifeless leaf
That falls on summer.
Standing on top of the wild
With wild flowers whispering
Of loneliness. The covering
Silence shouts the laughters
Of the past – missing the other
half. And I wander again
But now I mourn, kicking as I
Walk, the leaves that fall.
On silent nights
near a river silent.
the water flows
soft and calm.
The tiny stones
rolled together
with the stream.
The dreams of the
earth flushed
by the unstopping
current.
My teacher ate my homework. I'm aware it's rather odd. She sniffed at it and smiled with an approving sort of nod. She took a little nibble -- it's unusual, but true -- then had a somewhat larger bite and gave a thoughtful chew. I think she must have liked it, for she really went to town. She gobbled it with gusto and she wolfed the whole thing down. She licked off all her fingers, gave a burp and said, "You pass." I guess that's how they grade you when you take a cooking class.
–Kenn Nesbitt
