i feel the chill of

http://wonderous.deviantart.com

I need this warmth to wrap

me

in silence, in love, in sickness, in health, in in in everything

without this,

this warmth

I malfunction like a rusted machine that hasn’t seen usage in years and years years

Years.

Winter seems to descend and wraps

me

because the warmth is walking slowly away from me and can’t be stopped, halted, ceased

For the life of me I try try try to

pull it in, snap it up, draw it close, entice it near

but the warmth escapes me

me, me

Siren

http://jaxabrat.deviantart.com

The place sings a dangerous Siren song


beckoning sweetly


softly,


softly,


its art, its history,


undulating skylines filled with mystery


are sung in the Siren song


softly,


softly,





The place holds promise


and secrets


and darkness within its bright lights


the Siren song goes on,


calling, inviting


how could you want anywhere else


how could you be anywhere else


when the Siren calls to you


softly,


softly

Enivrez-vous: Get drunk.

Enivrez-vous, Charles Baudelaire

http://nigelt.deviantart.com

Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, dans le solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.

--------------
My rough translation:

http://p0rg.deviantart.com

One must always be drunk, that's all there is; it is the only way. In order not to feel the horrible burden of time which shatters your shoulders and almost drags you to the ground, one must be perpetually drunk.

But on what? On wine, on poetry, or virtue, on whatever you please, but be drunk!

And if, sometimes, on the steps of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the bleak loneliness of you room, you awaken, your drunkenness already waning or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock; ask all that flees, all that moans, all that sings, all that speaks, ask them what time it is. And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will tell you, "It is time to get drunk; so as not to be the martyred slaves of time, get drunk, get drunk constantly on wine, on poetry, on virtue, on whatever you please."

-------------

The poem is from a collection called "Les petits poemes en prose" (i.e. Little poems in prose) and I've seen it presented in a more traditional poem format, rather than a running paragraph, but I'm pretty sure the original was written in prose.

I first saw this poem when I was flicking through a book in the library. It was an hour or so after school had finished, and I was sitting by the new books display, in between one shelf and a pillar, cross-legged on the floor. And I was bent over this book and I saw the Baudelaire poem. The poem is in the book because apparently the protagonist gets drunk for the first time and his friend sends him the poem after the incident as a joke. It's sent to the protagonist in french, which he doesn't understand a word of.

I've seen some English translations of this but I didn't particularly like any of them, so I just translated it myself. Plus, I'm supposed to practice my French so my teacher doesn't give me any flak when school starts up again.

Baa baa black sheep.

http://israfel03.deviantart.com

Happy friday! I was singing baa baa black sheep to myself last night (I mean, who doesn't randomly sing nursery songs to themselves right?) and it inspired a poem...here it is. First poem I've written in a very long while

Baa Baa Black Sheep

Baa, baa black sheep
Have you any Wool?

Yes sir,
No sir,
Go and ask the bull.

Just one for my peace of mind,
One to ease the pain,
One to find the trust that I lost down the Lane -

Baa, baa black sheep
Have you any Wool?

Yes sir,
If you sir,
Wouldn't be so cruel

Baa, baa I'm a black sheep
And I would give you some Wool
Yes sir, but sir
The salvation basket's full.

Baa baa I'm a black sheep
You can ask me for some Wool
Yes sir, but sir,
It would be like asking the bull

Here's a message from your Master
A message from your Dame
You won't find the trust that you lost down the Lane.

Long time no blog...

Ok ok ok quick update because I haven't blogged in a while.

I'm favouring speed over quality here so I'll write this in bulletpoints (yes, I know, BULLETPOINTS?!)

• Am getting published in the World Book sponsored by UNESCO this yearrrr woot.
• Interning at a law firm for the summer
• Found some old poems that I will post up here soon soon soon
• AAAANNND updated my deviant after long months of nothing click here>> http://sanderschris.deviantart.com

Lunch break's over now
Later!

Elimae

http://girlfromthebridge.deviantart.com

Here's a poem from elimae I particularly liked:

I Write For Peter Joseph Gloviczki

The experience of it or how words crash on the page. http://www.elimae.com/2009/03/Write.html

The World Book, watchmen and others...

UPDATE: just saw a LOT of typos in this. Will fix soon!


I saw Watchmen over the weekend. I'm not familiar with the original graphic novel (which is why I've now decided to read it). Watching a movie set in an alternate history where Nixon is in his third term as president and the Americans won the Vietnam war is an interesting experience to be had in post-war Vietnam. They edited out certain parts of the movie - at least I think they did, since the movie did that bizarre jumpy thing. They edited sex scenes, violence, and I believe anything that delved too deeply into the vietnam war. It surprised me that they DIDN'T cut out the part where Dr Manhattan is obliterating Viet. troops in the fields, or where The Comedian is torching soldiers. But maybe that's because this is Southern Vietnam? Who knows. I see the movie omitted the part where The Comedian is confronted by a Vietnamese women he impregnated - or maybe that was never included in the movie in the first place?

Either way I enjoyed the movie, but I guess I can't REALLY criticise it until I finish reading it.

So, tomorrow is the deadline for the UNESCO World book submissions...

I decided to submit one of my poems, "Glass" and that story I wrote about Nora? Remember that? Well, here's the full version:

Just some historical bg: In 1941, just ten hours after Pearl Harbour, the Japanese invaded the Philippines (up in Pampanga). The central character, Nora, grew up during that time, seeking refuge with her family in caves up in the hills.

My great-aunt and my grandfather did in fact have to live in caves in the hills in the '40s. My great-aunt told me that even after the war, the whine of a plane, any plane, would make her heart start pumping faster.

Surviving

Nora remembers. She remembers the horrible sucking sounds of the mud as they ran the whine of Japanese planes at their backs. They ran over the fields, up the hills, into the caves. Far, far away from the sound of approaching Death. But in the silence of the cave, cradled in her mother's arms, she still heard the insistent noise of the plane, Nora remembers, she remembers it all.

The children play at Nora's feet, on a hardwood floor, with shiny plastic toys. No stone floors. Nora told her husband, no stone. It reminded her too much of the caves they slept in, of the absolute darkness of every night.

Her grand-nieces and grand-nephews are so soft, skin pink and pliable. At their age Nora's hands were covered with calluses, her heels were dirty and hard. She looks at herself now, hands dotted with liver spots, skin wrinkled with age. The calluses are gone and her skin is clean. No marks remain from the war, except the small shrapnel scar behind her left ear. Nobody knows of it except her elder brother - her perfectly coiffed hair hides her scar expertly.

And where is Alex now?

Grandpa! Grandpa!

The elated cries of her grand-nephew. Ah, here is Alex, the proud grandfather of seventeen, smiling at his grandchildren. The little ones throw themselves at him; Alex Jr. is hanging off his shoulder. Nora sees her brother wince with pain, but the children don't notice how his face is twisted, the veins in his neck bulging. The expression on his face is so familiar to her; the soundless agony of his pain. After all these years, the scar still hurt him.

She had told him not to take the shortcut to the market. The rocks on that side of the hill were loose; any misstep would send you tumbling down. But no, Alex needed to get to the market before all the good bargains were gone, and they hadn’t had anything decent meals in a while. And why would he listen to Nora? She was seven and he was twelve.

He started down the hill, his pace quickening to a run. And then he fell. And he didn’t stop falling. He skidded down the rocks on his back, trying to stop himself with his feet. He came to a sudden halt halfway down the hill, a ribbon of blood marking his fall. Nora had been so sure he was dead that she burst into tears of joy when she felt him breathing. She fell silent when she helped him up and saw the deep gash running across his back from his shoulder to his hip, a mess of raw skin and exposed muscle obscured by thick blood.

Late that night her father had stitched up Alex’s back with her mother’s sewing needle, the candle as his only light. Nora didn’t sleep that night. Her brother’s screaming kept her eyes wide open. Every time the needle pierced his skin he screamed. His cries of pain echoed though the cave crawled under her skin and seeped into her. All she could see was his blood – the blood on her brother’s back, on her hands, the blood spread over the rocks of the hill.

Someone is shaking her shoulder, trying to speak to her. It is Alex, and it is time for dinner. He starts to help her out of her chair, but when she slips her arms around her shoulder she feels his thick, jagged scar and sits back.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, Nora.”

But it does, and Nora knows. She shakes her head at him, “You should tell the children they shouldn’t jump on you, make them understand why.”

“They don’t need to know about that. What’s past is past,” Alex looks over at the dinner table, “it has nothing to do with our lives now.”

Nora lets her brother help her up, but she knows about the past. The memories define her, make her. The past was everything, is everything. It is all she has left.