Poetry Corner

I'm resurrecting the Masterpiece Theater theme for this one.
Welcome to Poetry Corner!
This week's assignment:
Write a metaphor poem

Not Quite Remembering

It’s like

Completing a puzzle without the box cover

or

Squinting at a piece of art work

or, no,

Looking down in the water

Down past the choppy surface and

into the deep

water.

You can see it

there

vaguely, vision cloudy,

your anchor weighted

down on the bottom

of the sea.

Time to bring it back up

to the

surface.

Grab the chain.

Hand

Over hand over hand over

hand.

Too heavy.

Brace your feet

against the edge.

Heave

Ho

Heave

Nothing.

The anchor stays down

at the bottom

of the sea.

Hmm.

That’s not quite it.

It’s like

It’s like

something. . .

Wait.

I know this. . .

More Magical Music Monday

If this is what her song book looks like, you know she's amazing.

Laura Marling

I just now looked her up and found out that she has adorable brown locks now, instead of her bizarre Bikini Kill circa 1990 bleached blonde haircut.
And she has a new album out!
And she toured with Mumford & Sons!
And I just love her.
Am I the only one that thinks she looks like Paul McCartney when she sings?

Fantastical Music Friday

Dead Man's Bones

Don't be scared. This isn't another "Hey. I'm an actor. That must mean I can sing too!" horror a la Russell Crowe. Forget about who sings in this band (and if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you) and just listen. It's really fantastic.
I mean, I bought this album. I never buy music. Ever. Trust me. It's worth it.

Poor Poor Poem

This week's assignment was to write an imitation poem.
The poem I'm imitating:

The Woman Who Is Early
by Nin Andrews

The Woman Who Is Early is always at least one step ahead of
time. She is always rushing and rushing. Where-ever she goes,
she is already there long before she arrives. Whatever she is
saying, she has already said it before the words leave her lips.
Whatever song she is singing she is already so sick of it, and she
wishes she could get it out of her mind. Whatever meal she is
preparing, she has eaten it before taking the first bite. Whatever
man she desires, she had made love to him a thousand times
before he ever undresses her. A man can never make love to her
the way he did once upon a time, before he made love to her. Of
course therapists tell her she should slow down and rest a spell.
Relax. She has heard those words long before she ever sees
therapists. Does she have to explain it to them again? How a
great wave is chasing her? It is rising above her head even as she
thinks of it. If she looks back, just once, it will wash over her.
She will instantly drown. Of course, she is right. That's why she
has already drowned.

My poor imitation of it.
At least this class is teaching me literary humility.

The Woman Who Is Late
after Nin Andrews

The Woman Who Is Late is always at least one step behind time.
She is always lounging and lazing. Wherever she goes, she never arrives.
Whatever she is saying, she says to no one in particular since they
have already gone before she can speak. Whatever book she loves,
she never reads since it has long since gone out of publication. Whatever
meal she makes, she has to throw away since it has expired before she
can taste it. Whatever high school sweetheart she longs for, she tries to
seduce after he has already married and retired. A man can never love her
when she is only now in the present, considering the boy of the past. Of
course everyone tells her that she needs to stop dawdling and stop making
everyone else wait for her. Hurry up. She doesn’t hear these words until it’s
too late. Why didn’t they tell her sooner? Can they not see that the moving
sidewalk she is on even now is slowing? She chases the people ahead of her but she can’t ever seem to reach them. If she trips and falls, just once, she’ll be sent flying backward. She will never be able to catch up. Of course, she is right. That’s why she is left alone in the past.

You're the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold

My dad occasionally teaches chapel at the school he works at. Most of the time, he likes to include a personal, self-deprecating anecdote, complete with pictures. And I'm the one that winds up scanning them onto the computer. So as I was scanning them late one Tuesday night before the Wednesday morning chapel, I noticed some distinct similarities between my dad and I. See if you can find them.

Oh and Prince Valiant was our triplet.

Btw I tried to find Michael Bolton's version of "Daddy's Little Girl" to put on the end here but couldn't find it. You're all lucky. Very lucky.

Disney!

I can't believe I've never talked about my Disney obsession before. I've loved Disney ever since I was little. "Beauty and the Beast" was the first movie I ever saw in a theater. Either that or "Curly Sue." Very similar movies...very similar...
The first time I ever went to Disneyland was on Easter when I was probably 3 or so. I was convinced we were going to Disney World and my older (and obviously wrong) brother knew it was Disneyland. We argued. He won. Whatever. Like it even matters.
Pfft.
Anyway, since my family has generally gone to Disneyland in the winter (January-early March are prime Disney-ing times. Rain + no crowds= amazing), around this time of year I start jonesing to go.
All that to say...
This is one of the greatest tv shows ever recorded:

Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

Ps If you don't know who EJ Peaker is...the Osmonds will explain. Donny and...that other one.
Pps You're welcome.

Printmaking

I'm also taking Printmaking this quarter. I had absolutely no idea what that meant when I signed up but it fit the qualifications I needed and Photo was long filled up.

Basically, it's stamp making...from hell.
We did our first carving (yes, carving) and everyone had these intricate, perfect designs.

From Here

From Here

And mine looked like this:Obviously it's a fox.
Yikes.

Macabre Poem Monday

("Macabre" here, meaning: 1. gruesome and horrifying; ghastly; horrible.)
This week's assignment was to write about details. I didn't. HA! Stick it to the man.
(For why I'm writing poems, go here)

Burdens
My face too large.
Their bodies too small.
My face against the ground.
Their bodies running in circles.
Me.
Them.
Human.
Ants.
I watch.
They carry the bodies of their fallen friends.
I wonder.
They set one down and pick another one up.
I say, “It’s time to let them go.”
They say, “It’s time for you too.”

It's kind of shaped like an ant head/neck/shoulders...weird and unplanned. I'M NOT CRAZY!!