Senior Tower Climb

"If growing up means

It would be
Beneath my dignity to climb a tree,
I'll never grow up,
never grow up,
never grow up
Not me!"
-Peter Pan

photography

Even though poetry seems to have emerged as my preferred expressive method, my mom's blog constantly reminds me of the poetic power images can have. So, today I have decided to post a selection of the photographs I took over the weekend.




















This summer I will work as a gopher ("You go for this, and go for that.") at Mo Ranch Presbyterian Conference Center. I grew up going to camps here and loved every minute.





















When I'm taking pictures of nature (as opposed to my crazy friends) I like to play around with the sunlight. Also, Mom introduced me to the Japanese boka (boca? bokka?) method of focusing on the foreground, which I find a fun experiment.









Some shots work better than others, but it's fun to play around with the technique. As you can see, I love the yucca. They're such a strange mix between sharp lines and the succulent blossoms. Couldn't get close enough to sample their scent (those needle tips are sharp!), but I bet they smell rich.


Also, the Mo Ranch grounds keepers very kindly rolled out their blue bonnets for my viewing pleasure.


















Welcome home.

rough draft, random thoughts, good day

When I wear my rain boots, the stiff plastic sides hold my ankles steadier than usual.
Instead of tripping and skipping over the ground, I stride.
Feeling the earth's physical force pushing back at the soles of my shoes
perhaps my brain feels the earth's physical force pushing back at my soul.
I think about the earth and she is a beautiful goddess again,
forever holding her love for the sky at arms reach for fear of exhaustion.

Some days my being must bear the strain of walls made from thickest bone.
On the best days my chains dissolve and I see how small and insignificant I am
next to and inside of the great I Am.
On those days I belong to the world around me and out from this knowledge
I stride, powerful goddess.
Connected to everything, shaping the world around me with the falling of my feet
on ways that I do not choose, but rather choose me.

I'm striding on the ground.
I'm looking at the sky.
I'm breathing in microscopic pieces of everything around me
and my body knows and names all the life that we encounter.
I am the descendant of that creator deity.
Behold, the manner of this love!
Names hold power and we are called
descended from this magic, this power,
Be loved.

Nets

You thought you would break me,
Boy, you don't even know me.
Aeons ago, I dropped my heart into a stream
and rode in a wicker picnic basket to the sea.
Thought your mouth had found the last line
I forgot to sever, but we were just
playing pretend.

No use hiding in the closet, because
even the pretend things can hurt you
and I whistle as I sew my shadow
back onto the soles of my feet
and you don't let the pane
hit you on the way out.

Forever in motion, when do we
Rest? Where is the mermaid's grotto,
cold seaweed bed, octopus garden,
and the waves forever crashing,
pounding wicker walls into sand
cradling the heart, still breathing
although underwater.

I'm sitting at my window. I'm waiting
for the wind to sweep me off my feet.
Second star to the right and
straight on 'til mourning,
Boy, why are you crying?
I haven't broken yet.

“Dancing Drifters”

future forms freeze
under umbrellas
cement chrysalises
knock, knock knucklebones.
yawning, yesterday
obstructs one option
useless eulogy, undulating
antithesis
nebulously nears
delight,
yet your yellow
overtones obliterate,
utilize.
rain, restless, rinses,
scours senseless sainthood
ending every entrance
never nothing now.
situation simply
intrinsic isolation,
bruising barely,
light lisps;
ebony exits earn
fragile failure.
evermore
adding
rabid reverberations
;
haunting hurts,
ointment on
wobbly western walls
creates cacophony, complete
abstraction.
nudging new
interactions, ideas
hover haphazardly.
oscillating obstinately
levers lift
different doubts dubiously
axing away as
gears grinding
rolling ridges rising
upwards,
dancing drifters
glide gradually
effortlessly evade
?

"Kite Strings"

Your eyes track blinking signals as we speed along
On a road with no wind wafting us forward except
Using up ten minutes under stars, unraveling

Seconds out of open windows like string.
Hold that pose, close your eyes and say the magic words,
“Open sesame?” and perhaps fly outside, under even our own radar into
Uncharted seas. No sign of familiar fish acrostics here.
Let you drive? How hard can it be, to let you lead the
Dance? Apparently surrendering the

Kite string goes against my personal beliefs. Odd,
I swerved to evade a butterfly and hit a bird instead;
Steady my hands, why won’t my fingers
Stop shaking.

Maybe that means I shouldn’t drink this
Early in the day, but caffeine usually

Aids my creativity, amplifies my energetic gifts,
Glistening spools of words running down fingers, leaving
Aged coffee constellations on the kitchen floor
In no particular pattern. But are there truly
No portents to be found in these sunroof stars?



Well, I'm not in any poetry writing class this semester, but some of my friends are getting me back into writing. I'll post what I write, but it'll probably be pretty erratic pacing.

conversation poem

For this assignment, we were asked to read a poem and then respond to it some way with a poem of our own. I read two poems titled "Song" by Christina Rosetti from my British Literature textbook from last year, and then tried to basically write a mirror poem of my own. I'm not certain whether I like how precisely copied they are. I'm not certain whether the poems I wrote are mine, but regardless of my concerns, here is what I wrote and what Ms. Rosetti wrote.

"Song"

She sat and sang alway
  By the green margin of the stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
  Beneath the glad sunbeam.

I sat and wept alway
  Beneath the moon’s most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
  Weep leaves into the stream.

I wept for memory;
  She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
  Her songs died on the air.
-Christina Rosetti, 1848

“Type”

She sat and typed alway
  By the blue pixels of the screen,
Watching characters dodge and sway
  Beneath binary beam.

I sat and wrote alway
  Beneath solar lamp glaring gleam,
Watching the pages of the day
  Sweep paper sheaves to ream.

I wrote for ennui;
  She typed for grades beyond compare:
My thoughts were digitized debris;
  Her rank had not a pray’r.
-Laura Kean, 2009

“Song”

When I am dead, my dearest,
  Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
  Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
  With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
  And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
  I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
  Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
  That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
  And haply may forget.
-Christina Rosetti, 1848

“Type”

When you are dead, my dearest,
  Who says I’ll write to you;
Plan to wear my furious face,
  But you won’t have a clue:
With velvet lid above you
  Most silent you’ve sat yet;
Your voice I’ll not remember,
  Your voice I can’t forget.

I will note your many flaws,
  I’ll note the wrinkled tie;
I will note the darkened flowers
  Stink still under blue sky:
And fuming through the churchyard
  Expectations ne’er met,
Maybe I will remember,
   Maybe I can forget.
-Laura Kean, 2009