Anonymous asked: How many poems have you written?
A few hundred…I’ve never really counted them all, though.
A few hundred…I’ve never really counted them all, though.
Of course it can! I once wrote a couplet that went “Pum-dee-dee-dum, goes the drum/Some sing along and hum.” I don’t think you can go any lower [ahem, sillier] than that :D
Submitted by Rui.
What are you going to do? I don’t know…I’ll stash it in the trunk first and then try to drive up to the Lake tonight. What if it wakes? It won’t. I made sure of it. The solution should render it dreamless and asleep for at least fifteen hours. Oh. Anyway, if it does, I’ll just have to end it finally. This will be my last goodwill. You needed to solve this a long time ago, why now? I don’t know, I can’t bear the smell anymore.
It shifts inconspicuously in the background. The bag appears to inflate. Water, is it…whatever it is, it devours the surface of the sack. And when it’s done, it’s as if nothing has changed.
Is it just me or did that bag turn a shade darker? Stop making me paranoid.
I take hold of it, and walk silently into the forest. Whatever happens, it needs to be done tonight. I had wrestled it, kicking and screaming. I had tried to fight it. I’m the master, the boatswain, the effortless purveyor of my fate. I questioned myself, where did it suddenly come from? What had happened? The rush, the blur, I can hardly distinguish the mess myself. Conflicting motives. By goodwill, I meant for myself. This is finished, the beast will be put down tonight. Along with it, the identity that it had irrevocably sealed itself with, mine.
I see my fate in front of me. Grasping the rope, I/it trekked without hesitation and barely present into the dark metallic sheen of the Lake. The caress of the ripples on my physical manifestation was a pleasure before…an indefinably questionable infinity.
It really depends—it could be a snatch of a poem I hear on the radio or a poster on the wall, an idea I get at 1 AM and then mull over for days…I think a lot of my inspirations come from the books I read and watching the news, but there’s really no one place.
The valentine of desire is pasted over my heart
and still we are not touching, like things
in a poorly done still life
where the knife appears to be floating over the plate
which is itself hovering above the table somehow,
the entire arrangement of apple, pear, and wineglass
having forgotten the…
I’m not quite sure what you mean by this question—if you’re interested in editing/uploading a new version of a story you’ve already posted here, you can definitely feel free to do so.
Submitted by Ann Garth.
they taunt me
just out of my reach.
on the edges of my mind
like some black truffle butterfly
whose wings gently brush
the sides of my head,
The flavors kiss me,
The last bite
does not fade away,
but lingers in my mouth
like the scent
of a forgotten flower,
by a lover,
and tucked like a secret
to be found on a rainy day.
Submitted by Ann Garth.
A girl in a book told me
that someone had hurt her.
I said, “Me too,”
and kept reading.
I put her book
into the hole in my stomach
where my heart used to be.
Into the chasm
I stuffed comic books,
I slowly fed in novels,
tempered with biographies.
Maybe one day
the hole of my hurt, my heart,
will be stuffed so full with books
that there will be no room for tears to leak out.
Maybe one day,
when I die,
they will cut me open
and find a library.
The sun has long been set,
The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and the trees;
There’s a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,
And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky.
Who would go `parading’
In London, `and masquerading’,
On such a night of June
With that beautiful soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses?
On such a night as this is!
(submitted by velixir)
A non-fiction personal narrative piece from Laurel.
In first grade, I was a shy, quiet little girl. My blonde hair in ponytails, my blue eyes fixed on the teacher at all times, I stayed quiet, except for when I wrote. When I wrote, I was loud. When I wrote, I was free. I would write about whatever came to mind. It was mostly fiction. I would also draw big, circle-y people, to go with my story, what my parents used to call “bubble people”. In school, a girl named Evelyn was my only friend, though she wasn’t really a nice friend. Sometimes she pinched me when she didn’t get her way, get me to do things I didn’t want to do. I told my parents, who talked about it to the teacher, who talked about it to Evelyn, but it didn’t stop. Evelyn was bigger than I was and wasn’t physically violent all the time, but sometimes was. I could shake it off easily, for the most part, though, so it wasn’t that big of a problem.
But when I was little I really, really liked red hair. I’m not sure why. Just the concept of red hair made me shiver with excitement. A popular girl in kindergarten who was Irish had beautiful red hair. Everybody wanted to be her friend. In first grade, I wasn’t in class with her, so I didn’t get to see my beloved red hair everyday. But then, in about November, our teacher announced a new student would be joining the class. My stomach got fluttery with nerves. Could she possibly have red hair? I didn’t really think at all at the concept of making new friends, just her hair color.
On the day we got the new student, our teacher talked to us about being kind to her and making her feel welcome. I listened, and when it was time for the new student to come in, I was feeling nervous. Would she have red hair?
I had no idea that day that I would be meeting my new best friend. When she entered the door, small and fragile, looking scared, clutching onto her mother’s hand, I was disappointed to see she had the same hair color as me: blonde. She had on a blue puffy jacket and leggings. Good fashion sense, I noted. She then took out her red hat with the white puff on it, and, omigosh, she had red hair! My stomach got all fluttery, and I made a mental note to watch her hair.
All that day, students made the new student (I had forgotten her name) feel welcome. They talked to her, and I noticed people really seemed to like her. A week later, Erika was popular. How could I not know her name when everyone talked to her with big, wide eyes? I was feeling a bit jealous. I had never been popular, nowhere close. True, a boy a year older than me in preschool had kissed me on the cheek, so technically I had already had my first kiss, but Erika was so…Erika. There wasn’t really a way to describe her.
The next week, I was moping about by myself at recess. I saw Erika near the wall kicking the ice on it with a group of friends. Jealously pinged through me. I turned away and walked on the cement, kicking at it sourly. I wish I had a best friend.
The next day, however, Erika was friendless. It seemed her popularity level had gone done and people liked her a real lot, but the concept of a new student just wasn’t exiting anymore. I watched as Erika sadly walked alone at recess. I thought about going up to her, but didn’t. I was too shy.
I was getting sick and tired of being friendless myself, since Evelyn had started to play with a group of other girls. So I walked right up to the teacher and told her I didn’t have anyone to play with.
I didn’t notice Erika peeking out behind the teacher’s back. Her red hair was done up cutely in two pigtails, but her blue eyes were sad. I got a lump in my throat and my heart started to pound. Erika was actually here! Did she have to go to the bathroom? Maybe she had fallen down and had to go to the nurse! Maybe I could take her to the nurse!
But, no. She didn’t have to or want to go inside, she was here for the same reason I was—she had no one to play with. The teacher, smiling, introduced us. We smiled at each other, and the moment our eyes locked, I figured out I had made a friend. An actual real friend, not an on-and-off friend, not a girl with so many friends she didn’t have time to notice me, but a real and true friend.
Erika and I were best friends from that moment on. We regularly went over to each other’s houses, and we found ourselves sitting together at lunch and on the playground. Erika had an amazing imagination, just like I did, but she didn’t really like writing. Which was good, because it wouldn’t be that interesting to have a best friend who liked the exactly same thing as you. Instead, Erika and I played games on the playground. I would usually be the baby, and Erika would be the older sister or mother. Erika put her imagination into use in so many ways. Sometimes it would be at the lunch table, telling us how that weekend her dad had fought out a gigantic spider in the house, or that her grandmother was 300 years old. It wasn’t like she was lying, though, because it was so funny. And over time, we found ourselves being the best of friends we could imagine.
In second grade, a girl named Lily came onto the scene. Lily soon became me and Erika’s second best friend. Lily was fun and imaginative, and loved playing the games we did. We had a second friend to add onto the fun, and it was great.
In third grade, Erika announced that she would be moving. I cried for weeks. Erika and I and Lily had always been a threesome, best friends forever, and now Erika was moving? Weekly Erika and I went to the skating rink. Erika had never been skating before, and I teached her, and so did my sister and her friends, and Erika was getting quite good at it. From then on, nothing was more important then to spend quality time with my best friend. Sometimes I found myself getting frustrated at her or her getting frustrated at me. And then the worst thing I could possibly imagine happened. Erika and Lily got into a fight. I was between them now. Lily would tell me how much she hated Erika, and Erika would tell me how much she hated Lily. It was really hard being between them, and sometimes I wouldn’t know what to do. But towards the end of the year, Lily and I bounded more, after Erika and I had had a fight. We eventually forgave each other, and Erika and I were partners on the field trip near the end of the year. I figured myself thinking that she was so much more fun than Evelyn, even if we did have a small fight. In the field there, I saw a small hole that some animal had made. Soon people were gathering around, looking at the hole. When each new person came, Erika always gave me credit and said, “Laurel found it.” In first grade, when I had had a small yet tiring friendship with Evelyn, when I found things or saw things, Evelyn had always said either we had found them or she had found them. Erika was so much more nicer and I couldn’t imagine for one second not being best friends with her. On the way back from there, though, she started to cry and said she didn’t want to move. I was doing my best and my hardest not to cry, too. A lump was arising in my throat. In the middle of the most important part of the conversation, when I was just about to start crying, Evelyn popped up from the seat behind us, making a silly, deranged face at us. We regarded her passively.
“Please, Evelyn, we’re trying to have a private conversation.” Erika said, always polite. I nodded, too shy to speak up.
Evelyn sat back down, then popped up again with another silly face. We ignored her this time.
We had one last playdate before Erika had moved, but it wasn’t the last time I saw her before she moved. It involved a short music video to My Immortal, Erika being the dead ghost who was haunting me, but only in my head, I only imagined her, me being the sad girl who had lost her best friend in a car accident. At the end of the video, I stepped in front of a Jeep onto the road. Yes. That was not appropriate. But okay.
Towards the end of the playdate, I got out my Flip camera and we made silly videos. Erika was really hyper, and so was I, so we were being crazy silly. Erika sung for us in the dark, and it was really good. Then came the end of the playdate. We were silly and finally when Erika had to go, I said good-bye and so did she. She left.
The last time I ever saw her was a Brownie meeting, surprisingly, at the girl in kindergarten with red hair’s house. I no longer treasured Erika as a friend for her red hair. I think I had got past that the first time our eyes met. The girl, pretending she knew me much better than she really did, welcomed me inside. I was the first person there. Her mom explained to me that we were going to have a kind of seeing Erika off kind of thing. A lump arose in my throat, because I realized this might be the last time I ever saw her. I shook that thought away and tried to smile.
When Lily and Erika got there, Lily sat on one side of me, and Erika sat on the other. Lily rested her head on my shoulder. Erika was just barely pushed over the chair we were sitting on together, since there wasn’t any room. I honestly forget what we did, I think made some sort of craft, and had chips and that sort of stuff. After that, Lily and the rest of our troop went downstairs to watch a movie with all sort of snacks. Erika and I found a nearby room and played with American Girl Dolls, dressing them and making them meet and talk. The girl had so many more than we both did, which wasn’t very many, actually.
At the end of the meeting, we left the house. Erika’s mom was taking me home. I gave Erika a card with a sad baby toddler face on it, and the words, “Let’s just pretend we’re playing hide and seek…” on the front, and on the inside, “And I can’t find you.” I wrote under it, “I’ll miss you.” Or something like that. Erika, though she laughed, commenting that I always got her cards with babies or toddlers on them (though it was true), thanked me. I think it really meant something to her.
Erika’s mom took us to her house, and she led me through the rooms, pointing out how few furniture there was. It was actually pretty cool, but sad. When it was time to leave I said good-bye to her house. Her mom dropped me off at my house, and Erika’s mom and mine talked for five minutes. Erika and I were left alone.
I don’t really think either of us really wanted to talk. Words couldn’t express what was happening between us, or what we felt for each other after more than two years. It doesn’t seem very long, but to us, it seemed like lifetimes. Erika said she liked my American Girl doll room, and I smiled. We walked over to my desk. By accident Erika spilled ink over. She apologized, but I couldn’t really say anything. Erika drew a crocodile in the ink spill. It’s still there now, dried, a reminder of her.
Then it was time for her to go. I cried softly as she said good-bye. I said good-bye too, my voice shaking. Her mom said, “Oh, you’ll see each other again,” in a kind voice, but she didn’t know what we were going through. They left. I just sat there on the Morris chair and cried and cried and cried.
It’s been a little more than four years since Erika and I became best friends, and we still keep in touch. We text about four days a week, and she helps me, since I’m going through a hard time right now, telling me I’m beautiful and amazing, sending me love quotes and prayers. I love Erika, and she loves me. We’re the best of friends you could ever imagine. Erika, if you’re reading this, I’ll love you forever, and I miss you. I can’t wait until I see you again in March! It will be great! Yours forever, Laurel.