Mary, Mary, quite contrary / How does a poem grow?

I just finished re-editing my poem The Journey. I am still not completely happy with it, but I suppose I will have time to change it later on.

Did I tell you someone wrote a short piece on my stuffed animal Macaroni? We had to describe something which mattered a lot to us, and the only thing that came to mind was my duck, sitting on my bed and waiting for me to come back home, his beady eyes, slightly scuffed from years of love, staring at the door handle. We then traded slips of paper, and she--I forget her name--wrote the following:

In the grey drip of dreary weather
He acts like a thermal blanket which wraps around
My lungs, my heart, my whole being.

Shielding me from the terrors, the dullness, the nothing
the horrid world outside
I realize I am alone, apart from him
and he is a toy, inanimate, yet somehow living
Secretly and solely to me.

His life emanates from memories, trapped inside him
he is a well-traveled duck
faded from journeys to Sweden and Singapore,
the confident, busy style of life I used to lead

One where I never expected I'd be
Sitting alone in this room

Pretty spot on, wouldn't you say? Well, you would say so if you'd ever seen Macaroni. I also went over three other poems, The Rack, The Dirk, and Iscariot. I never plan to write poetry, but most of all, I do not plan the subject matter. It always turns into something strange and slightly creepy. Can't help it if my deepest thoughts are cold and calculating.

Rise, Tyro! and receive my golden rays, my fiery hues,
my red seal upon your breast, pressed deep into
your nature, binding you and casting you into my copper
Son , my full-forged prentice singing, singing praises to the
dawn, your hammer ringing, ringing in the early
morn

Don't ask.

Unapologetically Yours,
Bodo of Dobo Isle

Now I must finish my paper.

We're All Mad Here

Sitting at my desk, with one shoe on, one shoe off, like Miss Havisham.

At least I have not been abandoned on the day of my wedding on account of my wealth and fortune.

The last two days have been busy. As you already know, I can do everything, and a few things are not to get in my way or distract me from my larger purpose. For example, yesterday was Thursday, and I had class at 10:30, and at 3:00, I met up in town with a guided walking tour around York, highlighting the Christians that have gone before us. Our guide, an elderly gentleman with a sonorous, dare I say Shakespearean, voice who led us through the city, beginning at the statue of Constantine outside York Minster and ending outside of St. Michael Le Belfrey, discussing David Watson and his ministry in the 1960s. Our guide's father turned his life over to God at one of D.L. Moody's sermons here in York.

It is good to have a history, a Christian history spanning hundreds of years, one--as any--filled with both sordid and kind acts. It is good to have a group with which to identify yourself, to help anchor your place in history and situate yourself in the face of the future. Where would we be without the people that came before us? If I have seen further it is only by standing on the shoulders of giants.

After the tour, Theresa, Melissa, and I went to Chandini, which is an Indian restaurant that has a student deal on Thursdays. I had a Chicken Tikka Masala, nan, and a Mango Lassie. It made me miss Singapore even more. It also made me think of my father's good work in India, among the poor in Calcutta and Jharsuguda, Orissa state. I visited two Christmases ago, just before the persecution of the Christians flared up again. Instead of a family Christmas at home, we visited the Children's home and were able to distribute some Christmas gifts. It was not much by any modern standards, but it was much appreciated. The children had never seen a frisbee before, but got the hang of it once we showed them how. The orange one quite quickly disappeared over a low wall and was never seen again.

After the city tour, we dispersed and went home, each to her own. I joined Melissa and stole her chocolate while she was not looking and then returned home to read a short story for my Creative Writing class called Sally, In Parts.

We used the story in class as an example of how a specific, even artificial structure was used to tell a story. In this case, the narrator goes through Sally's different body parts, such as her eyes, nose, lungs, etc., and, while describing them, manages to weave in a story about her relationship to her father and his final days in the hospital.

After my class, which finished a few minutes early, Erin and I went to the cinema to chope seats for Melissa, who would come later because she was dying her hair. We watched Alice in Wonderland, and ate Sainsbury's dark chocolate and a candies collectively called Strawberry Things. (Imagine! Strawberry is a flavour phenomenon. Not a day goes by without my coming across this marvelous little fruit.)

Aren't we all a little mad? Aren't we all the Mad Hatter? To which, you would reply, Not at all. There are people in this world that are perfectly sane. You have just yet to meet one. As like attracts like, you are decidedly out of the sane circle of health and well-being.

I suppose that's true. Mad as a Hatter, mind you, mind you.

But only the Brain could dream dreams as big and as wide as world domination. And he was most decidedly delusional. No one faults him for his dreams. Or perhaps, do you?

We are all mad here.

Sincerely,
the Cheshire Cat

(P.S. I ended today with a potluck dinner and then a brief stop at Professor Dean's house where we watched an episode of Simon Schama on the Young (and eventually Old) Queen Victoria and the times of progress during her reign.

Lunatic's Laundry

Had a frustrating laundry day. Overstuffed one of the machines, and when I arrived to put the supposedly clean load into the dryer, some of it was soaking wet, some of it was dry. None of it was washed. Wasted 1.60. Separated load into two different machines. Had to borrow change from people. (DOES NO ONE IN YORK HAVE SMALL CHANGE?) Waiting, waiting for laundry now.

Note to self. Do not repeat.

Laundry done.
One came out
of the dryer
Dry.
The other one
still damp.

That was my poem for the day.

Since I have had to handwash three of my dresses, I had to find a place to hang them up to dry. I placed them on the heater and they have been drying nicely. The only problem is that I turned my room into Singapore. Instant humidity.

Makes me think of my family.

All for now.

Peace out,
Homedog

I see the light

At long last, I spy the distant shore...

These last three weeks have been insane. I'm sorry if I bore you with my horror stories of finals, but I have nothing else to talk about. Really, I wish there was something more interesting to tell you, but you'll have to make do.

Summer is getting close. I am drowning in homework, and the only thing that keeps me afloat is the thought that there must be an end to this misery. For about a week now, the Facebook statuses constantly read something like this:

SOOO close to being done!
Stats, psych, and then home for the summer.
Study study study! Sheer determination for all As!
is DONE WITH HISTORY!
Boring updating, two more exam left + one paper!
Two down, two to go + packing + a broken computer
Advice of the day: Never drink 3 amps, 2 Starbucks frapps in 3 hours.
1 down 3 to go
One final down, two to go.
One more left. And then...
One final down, four more to go.
...is waiting for Monday to be over and done with
Almost there.
Sanna is hoping it will go away if she closes her eyes.

Finals have taught me many things. It is possible to write a six-page poem in one night. It is also possible to write fully-formed and perfectly legible sentences, even when your brain has stopped working. For example, I stayed up all night working on the poem, and I wrote my analysis of it at 7 in the morning, since I was already awake. Somehow, it was perfectly written. I am all for mind/body connectedness, but I think there may be something to the Greeks' mind/body dualism.

It is very strange to look out the window and realize that the sun is rising.

Haven't slept very much this last week. I pulled three all-nighters. It does strange things to you. You start to see things that aren't really there. You're constantly cold. You feel as if someone wrapped your head up in cotton. There is a disconnect between what you see and what you experience as reality. It's hard to explain. You'll have to try it for yourself. I have never pulled even one all-nighter before I came here. Well, I did for the High-school lock-in, but that isn't the same thing. I worked through the night to finish work, but not because I was procrastinating. I started out in good time, but it was still necessary. There was just so much to do. I wonder what happened to those poor souls that didn't start in good time.

I really do think I'm going insane. Everyone does, so close to the end of the year. You have conversations about nothing and laugh at things that are only remotely funny.

Oh, my poor roommates. I usually study in the living room, and I have left my things everywhere! A positive explosion of notes and papers from all walks and classes of life.



I have so many things to do. Tomorrow I am going out with my mentor. We will eat dinner somewhere. I also need to finish up my Japanese homework (Rarii-sensei was kind enough to allow me until Monday), write a short essay on The Syringa Tree for my philosophy class, finish my final essay for the same class, pack my things and put them away for the summer, study for my final exam on Tuesday, and go the hair salon.

I'm so excited about summer! I have not felt this way since I was a little kid. Nothing like the fear of death and a low grade to get your nostalgia working. I want to see my family. I want to eat good bread with good cheese, and drink a tall, cold glass of milk. I want to hug my brother and his wife. I want to talk to my little, itsy-bitsy sister. (All right, so she's not itsy-bitsy. But she is to me.) I want to read a book for fun. I want to write something without anyone compelling me to do so. (As my father would say, "It's the principle of Law vs Grace. "For we are not under the Law, but under grace." You said it, Daddio.)

Before I got to Sweden, I will go see Tim and Sarah in New York. I am so excited. I haven't seen Sarah in ages (not seeing friends is the job-hazard of being international). Tim is the only person I know that uses lack-a-day as an expression.

Well, I must be off to bed now. It is late, late, late.

Your hallucinating sister,
Baccarat


(P.S. I GOT AN A! Professor Rienstra really liked my poem. She asked me for part two. That just made my day.)

Epic Poems

Hello my fellow friends and family.

This week I have an epic poem and 500 word page paper due on Tuesday, a four page philosophy paper due Thursday, and a six page paper on Singlish due Friday. This ought to be a very interesting week with little sleep. I am quite enjoying writing my poem, especially because I gave myself quite strict parameters. I am attempting to explore the theme of a modern day hero, but in the style of Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene. However, I will be using blank verse instead of the Spenserian rhyme scheme, coupled with a liberal dose of kennings. I could not give up on Old English altogether, you grim ground-dwellers. Here is my invocation.

You sought once to tell the tale alone

And failed and fell. You slipped upon the words,

And cut yourself, but you, tongue-proud small child,

Persisted, tried again—And then the words,

Angered by such sudden, reckless treatment

Lashed out, ripping at the hand that writes them.

Their poison, black as ink, now dulls your wits,

Wracks you, stiffens fingers, forces silence;

Blood-marked, your swollen hands lies still, listless—

And you must call upon the Orator,

The word-wielder, to suck the poison from

Your purpled hands. Now bow your head and wait

Upon the Word to stir the waters of

Your crippled mind. Sing, O Deep Spirit! Speak!

Your servant waits with pen at hand to write

A story soft, finely fit for telling.

The only problem, of course, is that it takes a tremendous amount of time.

Sincerely,
A very tired Poet