Searing stares burn
my entire soul until all
that is left is a pile
of red ashes, writhing
in their passionate desire
to be lit again, panting
from the expiration
of oxygen in their midst

Their screams, faint
at first and building
as they extend longer
into the night, hang
in the air between our lips, begging
to be silenced by the hard
and soft contact
our touching is certain
to induce

Will they ever be smothered?
Will the energy between us dissipate
in the cataclysmic cacophony
of our lips, bursting
into a melody so
harmonious it seems
to be created by the gods?

(e.l.)

some People ((the lucky
ones)) find it easy to
meet new people.
They enter a room glowing
with confidence and a smile
that never seems to falter.
Their aura draws all to Their side,
creating bonds which will last
until Their popularity dies.

I on the other hand
simply cannot
meet new people.
I halt before a closed door,
Their noises quieter
than the Dragon
I have become,
the breath puffing
from my nose as smoke.

strange how I would choose this metaphor
of Adira, a warrior unafraid to
conquer her foes,
when I cannot face mine.

Adira is who I strive to be,
the animal I know sits
beneath my thumping heart
and still can't reach. she
is the fire and ice within
my soul, igniting courage
to know what I fear.

It takes our combined strength
to open the closed door
ahead of me before
I can panic.

The GOOD way to spend your summer (besides eating)

I've had a list going for quite some time...here's a few off of my list ('few' being a very, very loose term):

1. The Elite by Kiera Cass: Sequel to the Selection. I've read mixed reviews (even though it came out like a week ago?) so I want my own opinions
2. Eleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell: Waaah I want to read this so badly. I'm taking John Green's advice and reading it. Let's hope it's good!
3. Atonement by Ian McEwan: I've been carrying this book around in my backpack for three months and just haven't had time to read it (I really want to watch the movie but book before movie!)
4. Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn: I stole this from my English teacher two months ago and haven't given it back yet (SORRY) so I should probs read it.
5. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen: okay this probably doesn't count because I've read it like four times in the past year, but I want to read it again. ahha.
6. Persuasion by Jane Austen: AN AUSTEN I'VE YET TO READ. It's tragic, really.
7. The Life of Pi by Yann Martel: 'Nough said.
8. The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien: It's been years since I've last read this.
9. Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling: It's been almost two years since I've read all of these books and now I'm going to college so I have to read them over again???
10. Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger: I never had to read this for school which is extremely unfortunate considering how much I've wanted to
11. Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi: Yay for dystopian!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
12. Under the Never Sky by Veronica Rossi: MORE DYSTOPIAN!
13. The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood: My mom told me years ago to read this and I've ignored her. It looks amazing, though, so yes. Reading it.
14. A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin: I know. I haven't read them and I'm watching the show. Don't judge me.
15. Pure by Julianna Baggott: I just found this on goodreads earlier and GOOD LORD DO I WANT TO READ IT. Everyone says the world building is excellent (my pet peeve with dystopian novels) and it's slightly disturbing. My cup of tea!
16. Throne of Glass by Sarah J. Maas: Kind of wary of this. There are a lot of reviews on goodreads which is a good sign, but the last time I read about a 'strong' female lead, she ended up disappointing me immensely (cough Defiance cough)
17. Eon by Alison Goodman: Hannah Zimmerman read this when it came out and recommended it to me and NOW I'm going to read it. Finally. 
18. None of the novels by Cassandra Clare because I just really don't like her writing/books/reused ideas (see post)

Fireflies

It's funny, how the fireflies call to each other,
Flashing flickers of lights which dance
Through the sky as miniature stars.
They need not the words we humans
Find needed. If I were to invite
Your flame, would you fly to me? Or would I
Float among those twinkles of light,
Tangoing through the trees of twilight?
     I call. You answer.
No words are heard, just the harmonies
Of hearts ascending into heaven.

How to Survive AP Lit

1. Exercise your eye muscles at least twice every day. Otherwise you'll probably die.
2. Also, hand muscles. We do a lot a writing in that class (In a literature class? No freaking way)
3. Get used to a constant stream of poetry invading your brain
4. Caffeine all day er'r day
5. Avoid sparknotes at all costs
6. Don't fall asleep in class unless you want to write about it
7. Practice fake crying to get out of everything
8. Pretend you've been writing your essay for months when really all you have is a blank document (it works)
9. Hide your food in your backpack
10. Read like it's nobody's business.

I still don't know how to pronounce vermouth??

I find, no matter how much work I have to do, I always have time to write creatively. Even now, when I'm in the process of three research papers and final projects, I create time to write. (Procrastination? Of course. But it's good procrastination. I'm still writing, I'm just not writing what I'm supposed to. See? Good procrastination. Not killing my brain cells.)

Anyway, I'm in the middle of writing a short story in a slightly different voice than I'm used to (seriously it's like killing me) and definitely from a different point of view. I figured, why not show you? So this is a small excerpt (seriously. a tiny one.) for you all to read. I hope you enjoy it:)

The old guy, a man named Joe who couldn’t have been any older than that ancient tabby cat you found, winked at me when I entered. We’d become good friends, Joe and I. I’m not saying we ever braided each other’s hair or gossiped about the new edition of vogue, but people grow closer after wiping down a bar covered in barf. After all, it’s not every day you can get up-close and personal with the contents of someone’s stomach. That adds another dimension of trust issues.

So, Joe saw me walk in, the same as I had for the past two months. Every Tuesday afternoon at two o’clock you’d trudge through the heavy door, splaying the bright light across the cement, make your way to the bar where no one sat (because honestly who gets drunk at two in the afternoon?), and demand a Manhattan—1 ½ part Jack Daniels, ½ part sweet vermouth, and a dash of bitters, served straight up with an extra cherry. And, predictably, I would come in at nine after getting a call from my buddy Joe to rescue you from yourself.

This time, the glass in front of you was short, fat, and mysteriously clear. Vodka? Not really your style.

“How has he been today, Joe?” My question seemed to amuse Joe, who chuckled at me.  Joe never missed an opportunity to laugh, and with good reason. His monster shoulders shook, his mouth fell open without care as his booming laughter filled the room. An involuntary smile crept over my face, Joe’s infectious nature overcoming any sense of gloom I’d been feeling. Joe had the effect on everyone—everyone, of course, except you.

So Darcy and Lizzie finally admitted their feelings to each other on LBD..........................

I can't breathe.

LBD

If you haven't seen these videos yet, then shame on you. They're almost over (will be complete by the end of the month) so you need to watch them!! They're a modern-day version of Pride and Prejudice and, trust me, it's worth the hours you'll spend watching them. They're marvelously written and produced (by Hank Green so it has to be good, js), and the actors bring something...different to the characters.

There's the first episode, and you can watch the whole playlist here.

Once they finish, I'll be posting all of my reactions. Just a warning:)

Wanting to Die (and no, I don't mean me)

Look who's back already it's not John Green, sorry to disappoint. Back with even more Anne Sexton (see, I told you I've been obsessed. I can't tear myself away).

Like I said in my previous blog post, Anne Sexton was troubled with mental and emotional disorders that influenced much of her writing. As I read through many ('many' meaning like 2830923) of her poems, I noticed a few common themes running through them: the constant struggle between living and dying; how to be a mother; society's view on women; and, a feeling of alienation. It's no surprise that these themes appear--honestly, I believe that Sexton always felt lonely.

There's a difference between being alone and being lonely. Alone means to be separated or removed from others, while lonely means destitute of sympathetic or friendly companionship. Alone occurs while you're on your own, but lonely can occur when you're in the midst of people. Imagine being a group of loved ones. If you were lonely, you would not feel the love and support they could give you, and the depression within you would multiply. To me, being alone means you can still find comfort in other people; you just prefer not to. Lonely is a state of complete hopelessness.

Sexton had a few friends--her therapist, Maxine Kumin, and Sylvia Plath, among others--that could comfort her while they were with her. Otherwise, Sexton was left with her abusive husband and the two girls she didn't know how to parent. Would one not feel lonely in this situation? As part of her therapy, Anne would write about her feelings. One of (what I believe to be) her most vivid poems, "Wanting to Die," traces this feeling of alienation to the extreme--the urge to commit suicide.

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

 But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

 To thrust all that life under your tongue!-
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

Holy poop nuggets, Batman!

After reading the poem, how do you feel? Like suicide is something beautiful? Because that's almost what the speaker believes, as well. The speaker calls suicide an "unnameable lust" and a "passion." She twice attempted to end her life, and twice failed--maybe the third time's the charm. She attempted so many times before the final ending. Maybe this indicates an addiction to suicide? Not necessarily completely ending one's life, but may to the sense of release and relief it brings?

Just like "the Starry Night," there is plenty of imagery in this poem. The personification of suicide, or death, as an enemy that can be eaten is so freaking awesome. Also, stanza three about the builders? Brilliant. I especially love the last images the reader is given--a page of a book left lying open, the phone off the hook, the love turned to an infection. The placement of "something unsaid" is peculiar, now that I think about it. It could either apply to the line before hand (a unread page left open), the phrase following it (a phone off the hook, like no contact can be made), or stand on its own. If it was placed in a different spot, would there be a new meaning?

I don't really want to over-analyze anything. I'm one of those believers that once you analyze a poem too much, it loses its meaning. So I'll leave you here to mull over what you think the poem means, and I'll sit from my computer screen and probably cry. (Honestly though, if I keep reading this much Sexton, I'm just going to keel over one day. There's only so much a girl can take.)

Until next time, darlings!

The Starry Night

I haven't written in a while (seriously, more than a month? How did I let that happen?) since I've been super duper busy (no but really I've barely been home) so first let me tell you: It's great to see you! Not that I can actually see you, but you understand my point. How have you been? I want to hear all about your past few weeks!

So in the midst of all my rehearsals and papers, I've had the opportunity to read poems by Anne Sexton. If you've never heard of her or read her work, do it...just prepare yourself with food that makes you feel happy. She's pretty intense (and that's an understatement). 

Anne Sexton was born in the late 1920s up in Massachusetts. She went through high school and some of college before she eloped with a man who would later abuse her. The birth of her daughters as well as her modeling job led her to become extremely depressed, and her first attempt at suicide was in 1955. After a few more attempts, she succeeded in ending her life in 1972. Joyful, isn't it? But of course, the best poets always have some deep, secret past which leads them to write some of the most amazing poetry. Anne was no different.

Her poetry started as a form of therapy--her therapist recommended she write about what bothered her throughout the day. This has been common practice for many years and, as a student of this myself, it really does help. In Anne's case, it allowed her release her frustrations, worries, and desperation. Without this outlet, she most likely would have succeeded in killing herself years earlier. 

Anne is often referred to as a confessional poet, a poet whose work is autobiographical and focuses on taboo topics such as abortion, masturbation, and suicide. Other confessional poets were Sylvia Plath (a friend of Anne's), Robert Lowell, and Allen Ginsberg, and Anne is frequently ranked among them. This can be deceiving, however, as Anne said she did not necessarily write about her own life, All of her poems do have an air of truth about them. One of my favourite poems by Anne is "The Starry Night," and, even though I'll probably ramble on for four thousand words, I'll tell you why.

I've always been a fan of mixing genres of art together, and one of the best ways to do this is through ekphrastic poetry, poetry that focuses on the emotional and physical responses to another work of art. "The Starry Night" is, quite obviously, a response to Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night. Van Gogh is probably my favourite painter because of his remarkable ability to translate the hell he lived in to the canvas. Sexton was another artist with that ability, and the combination of both definitely leads to interesting reactions!

The poem begins with an epigraph (like a preface, but usually a quote) by Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother. The epigraph, pasted below, relates art to religion. In a way, Sexton used this idea in all of her writing, frequently bringing up themes like religion. 

That does not keep me from having a terrible need of—shall I say the word—religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.

While Van Gogh was painting Starry Night, he was in a mental institution. Throughout his life until his suicide, he suffered from bipolar disorder and depression. The chaos of his life was often reflected in his work, but in a beautiful way. Starry Night is no exception. The mixing of colours, especially blues and yellows, reveals the beauty Van Gogh was able to capture in a universe so much bigger than anyone expected. He did not see the black of the sky, but instead different blues that swirled into a complex, magical mass created by nature. Sexton was able to do this through her writing, as well.

Here's a copy of the poem for you. Don't read my analysis right after you finish the poem. Just sit, let it sink in for a bit, and then maybe read it again. Sometimes Sexton is best with your own response.

The town does not exist 

except where one black-haired tree slips 

up like a drowned woman into the hot sky. 

The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. 

Oh starry starry night! This is how 

I want to die. 

It moves. They are all alive. 

Even the moon bulges in its orange irons 

to push children, like a god, from its eye. 

The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars. 

Oh starry starry night! This is how

I want to die: 

into that rushing beast of the night, 

sucked up by that great dragon, to split 

from my life with no flag, 

no belly, 

no cry.

Intense, no? Take a breather if you have to (maybe eat some food. That always helps.).

What struck me most in this poem (beside the Van Gogh thing) was the personification and imagery. "Black-haired tree," "drowned woman," and the concept of the stars being alive make me squirm. And "The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars;" talk about chills! That alliteration combined with the image of darkness engulfing the stars gets me every time. 

And the refrain. Wow. Okay, Sexton. Tell us how you really feel, because both the diction and the link break don't make it obvious at all...

But can you imagine how she feels, looking up at the marvelous universe in front of her and not being able to join it? To be stuck on earth in a living human form when an afterlife in the stars sounds so much more enticing? Wouldn't it be easier to just leave the painful life she lives and join them?

I doubt there's a time anyone has not felt like this. Gazing up at the sky, how could you not? The universe is so vast and complex, and you're just a tiny human on a tiny planet in a tiny galaxy in a gargantuan universe. The insignificant feeling is unavoidable. Sexton creates a world to which it is easy to relate, as many people have felt the way the speaker does in this poem.

I think that's one of the reasons why I love Anne Sexton as much as I do--not because I've been reading her nonstop for the past two months (which I have been), not because she was a master at her art (which she was), but because she was able to write about her hellish life and still draw readers in. Each person takes something different away when they read a poem for the first time. The fact that Sexton could be so autobiographical and yet allow the reader to feel as if it is their own life is astounding. I only wish I could have that talent one day.