Calendars

Decisions were made, actions were taken, and I now have a new poetry thread! I feel that the title is appropriate not only because it is the title of one of my poems, but because when I look back on my writing, it serves as a documentation of times past, as well as all of the people and situations that went along with them.

I suppose I'll begin by posting a few of my poems from last summer that I believe began my batch of "new" writing. If I get any positive feedback, I'll post the rest of this batch, as well as the ones from this year. As always, everything, old and new, can be found at www.fictionpress.com/~natosha.

---

Calendars

It was a week ago on your front porch,
As we sat under the moon
It was saying,
“Be a man just hold her hand-
something’s got to happen soon”
Because my eyes were wide but my
heart was tired as I waited for that kiss
But again you would betray and leave
sweet nothing on my lips

Five years and counting, and it’s growing old
even though I love you still
But love can’t
learn to play or sing when it’s being
held against its will
Because with fingers crossed and eyes kept tight,
saved for the morning sun
These lonely nights would be in vain to see
the morning never come

Ignored the two week timeframe for the ice to melt,
for you to get out that guitar
You were singing
your secrets in rhyme, hidden behind a
smile in the dark
Because that kiss was as a single chord that
we could build into a song
And the notes we played were beautiful
While our timing was all wrong


A Brand of Begging, Roadside

I smiled as you offered to accompany me inside,
but the narrow stairway granted us no space to look behind
And as I looked to you for answers you would only hide your eyes
I was blind to your intentions; you were blind to compromise

If I could write an honest line to match your every chord,
these nights of subtle consequence would culminate in more
than my failed attempts to sway you with these brief, constricted words
and fragments of a confession lying forgotten on your floor

I marked your map up for you, took the compass off the shelf
Couldn’t find the will to tell you you’d be searching for yourself
You left without ‘goodbyes’ and started driving towards the coast
But for all your good intentions, your horizon was a ghost

In mercy after just one hour, I called you to come back
on grounds that, with every mile, you were slipping more off track
You returned to where you’d left me, insisted you’d take me home
So we weathered the miles in silence, together yet alone

Before we’d crossed one stateline, you stopped and turned to me to ask
why I’d filled my calendars with false recollections of the past
With your eyes upon me it was hell to find the words to say
But, “I write these lines with hope that I might call them true someday”

The sun waking behind us urged us down the empty roads
And while neither one of us has ever done just what we’re told
It’s something that stands firmer with every moment of each day
If you won’t tell me that you want me, I can’t give myself away


Your Philosophy on Fear (The River)

Hand in hand, we walked along the river
Hesitant, you led us to the water’s edge
And although the path we’d followed still was calling,
you suggested that we rest a while instead

So gently, you pulled me into the shallows,
where we stood to talk and cool our eager feet
The sunlight throwing sparks off of the water,
though I could hardly see the beauty for the heat

But gradually, the day cooled into evening
And as darkness fell, I urged that we should go
I was all too eager for our destination,
and you found it in your heart to tell me “no”

You told me that it’s best we test the water
before following the river to its source
But I wondered, just how long may we linger
before the waters that we dwell in change their course?

You assumed it as the ebb and flow of nature,
that what should be will always eventually be
And in our human frailty, we cannot change that
But only cherish every brief, fleeting reprieve

And then, with a sudden smile, you surprised me
as you made your way back out onto the sand
It was an obvious gesture of your decision
And so we walked along the river, hand in hand

Wow!

Truly fantastic writing. Very deep, emotional, yet simple, and easy to identify with. I'm not a fan of poetry in general, but these are the makings of masterpieces! Beautiful.

I look forward to reading more, and best of luck with that award.

This could all pass easily as songs or poetry, and it's rather maddening to think a band hasn't used these lines by now! I think that if the world has any sanity, you should be getting calls to replace some of the blargh-worthy junk that passes for lyricism nowadays. Keep it up.

Thank you very much, both of you. I guess I now have a reason to post more? ;D

So, here's the other half of that batch from last summer. Most of these are songs, as is made evident by the presence of refrains! ;D

"Failed Attempts at Trying" was heavily inspired by the writing of Conor Oberst of the band Bright Eyes. So yeah. Kinda melodramatic/emo.

---

The Stipulations of Breaking the Habit

There’s no one I’d rather be thinking of at
four o’ clock in the morning
This distance should serve as a warning,
but who are we to bend to sensibility?

Six months and you’re still waiting for a sign
Well could you call me painted?
I’ve been alone and I’ve waited for
someone to find the courage not to leave

And you’ve tried to pull it together
for the rest of the world to see
but your eyes shine a different color
when you look at me

My motivations only complicate at best
but these shaking hands won’t fail and falter like the rest
Before this season’s dead and buried under your window
I’ll remedy these lies
and you’ll learn to let her go

The fight to fall asleep without you is
much easier said than done
and as I’m lying on the front
I know this battle can’t be won

And this clock is doing all my counting for me,
adding up the reasons why
you and I could never be, but it’s
getting late and I’m growing tired of its efficient honesty

And you’ve tried to pull it together
for the rest of the world to see
but your eyes shine a different color
when you look at me

My motivations only complicate at best
but these shaking hands won’t fail and falter like the rest
Before this season’s dead and buried under your window
I’ll remedy these lies
and you’ll learn to let her go


The Beauty This Side of the Line

Shied away from the light on my face
and every opportunity
to hold this diamond to the sun
and weigh the possibilities

If there’s no pity in this place,
I’ll scratch a line and turn the page
This may be obvious to you but
it’s not obvious to me

And there’s no theme,
just these slow and steady chords
to my pipe dream
accented by a loss for words
And it may seem
That you’ve heard this all before
If you haven’t yet considered
either side of wanting more

I’m accustomed and you know it
Letting go in verse and crawling back
time and again to the comfort of refrain
It’s a bittersweet relief,
Nothing better, nothing worse than
spilling your heart out
only to find out
in the end that nothing’s changed

It’s a risk that’s not worth taking
I’d rather lie alone forever
than freefall without knowing how you feel
Because I’m losing hope in the notion
of anything that I’ve ever told you,
and in anything that I could ever feel

And there’s no theme,
just these slow and steady chords
to my pipe dream
accented by a loss for words
And it may seem
That you’ve heard this all before
If you haven’t yet considered
either side of wanting more


How to Win at Hard to Get: Never Be Had

8 AM on a Sunday,
favoring a shower over churches on TV
Vaguely, the thought reminds me
Of a good friend’s recognition that I won’t be there to see
And a call I hope that I never receive

Don’t hesitate to keep me waiting
I don’t want you anymore
No, please don’t come over, darling
It’s not you I’m crying over

And don’t worry me with your apologies
I think I’ve had worse but I’m not quite sure
Don’t flatter me with broken honesty
No, I won’t reply just to fuel your lies

8 PM on a Sunday,
feel the pressure being lifted by your failure to comply
Breathe in for another Monday
And pack up all my courage just to look you in the eyes
And half hope that you’ll see through every lie

Don’t hesitate to keep me waiting
I don’t want you anymore
No, please don’t come over, darling
It’s not you I’m crying over


Failed Attempts at Trying

There are days when I feel I’m not even alive
Just a ghost to the world as it passes me by
And I wear myself out just trying not to cry
But the tears in my eyes
Are the only things warming my skin

Once I asked if you’d save me from this perishing town
Would you scale crippled buildings?
Would you carry me down?
You said, “You know it’s a feat for me to just get around,
but I’d try”
Oh, I’d try

And it falls short of a confessional
On this cold, hard bathroom floor
And it seems no place for penitence
With my back against the door
But you’d follow me in and you’d
Lay out my sins and you’d say,
“Whatcha cryin’ for? We’ve all got it bad”
And I just couldn’t take that
No, I can’t take anymore

I very much enjoy your style. It's kind of different, but in the "omg I'm soooo unique!" way that most poets strive for. It doesn't go out of its way, in other words. It's just original in its own sense. I love that, though I don't think I did a good job of explaining it.

I like how there's a subtlety to the emotions in your writing, which makes it more poignant than something written to be powerful, I reckon. Each song or poem draws me in, and I feel like I'm standing in the middle of the piece, especially for Your Philosophy on Fear (The River). I read some of the ones on FictionPress as well. Will you be posting any new writing?

Originally Posted by sugar

...when I look back on my writing, it serves as a documentation of times past, as well as all of the people and situations that went along with them.

One of the things I love about writing.

First of all, I'd very much like to thank whichever moderator was kind enough to move this thread into the Showcase. I'm flattered.

Originally Posted by Andy

I very much enjoy your style. It's kind of different, but in the "omg I'm soooo unique!" way that most poets strive for. It doesn't go out of its way, in other words. It's just original in its own sense. I love that, though I don't think I did a good job of explaining it.

Thanks, Andy! Don't worry, I understand what you're saying, and I'm definitely glad you feel that way. I'm always hoping that my writing doesn't just blend in with all the rest of the poetry out there.

Originally Posted by Tiare

I like how there's a subtlety to the emotions in your writing, which makes it more poignant than something written to be powerful, I reckon. Each song or poem draws me in, and I feel like I'm standing in the middle of the piece, especially for Your Philosophy on Fear (The River). I read some of the ones on FictionPress as well. Will you be posting any new writing?

Thank you very much! I rarely ever attempt to make any huge, controversial statements with my writing. : P Rather, I just try to capture certain familiar situations and feelings in (what I hope is) a unique way. So, the fact that you feel like you're drawn into the middle of the piece is a wonderful compliment.

And to answer your question, yes, I will be posting some new(er) writing. This next batch will contain everything that I've written so far this year. It's not as much as I'd like to have written, but I'll just have to get on that.

---


365 over 2

I’ll take these six months, empty, wasted,
Void of meaning or production
And document them here

I’ll take six months and string along a narrative
of fantasy and fiction
of hesitance and fear

I’ll take six months that never were and hold them
In the palm of my outstretched hand
I’ll observe their insignificance

For how could six months, undocumented
Unworthy of speech or remembrance
Be worth one breath today?

How could six months that in their course meant nothing
Now mean everything and
Force you to your knees?

For looking back, six months passed so quickly
Looking back, they are there but out of reach
Like the feather floating wistfully away

And what you’ve learned in those six months is of no value
Until you find yourself grasping at a memory
Longing for empty vessels of the past

And so I’ll take this these months, empty, wasted
Void of meaning or production
And document them here.


Skin Shallow

You tell me that I’m beautiful
and leave me waiting
To prove the notion right or wrong,
to succeed or fail
with no subsequent knowledge of my accomplishments

You tell me that I’m beautiful
then serenade me with silence
and leave me to question your motives
your meaning and intent
and to wonder if it wasn’t all imagined

You tell me that I’m beautiful
but the roses on my doorstep must have vanished in the night
Because I’ve no token, physical or otherwise, of your affections
save for your empty repetition

You tell me that I’m beautiful
and that is all you say
in various forms
equal in rhyme and rhythm, prose and verse
left to linger in the air with neither introduction nor closure

You tell me that I’m beautiful
and perhaps I take it for granted
or exaggerate, or miss your point entirely, because
Three small words may hold quite some bearing
when arranged accordingly,
But:

You tell me that I’m beautiful
then retrace your footsteps out of this dark room
and casually close the door
You do not lead me gently by the hand
or call for me to follow
You leave me there alone.


Delay, Despise, Destruct

You were never quite a constant
And I never quite completely fell
I only lingered, waiting, wishing
But you knew me all too well
And to sever ties so eagerly was to
Understate my worth but maybe
We were driven from each other
Just as the force that spins the earth
Brought us together on a Monday
Turned around and saw you there and
Hoped that this time I’d forget and
Become hopelessly ensnared
But I’m hesitant by nature and you’re
Distant to a fault, and so each
Small step that you took towards me
Had no permanent result because
I took your every movement with a
Single grain of salt,

held in my hand to
Measure intent and just how far you’d try to go
Before you realized that my honesty wasn’t
Something to be shown until you’d
Invested too much dignity
Too much trust and too much time
Until your heart between my fingers was a
Wager on the line of a brief prospective romance,
Never really to exist, something you knew far before
I did, and the signal that I missed was my own
Fear at trading all my opportunity for this:

A daytime drama played out with cheap
Cameras and no script, and so looking back
We just can’t find the part that we may have missed
But I’d suppose there was no dialogue, that
You just passed me by because your heart and pride
Were broken and the stakes were much to high for you
To grow up and grow out of your false intelligence
Your whole demeanor is a lie, you’re a breathing overstatement

Of emotion so profound it might just be nonexistent

And so you don’t answer when I call,
Try to back me up against a wall
But I’d checked out before you were able to
Leave your mark on me at all.

Mmmm, skin shallow. I really love that poem quite a bit. The first time I read it really caught my attention as to how well you could write.

Well done indeed!

These would make good songs. I can hear the music as I read them.

Needs moar poetry.

I really like the simplicity and depth of365 over 2. Delay, Despise, Destruct felt like a story, and was very enjoyable to read. And Skin Shallow offered an interesting perspective. All in all, very beautiful poems, as always!

Originally Posted by Andy

Mmmm, skin shallow. I really love that poem quite a bit. The first time I read it really caught my attention as to how well you could write.

Well done indeed!

Thank you, my dear.

Originally Posted by GoldStud

These would make good songs. I can hear the music as I read them.

I actually started out writing songs, and still do. I also sometimes write poetry that corresponds to a certain melody in my head but might not necessary be structured like a song, so, awesome. :]

Originally Posted by Andy

Needs moar poetry.

I'm waiting for inspiration. :/

Originally Posted by Tiare

I really like the simplicity and depth of365 over 2. Delay, Despise, Destruct felt like a story, and was very enjoyable to read. And Skin Shallow offered an interesting perspective. All in all, very beautiful poems, as always!

Thank you very much!

Hopefully I'll have some new writing to post here within the next week or so.

Well, Billy Joel advises that it's always best to write music first, and then lyrics to match them at a later time, otherwise you're trying to make your music fit your words and it ends up sounding awkward of weird. I mean, some artists could do it well, but he never really could. That might be some useful advice. It makes sense when you think about it.

Well, I don't usually write music as it is. If music is involved, it's typically just a melody playing in my head as I'm writing whatever I'm writing.

Good advice, though. :]

I am way out of practice, but I guess I have to (re)start somewhere.

Untitled (11/28/09)

Honestly a dream come true,
arms and legs entangled
a mess of sheer perfection,
and all I want to know:

is your breath warm on my neck,
almost erotic in sensation
fingertips test bare skin and
your soft lips graze my own

Don't forget for a moment
how deeply you possess me,
once borrowed, dropped and broken
but now completely sold

And as it is, you'll always have me
enamored by your every gesture,
and no act of nature, god or man
could ever break this hold

I love how you give inanimate objects their own verbs, almost personifying them. I also love how you substitute a verb that you'd normally see in a certain situation with something that seems so foreign but fits so well.

That's all. This poem sounds very... sexual. In a good way, of course. Focusing more on the "love" part of "making love." x3

My AP Comp & Lit teacher has been forcing me to write poetry.

Well, okay. She's been forcing the entire class to write poetry. But still.

---

Champion of What?

I suppose you're expecting a round of applause
now that you've broken your old record.
It's barely noon and the entire room
has already faded to a blur.

And you're eager to report this
from the bottom of the bottle-
To all your friends you've word to send
of your newly proven worth.

Your most notable feat- it's still daylight
and one would venture that it might
illuminate your sad state of affairs,
the familiar habit in which you've been ensnared,
walked into so willingly.
Or at least the day could shed some light
to allow for self reflection,
reveal a path in the direction
of your shame.
Or have you drowned that, too?

But it's wrong of me to place all blame on you
when we're in the midst of a national epidemic
of those like you, young and willing to trust
the photographs that remember for you, detail
events you cannot recall
As you ignore the emptiness in your stomach
and the writing on the wall.

---

The following are three possible responses to "This is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams. I encourage you to read the original poem before reading mine, in order to get the full effect!

This Is Just to Say (with malice)

I have thrown
your best shirts
from the window
of the second
story –
Kindly collect them from
our lawn and
Forgive me-
We are both careless, selfish,
and I
was really looking forward to those plums

This Is Just to Say (with regret)

I have discovered
the lack
of plums in
the icebox.
Although
I wasn't really
saving
them for breakfast,
forgive me-
I won't be making your favorite
tonight-
plum pudding.

This Is Just to Say (serves you right)

I had forgotten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and had
been lying there
unnoticed
for quite some time (perhaps too long).
Forgive me-
I didn't think
that you
would eat them (good thing you did).

---

Hope is a Bird Not Yet Flying

We held it up in outstretched, exalting hands
All the closer to the sun to watch it glow,
a beacon coaxing us down a road paved with thorns

We held it up, so certain that it would fly,
this bird, this tiny thing
For isn't that what birds are meant to do?

We held it up until our time had been exhausted
Until its purpose had been served, but had yet to be solidified
And so:

We let it go.

And I watched as it fell, falling, failing
Gracing the ground with a sound like windows breaking
Shattering over shaking
the very foundation of the lives we had built around it,
of the hope that we had lost

For hope is a bird not yet flying.

---

Shakespearian sonnet. Or an attempt at one:

In Hope of Forgiveness

The most gracious of sentiments are such
That when the moment comes to prove them true
Their sanctity, it proves to be too much
That we appear too flawed to follow through.
Apologies are of this biter breed
Which, when called upon, tend to betray
Each inner longing, each professed need
And under every darkest surface lay.
One's bones ache for the necessary act
Which remedies all ailments kept inside
Yet we are bound by some enduring pact
To silence, to our cause and to our pride.
But if we are content to idly wait
Our truth will fade as the hour strikes- too late.

---

On Arguments

These things
that are important to you
are not important to me.
But you are important to me.

Yes, somehow,
bridging a rift of misunderstanding,
of incompatibility,
a connection has been made.

Because this
is just one dayhourmoment
of miniscule imperfection,
exaggerated, isn't it? Because

every other
day is flawless
every other day is clear and if
it never rained, the sun would never
(truly)
shine.

---

Waiting

I am familiar with the flower's plight,
to hope for rain to cool the skin
to pray for spring to renew, give life-
A rebirth ever-imminent
which washes over, cleanses
to reveal a being clean and new
dependable as passing seasons
whispering its subtle truth.

I am familiar with the flower's plight
to trust relief to come again
But to receive this grace
one day too late-
To wither just before the rain.

I gotta say, loving the poetry as it rolls in. I feel stagnant by comparison. XD But ironically, I also feel a little inspired. And yes, this is Shade.

Originally Posted by GoldStud

These would make good songs. I can hear the music as I read them.

Agreed, Stud. i can hear music while reading these, but it's just guitar and a quiet drum-line, no bass...

Hmm....

Kepe up the good work, Sugar!

Prelude

I can't sleep, or
don't want to. you see,
I'm afraid that your absence will
pry open shades of slumber and
spark the realization
that you
mean much more to me
than I ever intended,
much more to me than I
(will ever)
mean to
you.


Reason to Your Why

I closed those folded pages
on everything you ever gave me -
I guess I thought I'd never
have to write again
;and maybe that's where we went wrong.

I never had to -
jot down grievances, lament any season of discontent
that black ink, poison on the page,
capped tightly in its well

But my red ink -
well maybe it bled dry.
Maybe, wasted in the recklessness
of my warmest November
it was spent.

So I'll ask you again -
is contentedness indifference?
and now tell me -
the absence
not opposite
of love.


Solution, Remainder

don't take it personally, i'm just
exchanging variables
like my life is some equation
and the numbers just don't matter,
trying to find where you fit in

stealing formulas from the geniuses, prodigies
of the gymnasium dance floor
who've loved and lost and love to lose,
would lose it all to love again

well I'd lose it all to love again
just give me time to solve this problem
scratch out answers in the sand while waves
wander towards the shoreline, whisper
"we'll worry tomorrow."