A few haiku's, inspired by a cruel and unusual English class, in which we were "encouraged" to go outside in the untrodden snow, accompanied with the low temperature, ranging somewhere in the negative double digits...
So,without further ado, I present the fruits of my frozen labour. Enjoy :)
Caribbean views
Of the polluted black lake,
Stones see no evil.
Chemical cold drips
The icy blood of winter
So numbingly warm.
Appendages ache
Sonnet of shiv'ring bodies
Frostbite forever!
Murm'ring of suff'ring
Harsh waves of blue anti-freeze
Sing, chorus of cold!
Broken record thoughts
Cold has cracked the disc
I am obsolete.
Mourning loss of warmth
Such a low cold tolerance
C'est le froid méchant!
Abandoned vocals
Drifting audible memoirs:
Haunting, echoing.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A Ballad
Green-eyed Dreams and Nightmare Obscenities
Button green eyes that reflect all his lies,
Observing your life with no sound,
His plush-fabric skin tells of places he's been
And of ideas and thoughts so profound.
Such a small, wicked critter, his button's a-glitter
Gleams of evils his mind knows alone.
His creator, held dear, now only has fear
His believ-ed abstractions unknown.
Green plastic mirrors had never looked queerer
Than they did on this night around Nine
With malicious intent; the mind so hell-bent
A scheme that sent chills down the spine.
His plan so defined; and a misery so blind
That the creature leapt down with ease
And as twisted this seems; a nightmare without dreams
The buttons shone bright with disease.
The sick little brain did anything but strain
To put this diabolical plan into action.
Creeps on the floor, intending for gore
Button green eyes show but a fraction.
It isn't til Twelve that the creator did delve
Into this room so shadowed and grim
Olive-styled irises looked on so desirous
And crept: a silent phantom.
The creator however, was ever so clever
And recognized the madness long ago
But creator or not, had never given thought
That death would green eyes bestow.
Buttons and plush sprung out in a rush
And ran forward with teeth bared wide
The creator knocked down, and looking around
For a weapon, but not one did he spy.
CHOMP go pearly whites, gleam subtly in dim light
And tear and gnaw at the insides
The creator screams as he's ripped at the seams
As the plush arms poke, rip, and pry.
But the shrieks, they subside, and are now only cries
Of silent post-mortem tears
Cloth lips dance with laughter, at the hereafter
And at memories of sedentary years.
Now our button-eyed fiend licks his lips semi-clean
An obscure sense of illness anew
The message he said, this voiceless undead,
"I ate his brain, and I'll eat yours too!"
Button green eyes that reflect all his lies,
Observing your life with no sound,
His plush-fabric skin tells of places he's been
And of ideas and thoughts so profound.
Such a small, wicked critter, his button's a-glitter
Gleams of evils his mind knows alone.
His creator, held dear, now only has fear
His believ-ed abstractions unknown.
Green plastic mirrors had never looked queerer
Than they did on this night around Nine
With malicious intent; the mind so hell-bent
A scheme that sent chills down the spine.
His plan so defined; and a misery so blind
That the creature leapt down with ease
And as twisted this seems; a nightmare without dreams
The buttons shone bright with disease.
The sick little brain did anything but strain
To put this diabolical plan into action.
Creeps on the floor, intending for gore
Button green eyes show but a fraction.
It isn't til Twelve that the creator did delve
Into this room so shadowed and grim
Olive-styled irises looked on so desirous
And crept: a silent phantom.
The creator however, was ever so clever
And recognized the madness long ago
But creator or not, had never given thought
That death would green eyes bestow.
Buttons and plush sprung out in a rush
And ran forward with teeth bared wide
The creator knocked down, and looking around
For a weapon, but not one did he spy.
CHOMP go pearly whites, gleam subtly in dim light
And tear and gnaw at the insides
The creator screams as he's ripped at the seams
As the plush arms poke, rip, and pry.
But the shrieks, they subside, and are now only cries
Of silent post-mortem tears
Cloth lips dance with laughter, at the hereafter
And at memories of sedentary years.
Now our button-eyed fiend licks his lips semi-clean
An obscure sense of illness anew
The message he said, this voiceless undead,
"I ate his brain, and I'll eat yours too!"
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Here's a little poem, written in anapestic tetrameter.
Enjoy :)
On top of my head sits a warm wooly hat,
With cute ears and shape, that resembles a cat.
It keeps my head warm, from the cold and the snow,
Cute as a button, the best hat, I know.
I wear it outside, when the weather is chilled,
But when the sun comes on out, I will have it on still.
I love my cat hat, I will cherish it's warmth.
Because it's my cat hat, it belongs in my heart.
Enjoy :)
On top of my head sits a warm wooly hat,
With cute ears and shape, that resembles a cat.
It keeps my head warm, from the cold and the snow,
Cute as a button, the best hat, I know.
I wear it outside, when the weather is chilled,
But when the sun comes on out, I will have it on still.
I love my cat hat, I will cherish it's warmth.
Because it's my cat hat, it belongs in my heart.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Hero Accountant and the Mystery of the Canadian Identity
He shuffles to the desk,
Hesitant and shy,
Cranes his neck to see the man:
A sort of intimidating guy.
"Name, please." he spits
In a monotonous tone.
"Er… Smith" he replies,
Our hero's voice all alone.
"Occupation." he then asks
Behind the desk, mundane.
"Accountant..." says the hero
His nerve begins to feign.
"Country." he asks next,
This giant behind the booth.
"Err…Canada" is the reply,
His words a little bit uncouth.
"Canada?" he queries.
A puzzled look upon his face.
"Yes, Canada," he responds,
"You know… that northern, cold place."
"Hmm…" ponders the man,
Stroking his chin as well.
"I don't recall such a country,
The name doesn't ring a bell."
Our hero is surprised;
Hadn't heard of Canada before?
How could he describe it?
So he thought a little more.
"Well, for one," he began,
"A large land, it covers a great deal,
Forests, rivers, fields, and farms
Lakes and mountains...", his little spiel.
"Hmm…" said the man,
And thought about the words just said.
"Well, the landscape does sound nice
But of Canada, I have not read."
"Does it have a different style,
A unique culture, a tradition?
Tell me, son," he said, calmly,
"What makes you a Canadian?"
Our hero started, stopped
And was stumped with no reply.
What was it that made him Canadian?
A good answer, he could not supply.
Was it that beaver animal?
Small, yet strong and tough.
Was it the weather, food, trees, houses,
The cities and all that stuff?
A country of immigrants Canada was;
A real hodge-podge of folkways.
Our hero, an accountant, couldn't claim
That he had lived many unique days.
"Well, it doesn't sound important,
What, with no individuality and such.
I'd have to say Canada sounds like… well,
A boring place… yes, just a touch."
The man behind the desk frowns,
Disapproving of our hero.
"With no identity, son, your chance
Of getting in here, is zero."
The meek accountant sighs, shrugs
A bit of a pushover he was,
He turns to leave the waiting queue,
When suddenly, a pause,
"Canada does have an identity!
A special and unique one, at that!
We're a generally peaceful society, too
With little to no combat
We have a variety of regions,
Many different domains.
An assortment of landscapes, too
A diversity that is quite plain.
We're a medley of culture, sure
A grand combination of ways.
We're a mishmash of uniqueness
The most multicultural of today!
The gatekeeper, aghast,
Behind the booth, eyes wide.
"So what you mean to say is,
Your difference is your pride?"
"Yes," smiles the hero,
Happy his point got through.
The desk-man let the gates open,
And our hero walks through them,
A Canadian true.
Hesitant and shy,
Cranes his neck to see the man:
A sort of intimidating guy.
"Name, please." he spits
In a monotonous tone.
"Er… Smith" he replies,
Our hero's voice all alone.
"Occupation." he then asks
Behind the desk, mundane.
"Accountant..." says the hero
His nerve begins to feign.
"Country." he asks next,
This giant behind the booth.
"Err…Canada" is the reply,
His words a little bit uncouth.
"Canada?" he queries.
A puzzled look upon his face.
"Yes, Canada," he responds,
"You know… that northern, cold place."
"Hmm…" ponders the man,
Stroking his chin as well.
"I don't recall such a country,
The name doesn't ring a bell."
Our hero is surprised;
Hadn't heard of Canada before?
How could he describe it?
So he thought a little more.
"Well, for one," he began,
"A large land, it covers a great deal,
Forests, rivers, fields, and farms
Lakes and mountains...", his little spiel.
"Hmm…" said the man,
And thought about the words just said.
"Well, the landscape does sound nice
But of Canada, I have not read."
"Does it have a different style,
A unique culture, a tradition?
Tell me, son," he said, calmly,
"What makes you a Canadian?"
Our hero started, stopped
And was stumped with no reply.
What was it that made him Canadian?
A good answer, he could not supply.
Was it that beaver animal?
Small, yet strong and tough.
Was it the weather, food, trees, houses,
The cities and all that stuff?
A country of immigrants Canada was;
A real hodge-podge of folkways.
Our hero, an accountant, couldn't claim
That he had lived many unique days.
"Well, it doesn't sound important,
What, with no individuality and such.
I'd have to say Canada sounds like… well,
A boring place… yes, just a touch."
The man behind the desk frowns,
Disapproving of our hero.
"With no identity, son, your chance
Of getting in here, is zero."
The meek accountant sighs, shrugs
A bit of a pushover he was,
He turns to leave the waiting queue,
When suddenly, a pause,
"Canada does have an identity!
A special and unique one, at that!
We're a generally peaceful society, too
With little to no combat
We have a variety of regions,
Many different domains.
An assortment of landscapes, too
A diversity that is quite plain.
We're a medley of culture, sure
A grand combination of ways.
We're a mishmash of uniqueness
The most multicultural of today!
The gatekeeper, aghast,
Behind the booth, eyes wide.
"So what you mean to say is,
Your difference is your pride?"
"Yes," smiles the hero,
Happy his point got through.
The desk-man let the gates open,
And our hero walks through them,
A Canadian true.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
What Canada Means to ME
We were asked to write a poem about what Canada means to us, so I came up with this.
Enjoy :)
First thought: Cold.
The snow is pleasantly pretty, and sparkles with fantasies of towering snowmen,
Colossal forts gleam with an airy magnificence as they hide you and your strategic plans from view.
The stinging, gelid air torments the throat with reminders of icy wintertime,
For 3 months.
Stalactite-like icicles hang clear and drip with the honey-sweet words of Spring's promise,
Forming puddles alongside the rivers of melted snow; eager and rushing to continue on the cycle.
New boots, with the new smell of rubber and the gleam of freshly-bought, protect delicate toes from the frigid regions of the puddle.
Splash. All over your raincoat.
The rain and dissolving snow breathes with hope - at first.
Bleakness shuffles in with grey skies in tow, and misery loves company:
An invitation to the bird society was sent out, and now the party is in full swing.
Their raucous chorus greets ears with a message to wake up:
How welcome on a Monday morning.
Every morning.
Each bird song is a melodic interval towards the mild-mannered picnic days that lay ahead,
Singing of sunny days and warm clouds; sultry summers that will muffle all anxieties,
Fears will scurry away in bubbling creeks, yet to dry up in a drought-like heat.
After summer breeze-kissed smiles,
Humidity reigns supreme; nature's practical mind control.
But mellow days in the beach's sand soon follow, in lieu of the past harsh heat.
The Great Lakes lapping up the memories of footprints,
The beaches soon fade,
And the remarkable grand opening of Autumn takes place:
Shimmering curtains of multicoloured leaves drift to the ground, and lay down a welcoming mat for evening strolls.
The moon shines brighter now than ever.
Stars glitter through trees and the absence of leaves: they seem more multitudinous,
And their icy brilliance gifts the air with a crisp, refreshing feel of tranquility
Even accomplishment.
Stars glow brighter, bringing more briskness to the breeze; it breathes a foretelling of snow.
Chilled winds whisper these predictions in pink ears, and the murmurs spark ideas.
First thought: Cold.
Enjoy :)
First thought: Cold.
The snow is pleasantly pretty, and sparkles with fantasies of towering snowmen,
Colossal forts gleam with an airy magnificence as they hide you and your strategic plans from view.
The stinging, gelid air torments the throat with reminders of icy wintertime,
For 3 months.
Stalactite-like icicles hang clear and drip with the honey-sweet words of Spring's promise,
Forming puddles alongside the rivers of melted snow; eager and rushing to continue on the cycle.
New boots, with the new smell of rubber and the gleam of freshly-bought, protect delicate toes from the frigid regions of the puddle.
Splash. All over your raincoat.
The rain and dissolving snow breathes with hope - at first.
Bleakness shuffles in with grey skies in tow, and misery loves company:
An invitation to the bird society was sent out, and now the party is in full swing.
Their raucous chorus greets ears with a message to wake up:
How welcome on a Monday morning.
Every morning.
Each bird song is a melodic interval towards the mild-mannered picnic days that lay ahead,
Singing of sunny days and warm clouds; sultry summers that will muffle all anxieties,
Fears will scurry away in bubbling creeks, yet to dry up in a drought-like heat.
After summer breeze-kissed smiles,
Humidity reigns supreme; nature's practical mind control.
But mellow days in the beach's sand soon follow, in lieu of the past harsh heat.
The Great Lakes lapping up the memories of footprints,
The beaches soon fade,
And the remarkable grand opening of Autumn takes place:
Shimmering curtains of multicoloured leaves drift to the ground, and lay down a welcoming mat for evening strolls.
The moon shines brighter now than ever.
Stars glitter through trees and the absence of leaves: they seem more multitudinous,
And their icy brilliance gifts the air with a crisp, refreshing feel of tranquility
Even accomplishment.
Stars glow brighter, bringing more briskness to the breeze; it breathes a foretelling of snow.
Chilled winds whisper these predictions in pink ears, and the murmurs spark ideas.
First thought: Cold.
A Poem and a Reflection
Annie Louisa Walker (1836-1907)
The Night Cometh
1
Work! for the night is coming;
2
Work! through the morning hours;
3
Work! while the dew is sparkling;
4
Work! 'mid the springing flowers;
5
Work! while the day grows brighter,
6
Under the glowing sun;
7
Work! for the night is coming,--
8
Night, when man's work is done.
9
Work! for the night is coming;
10
Work! through the sunny noon;
11
Fill the bright hours with labour,
12
Rest cometh sure and soon.
13
Give to each flying minute
14
Something to keep in store;
15
Work! for the night is coming,--
16
Night, when man works no more.
17
Work! for the night is coming;
18
Under the sunset skies,
19
While their bright tints are glowing,
20
Work! for the daylight flies;
21
Work! till the last beam fadeth,
22
Fadeth to shine no more;
23
Work! while the night is darkening,--
24
Night, when man's work is o'er.
The idea that this poem is addressing is quite clear even in the first word: "Work!"
Taking the era that this was written in into consideration, "work" would have been of major concern: settlers, farmers, etc. would constantly be labouring and working in their fields to make a living.
However, Annie Louisa Walker portrays these hardships in a more creative and admirable light; using beautiful and more friendly imagery than one would usually associate with work, she brings a sense of the allure of nature, and the accomplishment that comes with a productive day.
Using an example of her optimism; "Work! While the dew is sparkling/ Work! 'mid the springing flowers;" (3-4), she shows how even working in the morning can be pleasant, if not demanding. Her usage of the exclamation marks show the need for steady labour, and demonstrates the hardy nature of Canadian farmers.
This poem is a great poetic illustration of life in an earlier Canada, and it elucidates the natural beauty of the landscape.
The Night Cometh
1
Work! for the night is coming;
2
Work! through the morning hours;
3
Work! while the dew is sparkling;
4
Work! 'mid the springing flowers;
5
Work! while the day grows brighter,
6
Under the glowing sun;
7
Work! for the night is coming,--
8
Night, when man's work is done.
9
Work! for the night is coming;
10
Work! through the sunny noon;
11
Fill the bright hours with labour,
12
Rest cometh sure and soon.
13
Give to each flying minute
14
Something to keep in store;
15
Work! for the night is coming,--
16
Night, when man works no more.
17
Work! for the night is coming;
18
Under the sunset skies,
19
While their bright tints are glowing,
20
Work! for the daylight flies;
21
Work! till the last beam fadeth,
22
Fadeth to shine no more;
23
Work! while the night is darkening,--
24
Night, when man's work is o'er.
The idea that this poem is addressing is quite clear even in the first word: "Work!"
Taking the era that this was written in into consideration, "work" would have been of major concern: settlers, farmers, etc. would constantly be labouring and working in their fields to make a living.
However, Annie Louisa Walker portrays these hardships in a more creative and admirable light; using beautiful and more friendly imagery than one would usually associate with work, she brings a sense of the allure of nature, and the accomplishment that comes with a productive day.
Using an example of her optimism; "Work! While the dew is sparkling/ Work! 'mid the springing flowers;" (3-4), she shows how even working in the morning can be pleasant, if not demanding. Her usage of the exclamation marks show the need for steady labour, and demonstrates the hardy nature of Canadian farmers.
This poem is a great poetic illustration of life in an earlier Canada, and it elucidates the natural beauty of the landscape.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
A School Assignment Before I've Even Written an Introduction? -gasp- OH MY!
"No one knows what causes an outer landscape to become an inner one."
These immortal words, leaked from the thoughts of Margaret Atwood, inspired our teacher to assign to us a journal entry, which was meant to have us dig deep into our understanding of our lives so far, and analyze how the "landscape" we've been exposed to all our lives has helped us become the established, special person we are today . When you think about it, this is actually quite a hefty chore. Do they really expect us to delve through our pasts and pick through every experience; every house we've lived in, every school we've attended, every memorable event that could have theoretically grabbed us by the shoulders, given us a good talking too, and sent us on our way to our own "uniqueness" and developed personalities? Well, maybe most think not much of it, and write a callow, trivial memorandum that'll get them a decent mark, but no considerable recognition. I aim to truly think back, and reflect, on how the landscape (what a vague word to use, by the way) of Canada and the areas I've lived in have affected my disposition and traits.
Well, for starters, I've lived in the same smallish city (relative to others) for my entire life. Sure, my dearest parents have fantasized about living in a grand farmhouse, out in Hicksville, but we've always managed to never live up to that dream. Burlington is my reality, and I'm quite satisfied with it. Perhaps, staying in the same location, never letting go of the sacred, familiar place I hold so dear, is a leading factor in why I cannot seem to let go of other objects and ideas; material and immaterial things alike.
I am a packrat: always have been, always will be.
I consider myself naïve, easy to sway, clingy, and too easily attached to people, even when I know that it will all end in tears.
I can't seem to shake off these appendages to my personality, no matter how many self-help blogs, books, and websites I read. Oh well, oh well, oh well.
However, even though I have always lived in Burlington, our homes have not always been of consistent caliber. My family is an excellent example of a rags-to-riches tale.
I'll skip the older family history, but my parents started out in a shack-of-a-house, then moved up to a smaller-sized (yet larger than the previous) abode, and then onto a larger one, and then the grandest of them all: our current home. This life of modest housing and the budget of the non-rich has given me the respect for money and work, not to mention an awareness of how much money is a lot.
Alas, my city life has influenced me with advertisements, messages, pictures, and words to enjoy indulging in the form of shopping; maybe, if I had lived in the country with my family as they had all wished for, the fields and forests and wide-open landscapes would have affected my mentality differently than the shiny stores and fancy houses that I saw every day. Maybe I'd be more "in-tune" with nature, and more content to be without material goods (even though I haven't as much greed as others).
But, that would be a totally different me; a radically altered Samm. And I'm content with who I am now; whether it was the lack of true Canadian landscape, or the colourful city culture that created me.
I believe that's enough of thoughts and rationalization for today. Toodles.
These immortal words, leaked from the thoughts of Margaret Atwood, inspired our teacher to assign to us a journal entry, which was meant to have us dig deep into our understanding of our lives so far, and analyze how the "landscape" we've been exposed to all our lives has helped us become the established, special person we are today . When you think about it, this is actually quite a hefty chore. Do they really expect us to delve through our pasts and pick through every experience; every house we've lived in, every school we've attended, every memorable event that could have theoretically grabbed us by the shoulders, given us a good talking too, and sent us on our way to our own "uniqueness" and developed personalities? Well, maybe most think not much of it, and write a callow, trivial memorandum that'll get them a decent mark, but no considerable recognition. I aim to truly think back, and reflect, on how the landscape (what a vague word to use, by the way) of Canada and the areas I've lived in have affected my disposition and traits.
Well, for starters, I've lived in the same smallish city (relative to others) for my entire life. Sure, my dearest parents have fantasized about living in a grand farmhouse, out in Hicksville, but we've always managed to never live up to that dream. Burlington is my reality, and I'm quite satisfied with it. Perhaps, staying in the same location, never letting go of the sacred, familiar place I hold so dear, is a leading factor in why I cannot seem to let go of other objects and ideas; material and immaterial things alike.
I am a packrat: always have been, always will be.
I consider myself naïve, easy to sway, clingy, and too easily attached to people, even when I know that it will all end in tears.
I can't seem to shake off these appendages to my personality, no matter how many self-help blogs, books, and websites I read. Oh well, oh well, oh well.
However, even though I have always lived in Burlington, our homes have not always been of consistent caliber. My family is an excellent example of a rags-to-riches tale.
I'll skip the older family history, but my parents started out in a shack-of-a-house, then moved up to a smaller-sized (yet larger than the previous) abode, and then onto a larger one, and then the grandest of them all: our current home. This life of modest housing and the budget of the non-rich has given me the respect for money and work, not to mention an awareness of how much money is a lot.
Alas, my city life has influenced me with advertisements, messages, pictures, and words to enjoy indulging in the form of shopping; maybe, if I had lived in the country with my family as they had all wished for, the fields and forests and wide-open landscapes would have affected my mentality differently than the shiny stores and fancy houses that I saw every day. Maybe I'd be more "in-tune" with nature, and more content to be without material goods (even though I haven't as much greed as others).
But, that would be a totally different me; a radically altered Samm. And I'm content with who I am now; whether it was the lack of true Canadian landscape, or the colourful city culture that created me.
I believe that's enough of thoughts and rationalization for today. Toodles.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)