Category Archives: poetry

Poetry Tuesday: Haiku Examination

A few years ago, when studying Japanese, my professor said something that stuck with me, and that I found profound. She said that the key to a good haiku was to use words to describe what you are talking about, without explicitly saying what it is you are writing about. Given that in high school creative writing, the whole exercise of Haiku took maybe 30 minutes, and you were graded well so long as you followed 5-7-5, this bit of information struck a chord with me. Instead of  “Winter is so very cold”, which seems a little simplistic, you can instead create a painting with the words “breath frosts before me”. Of course, this is a little bit more complicated when working in Japanese when you have just grasped the language, without grasping word play and idioms. In that respect, I’ve been trying to be a little less straight forward with this selection of five haiku.

 

(The Squirrel)

The watchful sentry,

Vigilantly does his task.

Waving his tail, he chatters.

 

(The Dandelion)

White crown grow en masse.

The winds come and dethrone them.

New kings soon will grow.

 

(Shooting Star)

Falling in darkness.

Glittering as a beacon,

Wishes come below.

 

(Harvest)

Wind rushes through blades,

They bow low to acknowledge

Golden fields await.

 

(Mountain Melt)

Trapped beneath the sun.

Running down the mountainside,

The buds awaken.

 

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Poetry Tuesday: March 21st

As yet untitled. This is a variation on a theme, perhaps influences from reading a lot of paranormal fiction, and just maybe a touch of manga. The idea of the separation between life and death, between the known and the unknown, between normal and paranormal, natural and supernatural.

Untitled: Variation of Regret and Memory

Staggering the pyramid of broken promises,

Reshaping the dreams of previous lives,

like sand.

They slip between the sleeping and the waking realms,

Unsure if they even ever existed.

Dashed hopes cast off upon a mountain of regret,

Good intentions spoiled for the sake of one more moment,

Caught in that perfect imagining,

The fades as mist after dawn.

From the shore they watch the world,

Sorrow wailing, and they pine

For what they can no longer reach.

Curled fingers of desire and longing come up empty in their desperate bid,

To leech another moment of warmth from their remembered scenes of life.

Caught in a state between one moment and the next,

Skirting on the edge of memories of those still drawing breath.

Slowly, with each longing sigh,

They draw others from that shore to them,

Claiming them to repeat the past one more.

-Megan

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Poetry Tuesday: Champion

Trying a little something different this week for Poetry Tuesday. This is a piece that i elaborated from a fragment that I found a few weeks ago when I was going through my old notebooks. As such, it does not totally fit the themes I have been going after, but I still kind of like what came out of the revisit the initial verse.

The Champion

 

“Come closer to my ear,”
The tortoise-shell cat grinned wide.
“I will tell you of things you cannot see,
Those that hide from plain sight.
In both the darkness and in light.”

His tail swept wide upon the floor,
To his nose he touched his brown boot paw.
“A mouse is what your fool eyes see,
All soft fur and sharp knowing teeth.”
His breath puffed out, he purrs beneath the hand.
“To me a mighty beast appears,
Strong tail lashing, bright scales clashing;
Fire brimming in its fearing eyes.
You see not as I.”

Imperiously he flares his tail,
Paws clasping at the carpet ground.
“And on a branch a bird you spy;
Look all fluff and feather.
But keener eyes than yours discern
The talons clutching desperately for flesh;
Its body twisting in a dive for food.
This mighty Griffen is my prey,
To keep my mistress safe.”

Mist green eyes follow all, his coat clean and smooth as silk.
“So call me beast when at your feet
I lay my hard-won conquest down.
But as Champion, forever at your call will my service be.”

-Megan

 

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Poetry Tuesday: Bared Bones

Bared Bones

 

Grave bons dropping dust,

Crossed at the old master’s feet.

Creaking and bleating their lonely cries.

Left with unrest in their defeat.

 

Dry bone, marrow turned to stone,

Tossed at the blind king’s throne,

No One left at the hearth,

No Sons to take them home.

 

Cold bones, wrapped in parchment flesh,

Shuddering in the darkness, in suspense.

Not a memory of theirs remains.

Yet, still these ones draw breath.

 

Hot bones bathed in red,

Upon the soaked bloody ground, abandoned.

No tomb for them but where they fall,

In a field so far from home.

 

-Megan

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Poetry Tuesday: Day Dreary

DAY DREARY

Watching the sun rise over the tired city trees.

Hot steam bringing life to walking dead dreams,

used to follow the current, subdued.

Left to rot.

Arrive on time,

Day.

Turn and press the button,

Month.

The same bleeds out the difference,

Quells the imaginary possibility.

The adventure is pushed into he broom closet,

Locked tight and covered in cobwebs behind

A disused mop bucket.

Flavourless tuna salad lunch.

Monday  is every day, repeating over.

Friday is just a Monday in sheep’s clothing,

Closing an leaving illusory promises

To re-assessing the dreams of adventure.

But Saturday dawns, yawning with a fake

Beatitude of hardship, a covered reality of a different

Kind of work disguised as breaking.

It too is just as routine,

As the sun rising over still tired trees in a half sleeping city.

Waiting for something to break the cover on the safety

Glass alarm of freedom.

A Dangerous gambit to destroy the safely systematic, routine, boring.

Life.

-Megan

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Mid-week non-maddess

Despite taking a day to recover from my Monday ordeal (well, not really an ordeal, more like a lengthy minor inconvenience), I don’t have much to offer today, save for a  picture and a poem. Also, I have to share that I will be sequestering myself away for the next week to week and a half, in order to finish the final round of revisions on my thesis. Yes, it’s true, I can see the light getting brighter. It’s my hope that once this round of revisions are complete, I will be moving forward to the defence and submission phases, which would mean that by the end of April, if all goes well, I will have a formal MA behind my name.

City Night- 2012 M. Negrych

City Night- 2012 M. Negrych

It is a starlit sky

To which I recount my deepest woes.

Distant and infinite,

It renders my problems to specks of Dust.

The arms which here do not embrace me,

Are filled with the light of galaxies.

Compared to the vast vacuum,

I am but a breath of time.

Night gives way to dawn,

The fire which warms the earth.

Like dew left on the grass,

My body evaporated as it always has.

M.

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Pre-Spring Haiku

HAIKU FOR A PRE-SPRING AFTERNOON

Spring brings its warm winds;

Water trickles downwards still.

Foundation, fuck you.

(Inspired by an afternoon of wet-dry vacuuming, toting  15-20 gallons of water up stairs at a time, frantically drying towels, and inventively making dams from half-soaked towels)

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Resurgence

I spend the majority of my time caught between research and writing; if a piece lacks footnotes and citations, I begin to feel guilty for working on it when I have so much other work to do. I am driven, but I also have a tendency to prolong my work. I can begin weeks or months before the deadline, and I still find myself in a critical panic before submission, no matter how much time I invested in a project. As such, indulging in my desire to write for my own pleasure (Something which I first began as a child, caught in the awkward world of elementary and high school drama, where no one really has any idea of who they are, or who they want to be), comes at the cost of guilt, unless I have absolutely nothing on my plate. As a graduate student, working as a TA for multiple courses and instructors, this is a rare occasion. Still, I manage to squirrel away minutes here and there, hoping that the right muse will strike me; it is difficult when you end up being struck by Clio when you were hoping for Calliope or Erato, and vice versa.

Well, I have been saving up bits of my creative writing. snippets of incomplete stories, unedited poems, and so on. I just haven’t had the time to set them up for an audience.  I am going to post a few through-out the next couple of days, hoping that they are at least somewhat enjoyable for people other than myself. The internet is an amazing thing, really, allowing this kind of presentation, to reach a wider audience.

Enough with my rambling on, it seems somewhat melancholic in reflection.

Sunset Sky- M. Negrych 2013

Sunset Sky- M. Negrych 2013

The Fear of Truth
These fleeting pleasantries which we exchange,
Fraught with deep disquiet need, 
Cannot be lost on gusts of air between their utterance and their reception. 
Dark reprieve and emotional waterfalls, 
Trapped within the churning void of night, 
They drip heat from their lips. 
Can it be said that these words are empty,
When they are like the force of stone? 
Stronger than the pull of gravity,
These words are covers for the truth which begs to be hidden to save us all from exposure.
 
M

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A short poetry exploration in 5 unconnected verses

After attending a poetry reading last night, I could not help but compose a few short verses. Aside from the nights’ frivolity, and the improv which occurred for no reason other than the muse struck and the company was good, there was a seriousness to the craft which I observed last night, a seriousness which I have not seen in poetry for quite some time. For me poetry has always been a spur of the moment engagement; it was never planned, and when it was forced it always seemed to fall short. My hand is only amateur, but that’s were everyone must begin.

To shake the sweet bonds of starlight’s embrace;

Holding fast to the vestiges of time.

the phantom warmth dissipates.

How can morning come at such  a price?

The misty Sunday morning

Spurns the breath from out my lungs.

Even when observes from warmth

Its cold beauty haunts the eyes.

You are the Orphic rhapsody

Modified, from joy to despair.

You are the brightest star,

Lighting the path to Elysium.

The light of dawn reflects brightly

Upon the silence Archer in the field.

To be his quarry , a true ambition;

For no hand is as skilled as his.

Though the day closes

I feel not the press of time.

My dreams will be reward enough,

Locked in tender Morpheus’ embrace.

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