Contributing My Verse

soundlesshollow

I see her
colors
everywhere,
all over.
That one’s scarf, this one’s
hair. My back and chest
ache with chills. My
fingers twitch in my
pockets - thinking about her
hair.
Someone calls my
name… it feels empty
when they say it.
She makes it soundlesshollow than Iknowitis.
To hear her lips, her tongue, her teeth
pipe out even a mono-
syllabic shortening of my
name… would be
to reunite meaning
to marry -
huh… ’marry’ can’t wait
for that.
for her

.cantwait.

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Time to catch up

It’s been a while, but I am going to be getting back into this blogging thing. I have a ton to read and write this semester, so I will be using much of my essay drafts, notes from literature discussions, my story and poetry drafts, and some of my own random musings to redefine this blog the way I have come to be redefined.

To begin with here is a quote from Go Down, Moses

You come into bear-country of your own free will and accord. All right; you were a grown man and you knew it was a bear-country and you knew the way back out like you knew the way in and you had your chance to take it. But no. You had to crawl into the den and lay down by the bear. And whether you did or didn’t know the bear was in it don’t make any difference. So if you got back out of that den without even a claw-mark on you, I would not only be unreasonable, I’d be a damned fool. After all, I’d like a little peace and quiet and freedom myself, now I got a chance for it. Yes sir. She’s got you, ‘Filus, and you know it. You run a hard race and you run a good one, but you skun the hen-house one time too many.

So for whatever that’s worth, there it is.

Pace.

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(Source: navillusnylamme)

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(Source: weheartit.com)

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Literary Confession: I HAVE to own the books I read. I just have to. It’s a compulsion. If I read a book and cannot keep it, I die a little inside.

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If you’re a poet, you do something beautiful. I mean you’re supposed to leave something beautiful.after you get off the page and everything. The ones you’re talking about don’t leave a single, solitary thing beautiful. All that maybe the slightly better ones do is sort of get inside your head and leave something there, but just because they do, just because they know how to leave something , it doesn’t have to be a poem, for heaven’s sake. It may just be some kind of terribly fascinating, syntaxy droppings - excuse the expression.

Franny from Salinger’s Franny and Zooey

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Summer is a discouraging time to work–-you don’t feel death coming on the way it does in the fall when the boys really put pen to paper.

Hemingway in a letter to Fitzgerald, from Hemingway: The 1930s (via wwnorton)

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wwnorton:

Happy Birthday, Mr. Hemingway.

“On July 21, Hemingway’s twenty-third birthday passed without fanfare in the summer heat of Paris. His parents sent him handkerchiefs which he said he appreciated (all good boys keep their noses blown). Headlines proclaimed that Lenin’s brain was paralyzed, his rule finished. Once a month the papers declared the bolshevic revolution moribund. A new Paris-to-London record of one hour and forty-two minutes was set by a British flier in a Hangley-paide, and the St. Louis Browns were in first place in the American League, a game and a half ahead of Babe Ruth and the New York Yankees. Ernest and Hadley, in Paris for only a month, were planning their next adventure.”

-Excerpted from Hemingway: The Paris Years by Michael S. Reynolds
(Photo: Ernest Hemingway’s 1923 passport photo)

Happy Birthday my dear friend.

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