wheredoyoufindyourinspiration?

[words and things i like; in no particular order.] 

-"An artist's job is to make order out of chaos.  You collect details, look for a pattern, and organize.  You make sense out of senseless facts.  You puzzle together bits of everything.  You shuffle and reorganize.  Collage.  Montage.  Assemble."  - Diary by: Chuck Palahniuk

poem by  Earl Reum, from The Perks of Being a Wallflower- Pg. 70
[i think this is the first poem that really got me into poetry]
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
    He wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
    Because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
    And a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
    And read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
    Took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
    With tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
    Valentines signed with a row of X’s
    And he had to ask his father what the X’s meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
    He wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”
    Because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
    And asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
    Because of its new paint
And the kids told him
    That Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
    With thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
    When he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
    His mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
    When he cried for him to do it

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
    He wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question”
    Because that was the question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
    And a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
    Because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
    Of the Apostle’s Creed went
And he caught his sister
    Making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
    Or even talked
And the girl around the corner
    Wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
    But he kissed her anyway
    Because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
    His father snoring soundly

That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag
    He tried another poem
And he called it “Absolutely Nothing”
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
And a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
    Because this time he didn’t think
    He could reach the kitchen

anyone lived in a pretty how town" by: e.e. cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that no one loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
no one and anyone earth by april
with by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

-"What poetry doesn't mean is anything."- Ms. Bonder [my english teacher sr. year]

untitled, a piece by the Mr. Matt Rong 
toward a distant light i make my way.
'cause every tunnel has an entrance and an outlet.
the purpose is clear from the outset.
called to the fire for refinement,
to the darkness to learn dependence.
can i exclude my Father from these lines.
how can i deny the very essence of my existence.

Father, as i walk into the sea where your path leads me.
You spread the waters and my feet tread on dry ground.
not one drop of water dares fall on me.
You command the mighty sea.

have mercy, the waters roar on either side and i fear.
the winds whistle seductive tunes and i doubt.

this is the short-way, straight-way across the Jordan.
how i long for the other side.
i close my eyes to take my steps.
but then i open 'cause i need to see the miracles and wonders.

one foot in the water. feelin the temperature.
can i take it or not. what about just my two feet.
not yet knee deep.

dive.

there's only one way across the Jordan.

on dry ground. water that will be parted with each step i take.

up into the silence the green- e. e. cummings
up into the silence the green
silence with a white earth in it

you will(kiss me)go

out into the morning the young
morning with a warm world in it

(kiss me)you will go

on into the sunlight the fine
sunlight with a firm day in it

you will go(kiss me

down into your memory and
a memory and memory

i)kiss me,(will go)

may my heart always be open to little- e. e.  cummings
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

untitled, a piece by Michelle Kwon
I remember you as you were that winter,
singing in the twinkling moonlight of
the overhead projector,
asking for the drastic & the unseen,
trading in your half-empty glass confusion
for a smaller, humbler cup. Your hair had surrendered,
drenched in hallelujah heat. Your striped t-shirt
cowered
in the presence of your new body - an ember -
and ghosts became gasoline as they fled
through your vocal smoke: finally awake.

Your eyes were a quiet ghosttown Steinbeck would've loved,
feverishly praying in its churches for a vaccine
against STD's & postmodern machinery. When
the vaccine never came, the mayor became martyr
and put dynamite to the dam. Those eyes
became a lake, the baptismal fountain for all
who stopped to gaze into your depths.

-“So this is why I write.  Because most times, your life isn’t funny the first time through... That’s why I write, because life never works except in retrospect.  And writing makes you look back.  Because since you can’t control life, at least you can control your version."- Stranger Than Fiction: Chuck Palahniuk 

My Father Comes Back from the Grave – Linda Gregerson
I think you must contrive to turn this stone
on your spirit to lightness.
Ten years.
And you, among all the things of the earth he took
to heart - they weren’t so many after all – bent nearly
to breaking with daily
griefs.  The grass
beneath our feet.  Poor blades.  So
leaned on for their wavering homiletic (pressed for
paltry, perpetual,
raiment, return,
the look-for-me every child appends to absence) it’s
a wonder they keep their hold on green.  Come back
to me as grass beneath
my feet. But he
inclined to different metaphors.
-
Your neighbor,
the young one, the one with two small boys, the one
who knew
what to do when the
gelding had foundered and everyone else was sick
with fear, can no longer manage the stairs on his own.
The wayward
cells (proliferant,
apt) have so enveloped the brain stem that
his legs forget their limberness.  The one
intelligence
driving it all.  The one
adaptable will-to-be-ever-unfolding that recklessly
weaned us from oblivion will
as recklessly have done
with us. Shall the fireweed
lament the fire-eaten meadow? Nothing
in nature (whose roots make a nursery of ash) (but
we…) so
parses its day in dread.
-
And in that other thing, distinguishing
the species that augments itself with tools.
With
drill bits in
the present case, with hammer, saw,
and pressure-treated two-by-eights: a ramp
for the chair
that wheels the one
who cannot walk.  He will not live to use
it much, a month perhaps, but that
part, O
my carpenter, you
have never stooped to reckon.  Now
the father, where does he come in?  Whose
cigarette,
whose shot glass, whose
broad counsel at the table saw (“I told
you not to do that”) ever
freighted a daughter’s learning.
Whose work
was the world of broken things and a principle
meant to be plain.  The grass is mown?  The people
in the house may hold
their heads up.  Not?
A lengthening reproach.  And thus
the shadow of your every move.  The cough,
the catch, continuo: the engine
that breaches your scant four hours
of sleep.  And what should you see (still
sleeping) as you look for the source of the sound?
Our father on the mower making
modest assault
on the ever-inadequate-hours-of-the-day, as
manifest in your neglected
lawn.  Fed up, no doubt. Confirmed
in his private opinions.  But
knightly in his fashion – it’s this
I want to make you see –
in heaven to be called upon.

Dear- Jill Osier
I did not walk down to the lake today.
Maybe I should have, though if you leave
a pail of rainwater sitting in the yard,
it gives an answer to most things.  Emptied,
undisturbed if you approach it carefully.
No one at the lake would have known me.
I don’t think you can approach a lake carefully,
or I don’t think we ever approach what we mean
to a lake.

"The Aftertaste of Thunderstorms" - Andrew Yang
Perhaps one day I’ll write of subtler things;
Of the sadness of age,
And the aftertaste of thunderstorms.

But now, while I still can,
I would channel guns and werewolves
Leathery wings, drawn swords
And the hunt for fern seeds. 

Although, I must admit,
With a certain amount of apprehension,
That the aftertaste of thunderstorms grows more appealing every day.

Vito's Ordination Song-  Sufjan Stevens
I always knew you in your mothers arms
I have called your name
I have an idea placed in your mind
To be a better man, I've made a crown for you,
put it in your room
And when the bride groom comes,
there will be noise, there will be glad
and a perfect bed
And when you write a poem, I know the words
I know the sounds before you write it down
Only wear your clothes, I wear them too
I wear your shoes and your jacket too
I always knew you in your mothers arms
I have called you son, I've made amends
between be father and son
Or if you havent one,
rest in my arms, sleep in my bed
There is a design to what I did and said 

Majesty, Snowbird- Sufjan Stevens
Rain bird, laughing in the olive tree, la la dee dah
Collared shirt, with the alabaster altarpiece, you gave to me
Summer sweet, some forgiven
Your advice is all that seems to matter much to me
Call it sweet, call it something paradise

Is it the right word you designed for me?
Is it the broken word or good advice I need?
Is the half as sweet set aside for me?
Is it mysterious? Is it something ripe and sweet?

Snowbird, your sister said she needed me, la la dee dah
Show them first, show them what you did for me, la la dee dah
Quiet sound, and little soldier sent beneath
And epaulets that covered every shoulder
Call it sweet, come take
Forget the things I said, to please

Is it the right word you designed for me?
Is it the broken word or good advice I need?
Is the tapestry set beneath my wings?
Is it mysterious, glorious? Indeed

Don't stop, don't break
You can delight because you have a place
Quiet room, I need you now 

Star of Wonder- Sufjan Stevens
I call you from the comet's cradle
I found you trembling by yourself
When the night falls lightly on your right-wing shoulder
Wonderful know-it-all, slightly where the night gets colder

Oh, conscience, where will you carry me?
I found you, star of terrifying effigies
When the night falls, I carry myself to the fortress
Of your glorious cost, oh, I may seek your fortress

When the night falls, we see the star of wonder
Wonderful night falls, we see you, we see you

I see the stars coming down there
Coming down there to the yard
I see the stars coming down there
Coming down there to my heart

These days, days, days run away like horses over the hills 

“Why you?  Why us for that matter?  Why anything?  Because this moment simply is.  Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?... Well, here we are… trapped in the amber of this moment.  There is no why.” - Slaughterhouse-Five: Kurt Vonnegut

“But the truth is going.” – T.H. White 

“Stemming  from Stevens” - Lisa Williams
It’s not enough to cover the rock with leaves
 — as if  vernal fluidities 

could be enough for the stern assault of  fact.
As if  a living ornament, 

light and subject to temporal  breezes,
could be enough to overcome despair, 

that chunk of  something solid in the air,
unmoving, as words repeated are. 

It’s not enough to cover despair
with motion. Motion itself  is flawed, 

continuous motion a narrow, thin escape
from what is rooted. Leaves do sway, 

but in truth, they’re only flapping out,
ancillary, uncertain, buffeted 

this way and that. They remain the fact
they are bound to, involuntary notions 

victim to the weather of  a day,
gripped by what has thrust between the rocks, 

flexible as everything not rock is,
reckless as imagining is reckless.

“‘In Whom We Live and Move and Have Our Being’” - Denise Levertov
Bird afloat in air’s current,
sacred breath?  No, not breath of God,
it seems, but God
the air enveloping the whole
globe of being.
It’s we who breathe, in, out, in, out the sacred,
leaves astir, our wings
rising, ruffled–but only the saints
take flight.  We cower
in cliff-crevice or edge out gingerly
on branches close to the nest.  The wind
marks the passage of holy ones riding
that ocean of air.  Slowly their wake
reaches us, rocks us.
But storm or still,
numb or poised in attention,
we inhale, exhale, inhale,
encompassed, encompassed.

“And the present time was like the level plain where men lose their belief in volcanoes and earthquakes, thinking tomorrow will be as yesterday and the giant forces that used to shake the earth are for ever laid to sleep.” - The Mill on the Floss: George Eliot

“Fever, From Each Window” – Stan Mir
The wind is all arms
& cruel. It does not do
what you do. Midday
the streets are noiseless.

I have set a limit
to my talking. Glove,
you have fooled me
into a hand.

“A White City” - James Schuyler
My thoughts turn south
a white city
we will wake in one another’s arms.
I wake
and hear the steampipe knock
like a metal heart
and find it has snowed

“Five Flights Up” – Elizabeth Bishop
Still dark.
The unknown bird sits on his usual branch.
The little dog next door barks in his sleep
inquiringly, just once.
Perhaps in his sleep, too, the bird inquires
once or twice, quavering.
Questions--if that is what they are--
answered directly, simply,
by day itself.

Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous;
gray light streaking each bare branch,
each single twig, along one side,
making another tree, of glassy veins...
The bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn.

The little black dog runs in his yard.
His owner's voice arises, stern,
"You ought to be ashamed!"
What has he done?
He bounces cheerfully up and down;
he rushes in circles in the fallen leaves.

Obviously, he has no sense of shame.
He and the bird know everything is answered,
all taken care of,
no need to ask again.
--Yesterday brought to today so lightly!
(A yesterday I find almost impossible to lift.)

-“After the song finished, I said something.  “I feel infinite.”  And Sam and Patrick looked at me like I said the greatest thing they ever heard.  Because the song was that great and because we all really paid attention to it.  Five minutes of a lifetime were truly spent, and we felt young in a good way.  I have since bought the record, and I would tell you what it was, but truthfully, it’s not the same unless you’re driving to your first real party, and you’re sitting in the middle seat of a pickup with two nice people when it starts to rain.” - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

"Barn Owl, Night Killer" - Sufjan Stevens
All I had hoped for
I kept inside your car
The rabbit in the barn
Most of all I wait
I wait beside the door
I wait beside the door

Oh, I was wrong
Trembling in the cage
I was diamonds in the rage
In seven hours I consider death
And your father called to yell at me
You little boy, you little boy

Found out you cheated me
I ran behind the barn and cut my hands somehow
Blood in the meadow lark
I punched your ears instead
I punched you in the head
You only laughed and laughed and laughed
How I was wrong, tingling from the kill
You tickle me until
You devil bird, you evil still
I slept on my arms, sleeping on the sill
I was sleeping in the room with you
You little boy, you little boy

How could you run from me now
The loneliest chime in the house
The loneliest chime in the house
You let it out, you let it out
Come to your Calvary still
I'm bleeding and breaking until
I'm bleeding in spite of my warmth for you
It bruised and bruised my will

Come to me now with your pains
The breathing inside of the range
You touched me inside of my cage
Beneath my shirt your hands embraced me

Come to me feathered and frayed
For I am the ugliest prey
For I am the ugliest prey
Beyond the reckless, reckless raise

You said you'd wait for me
Down by the tannery creek
Far out by the clothesline
Where we used to kiss behind the sheets
Wrapped in a blanket of red
The owl and the tanager sat
The owl and the tanager said
One waits until the hour is death

“Come to the Orchard in Spring” - Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks
Come to the orchard in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts
in the pomegranate flowers.

If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter.