Here is something unfinished that I’ve been working on for a few days. I have a feeling that it’s one of those poems that will never be finished.

Ireland

Chime, chime

my sweet darling

when you walk outside in the morning,

dog at your heels

*

The wind breathes

through the shells you’ve hung from the doorjamb

I can hear you talking to the waves

as they call you from the cliff bottom

but only for a moment

before the moss has swept you away

*

I can see you trotting through wet grass

hair, still unbrushed, floating behind you

laughing at the hawk who swoops at a fish

and misses

but only just

*

I smell the sea with you

smell the salt of your tears

even though you’re still smiling

and the dog is still barking

*

You haven’t changed much

since I last pressed tea-warmed

wind-burnt

sea-sworn lips to your freckled skin

*

But the rain falls softer now

and you no longer wipe the ashes

from the pictures on the mantelpiece

This is by no means a poem. More like a collection of thoughts.

Monday

Silence in the hall

or is there music?

A breeze–

someone has opened the door

the sound of rain

but only for a moment

I look outside

and the streets are dry

A crappy prose poem I wrote for a creative writing class inspired by “Stop Whispering” by Radiohead

Pablo Honey

Stop whispering, start shouting. Let your voice ring between the canyon edges. Make them look up. Let them know you were wrong. Let them know you try your hardest, even when you’re so tired you could melt. Let your boss know you’ve never liked him. Let him know you’re the one who reported him. Let your lungs go. Breathe in. Shout again. Shout “I love you” to the one you’ve been hiding from. Let her go. Let him go. Shout that you never meant to hurt anybody, but your pride was too strong too let you apologize. For years you have whispered—shout now. Startle the birds from the trees. Watch them fly away. Shout that you wish you could fly. Discover that you can. Step over the edge. Shout as you fall. Shout that you believe in the power of one person’s dreams amongst six billion. Shout that you have survived so far. You will still survive. Shout that you are done whispering. Stop falling. Start flying.

I took calculus for the first time in my senior year of high school along with my group of friends. We were–and still are–extreme nerds. I had to write a love sonnet for my creative writing class, so instead of struggling around the cliché subject of romantic love, I wrote this (with help from my friends Sara Harari, Caro Fink, and Liz Li). It’s supposed to be a bit of a joke, so some of the wording is a tad awkward. Nonetheless, enjoy!

Ode to dy/dx

You cannot take dy/dx of love
for it is more complex than pre-calc texts
and though I don’t believe in gods above
I pray I will have luck in all my quests

You cannot take dy/dx of life
nor sketch a curve of what is next to come
no formula will take away your strife
no additives will make a perfect sum

But you can take dy/dx of logs
of sine and tan and polynomials
and so a physicist I’d like to snog
to pick the treasured secrets from his scull

If I could find that physicist today
I’d snog him good and then be on my way

On Thanksgiving day in my senior year of high school, my good friend Sara’s boyfriend was in a fatal car accident. At the time I was taking a creative writing class for my English credits and one of the poetic forms we had to work with was “Elegy.” I forget now what the elegy form is, but I’m pretty sure my poem follows it. I’m not sure if Sara knows I wrote this for them, but I figured I would post it since it’s raining today and a lot has happened since then.

Elegy

I

Winter teeters on the edge of spring
watching icy rocks slip into the abyss below it
holding on with spindly fingers
that spread fractures of frost over the ground
desiccated, cracked
like overwashed hands
The sunshine is dilute
It has been four months since he died

II

They were beautiful
they left stars in their wake
warm to the touch
floating like bubbles through summer air
their smiles—matched, wide
Him
trailing textbooks
and tidbits
towering over everybody else like
Her
and when they touched hands
supergiants shuddered and sparked

III

It seems the cold and snow and rain
will stretch into June
or further
but winter can’t hold on forever
sooner or later its grip will slip
and it will tumble over itself
off the cliff
dragging the cover of frost
off a million little flowers
Sooner or later the stars will thaw
and flow through the air
in scented blasts
of warmth
Sooner or later she will smile

“Nothing is ever as good as it is in dreams except the sunlight.”

I just wrote this piece about the battle of Love and Want, but I am hesitant to post it, as it needs serious editing and it is slightly (only slightly, mind you) raunchy. And it would probably freak Rachel out.
I think it would be fun to do a series of pieces about daydreams. On that note, I shall post a poem I wrote for Christopher for our first Valentine’s Day (yay sappiness!)
Please ignore my fixation with sunlight. It’s my drug.

Sunshine Dream

The air rushes around me
and I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or flying
because there’s blue above me
and blue below me,
rippling gusts of puffy white
and dashing streaks of warmth
across my stinging cheeks

It is warm
a breath of cappuccino
and as I inhale it coats my throat
like an evening shot of Nyquil
that speaks to me
soft
sultry
“Surprise, surprise, I am your salvation
I, with my liquid speech and dry-lipped kiss”

And when the dawn arrives
the blue becomes pure gold
enveloping me in its explosive arms
I open my eyes
there is music
gentle music
that trails notes up my back
sending shivers
to every tip of my body
I hear a smile and wonder
if it’s really the music
floating its fingers down my spine

As gold fades to shadows
and silhouettes
I see strips of sun pouring over the sheets
I breathe in
I’m flying again

But this time I know I’m awake

I wrote this a loong time ago and edited it a little bit recently. I’m not terribly satisfied with it, but I like the concept. It also needs a better title. Anyway, here goes:

Cemetery

In a cemetery nothing makes a sound. No birds whistle and chirrup, for the smell of decay keeps them away, as it does the chattering squirrels that often adorn the trees like grey Christmas ornaments. The wind, if it blows, does not whisper. It sneaks through the branches, scared of disturbing what lies below the grass. The rain, when it falls, slows and drops tentatively onto the bulging ground, tiptoeing amongst blades of grass, cautious, silent. Even the solitary gravedigger in his tattered trench coat with his worn, rusty shovel works quickly and quietly, the thump of dirt hitting the ground dampened by the thick, oppressive air.

But now and then, if I listen carefully, sounds come to me. If I sit on the mossy, broken stone bench by the large tomb with its pensive angel and close my eyes, the silence starts to sing. Softly at first it comes, so that I think it is only my ears playing tricks on me. Yet as I still my breathing and calm my heart so that its uneven thudding does not overpower the light music, it becomes louder. It seems to grow nearer and nearer, filling my mind and soul, the jocund pipe boring into me until I know that when I open my eyes, there will be somebody standing nearby, smiling and wily, playing an old, knobby wooden pipe.

The music suddenly ceases and I look up. There it is, a shape hovering over the cobbled path. His dark eyes flash and he floats to a gravestone, twirling the thin pipe and gazing at me curiously. I am about to speak and ask him who he is when he throws back his sweeping sleeves and brings the pipe to his thin lips, lowering his lids and starting the soft melody again. The breeze catches the music and swirls through his long hair, tugging him to another headstone where he floats, suspended in the moment. I fear he might fall, but the thought of jumping up to help him is quashed by a glance from his opaque orbs.

Again I am frozen, watching, listening. A sweet, smoky scent that reminds me of that small Tibetan shop downtown drifts lazily towards me, and I look to see where it comes from. The smell shifts and writhes in the air, taking the form of a beautiful young woman who watches me with glittering eyes from beneath the waves of her long auburn hair as she glides towards the piper.

I have no time to ponder this new arrival, for she parts her lips and begins to sing a rich song, her voice blending with the pipe music as she invokes words of a language no longer used and an incantation long forgotten. I am mesmerized, caught, dragged into the folds of the song. Happiness overwhelms me and my soul strains against my chest, tearing against the feeble fingers my heart has entwined around it.

The maiden turns to me sharply and shakes her head. I sigh, and my soul retreats, watching hungrily through my eyes as something begins to slide out of the fresh dirt in front of a brand new gravestone. The shape detaches itself from the ground, shaking its glowing, smoky tendrils, and floats over to the musicians, prancing in place.

The maiden smiles and pets it, still singing. She grabs one of the tendrils and it melts into her hand, sliding up her arm into her mouth, where it fills her voice. The song grows louder, ringing in my ears, stinging my eardrums. Then the spirit bursts from the maiden, crystal clear, and rockets off with the wind toward the hospital that looms over the cemetery. A window glints.

The man lowers his pipe and the wind stops. He gently takes the maiden’s hand and they fade into the foliage. My eyelids flutter open, and I draw the lingering smell of sweet, smoky sandalwood into my lungs.

Herro,

Rachel has managed to convince me (by briefly mentioning it) to get a blog to share my crappy stories and such, so here I am!

A little explanation of my username/blog title: It used to be impossible to get me out of the water when I went swimming as a child, so my mother would introduce my sister and me as, “Alice and my otter daughter, Lauren.” I think it is a fun play-on-words, and being an English nerd I thought it was fitting. I also closely identify with otters because they are happy and like to eat and chill.

To begin my torture, I shall share a poem I wrote after having a very vivid dream the other night. Apparently emo poetry is the only thing I can write nowadays.

Strawberry Lips

Her strawberry lips

the rosy orange summer

a house with wide pine boards

in the middle of the woods

cool and quiet

a breath of water on the tip of her tongue

*

Tumble down through trees

little raindrop

grace her eaves and soothe

the dim light of the kitchen

tell stories of long nights

spent curled under white sheets

*

The straw sunshine cuts through the clouds

weaves into her hair

steals down her throat into quaking lungs

*

The dirt path slips down the hill

her feet are wet, red

roses cover my eyes

and she is gone

Hopefully when I am less tired and it is less late at night I will post something bettah. But that was my inspiration for the night. I hope to get cracking on a “short” story I’m working on about life and horses and such. And attractive British men, but that’s a whole different subject