The Sleep

           The old man in the brown hat tenderly lowers himself onto the smooth, wooden park bench. He removes his brown hat and takes the look. He sees runners running by him, couples walking. Birds shoot between tree canopies that whisper and sway in the zephyr. Quiet flecks of light dance on his jacket as the leaves above him cut and shape the incoming sun. He breathes the familiar air deep into his body and runs his fingers along the grain of the arm rest as if it were a pet, an old blanket, or a child. There is no place he would rather be. The old man leans his head back, gives the wood a final stroke, and closes his life-exhausted eyes.

« Memories

Memories

I remember when, in childish eagerness for a family lunch,

I ran and tripped over my new, black toolbox.

The beautiful hammer upon which I fell

Pierced into my lip like a chisel

Blood like wood shavings poured onto the rug.

I remember watching tv

Winnie the Pooh as always enchanting me

And I felt the gentlest tickle on my arm.

My attention only shifted from Pooh, though,

When I scratched the tickle

And the tickle stung back.

I remember being flat on my stomach

Stuffed in the middle of a raspberry thicket

While the rain churned the ground beneath me into mud.

I was unhappy, yes, for all these things caused discomfort

But outweighing my great discomfort was

My satisfaction at having caught the toad.

I remember my first memory.

I stared at the darkness though my father’s window

And in the darkness I saw a streetlamp, quietly yellow and semicircular.

But I perceived not a streetlamp, and instead the moon.

The moon is beautiful, I thought to myself.

The Sleep »« White

White

They say white is the color of

Cleanliness, the color of purity,

And especially peace.

And it adorns the clouds and brides and the snow.

But now I stare at the white wall before me,

And the white wall stares back.

I find myself uncomfortable

And I find I am not myself.

There is something missing,

Between the white.

Between the purity,

There is something missing.

Where are the greens, blues, and yellow hues?

Where is the life and zeal and spontaneity?

And where are the reds, those emotional reds?

Where am I without those reds?

Memories »« On the Environment

On the Environment

The environment has sprung up as a major topic this election. Though it’s always been a factor, only recently has it become such an important issue in politics. Why is this? Well, we know why the candidates so strongly advocate environmental improvement: more environmentalism means more votes. So why is the average American worrying so much about the environment? With the current economic crisis affecting us daily, and the war in Iraq continuing, why are we so concerned with the environment? Of course I can’t speak for the entire country, but my guesses are the following:

A) Through the media and education, people are starting to get a sense that the environment does in fact affect them very much, and could be a much larger issue than it is now. B) Guilt. It’s hard to look at the numbers of tons of CO2 released or species nearing extinction and not feel any sort of guilt. C) It’s a craze. Slowly but surely it’s becoming cool to support the environment. D) A better America. An environmentalist can still be a patriot, and in fact nowadays the two are more similar than different. Less use of oil and more use of replenishable, self-sustaining, and (clean too) energy sources means an America less dependent on other countries. So if you’re running for president, why wouldn’t you tell your supporters that not only can you free America from other nations, but at the same time you will clean the world in which they live? Seems like a no brainer to me.

White »« Seamus Heaney

Seamus Heaney

One biography on Seamus Heaney said “His father was notably sparing of talk and his mother notably ready to speak out, a circumstance which Seamus Heaney believes to have been fundamental to the “quarrel with himself” out of which his poetry arises.”* My question is can we see this “quarrel” reflected in his poetry. If so, how? This could be answered by reading various works of his and looking for some manifestation of this conflict. I also would like to look for a distinct difference between Seamus’ writing, and an American poet such as William Carlos Williams.

*http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1995/heaney-bio.html

On the Environment »