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@notablespoetry
Commonplace Books
So we all know how amazing Thought Catalog is, but check out this posting of an explanation of how Commonplace books work and how they can be really helpful…
—> http://thoughtcatalog.com/ryan-holiday/2013/08/how-and-why-to-keep-a-commonplace-book/
“Look Up And There Is Beauty Awaiting For You”- Seneca
When We Started Talking About the Weather
In preschool they said that sticks and stones break your bones, but words never harm you.
They lied.
They always lie.
When you were tame you learned that the secret to every game of hide-and-seek was to stay quiet so no one would find you.
Hiding in plain sight was just enough to get by but no, you wanted a challenge.
So you ran,
Fast –
Faster than the swiftest slave searching solemnly for salvation,
In Amerikkka,
The land of the enslaved, home of the threatened.
You kept running.
Hermes envies you.
So gracefully the wind carries you by your ankles, lifting you off the ground into the air,
Soaring,
Searching,
Savoring the taste of the summer breeze as our natural mother carries you gently,
Cooing words of promise and opportunity into your ear,
But there is no opportunity,
Only chances,
And the promise of possibly making it ‘till tomorrow.
Down into the town she carries you.
It is the town of misinterpretations,
The town of the ignorantly blissful.
You’ve stopped running.
Hide-and-seek is no longer a game.
The breeze, dissipated by arid air, drains your eagerness until it shrivels and sizzles on the concrete.
You yearn for a way out.
You crave for something to quench your thirst for equality,
But there is nothing in this waterless town.
Oh, how it burns to feel your essence evaporate,
Leaving behind a cocoa-colored carcass.
That’s all they see anyway.
You ran and they found you,
Squatting by a store with skittles,
Suffocating underneath the sweltering sun.
They dangle their due diligence above your head, daring to deny the simple fact that you were only playing a game –
Their game.
They feast on your hopelessness like ravenous pigs ridiculously running over each other for scraps.
The clouds begin to hang oppressively low.
They leave,
Saying slurs of satanic cynicism,
To you,
A child,
The suit you are now buried in.
- Kayla Cherry
Let America Be America Again
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free. (America never was America to me.) Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above. (It never was America to me.) O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe. (There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”) Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars? I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one’s own greed! I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean— Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years. Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That’s made America the land it has become. O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home— For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore, And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came To build a “homeland of the free.” The free? Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we’ve dreamed And all the songs we’ve sung And all the hopes we’ve held And all the flags we’ve hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay— Except the dream that’s almost dead today. O, let America be America again— The land that never has been yet— And yet must be—the land where every man is free. The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME— Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again. Sure, call me any ugly name you choose— The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives, We must take back our land again, America! O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be! Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain— All, all the stretch of these great green states— And make America again! - Langston Hughes
Warning!
Negroes,
Sweet and docile,
Meek, humble and kind:
Beware the day
They change their mind!
Wind in the cotton fields,
Gentle Breeze:
Beware the hour
It uproots trees!
- Langston Hughes
Hope is what holds a breaking heart together. Hope in a Big God is what frees from big fears. Hope is a thing with keys.
Ann Voskamp (via simply-divine-creation)
His smile explodes across my dreams – I am young again. My nails want to etch poetry into his skin, leave behind Stories that he covers with white, button-down cotton. I’ve never had a murmur of my name tremble me to my soul, But the way his eyes see through me is no coincidence. My dreams no...
“I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald (via amantissima)
sem título by megatronison on Flickr.
… and the weight of the earth is pressed to my ribs.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via wavingtovirginia)
A Few Writing Guidelines from my Creative Writing Class Last Semester
1. Reading is the essential act of the writer.
2. Minimize the use of to-be verbs (is, am, was, were, be) and use more interesting words, expand your vocabulary when you write, go through your favorite book and make a list of all the interesting words you like, but never use in your own writing.
3. Tense consistency, ask yourself at what point in time is your narrator telling the story? If everything has already happened, use the past tense.
4. Find the balance between showing and telling, successful stories are a combination of both. Characters are revealed through not only thought, but action. What someone does when they are in a corner reveals who they are. Test your characters and their beliefs. Reality challenges our conceptions and it is no different in fiction. Characters do not have to stay "in character."
5. Stories fail more often than not because of language. You can have an incredible premise, but unless the sentences are dynamic and original it won't mean anything. Inversely, a seemingly boring premise like a snail crossing the street can be riveting if the language is interesting.
6. The language and style of the piece should be related to the content of the story, either directly though the characters or the themes in the narrative. Each story develops its own rhythm and sound. Tone is a combination of that sound/presentation and the content of the story.
7. The last sentence of every paragraph should be the best sentence in that paragraph.
8. Surprise people. The best stories are doing something unexpected either stylistically or narratively, or both. Writing well often produces anxiety and feelings of inadequacy. Counterintuitively, this means you're on the right track, that you might be doing something new or new to you. A writer completely confident in his or her abilities is either projecting to the outside world or lacks the necessary humility to write well. This is a journey, a struggle, it's kind of the point of the whole endeavor.
9. Modulation/Variation is key. Follow a long sentence with a short one or vice versa. Play with syntax. Short terse sentences can often be more powerful in terms of action, forcefulness, or loudness while longer sentences are more thoughtful or descriptive and allow the reader room to enter into the story world you are creating. Variety is one way to produce energy and pacing within a narrative.
10. There are no actual writing rules, only guidelines, this includes grammar (a good sentence fragment or run-on sentence is a thing of beauty). At the same time, you shouldn't just do something for the sake of doing it. Everything you do in a story, every sentence, every character action, every thought, needs a purpose and a reason for being. But don't worry if you when do something you can't explain why it belongs or why you're doing it. This is part of the discovery process. At some point, though, it will need to be justified.
11. Characters need to desire something or want something. This creates conflict with other people, internal conflict, or both. Something must be at stake for the story to matter. Avoid stating directly what characters want or feel.
12. You're not done. Revise and revise again.
Another one of my fellow Gamecock poets, Willie Kinard, has some AH-MAY-ZING work! I love and admire how talented my peers are. I can't help but to share it with the world!
Hope you all enjoy Willie Kinard's, Pollock!
by natalya lobanova
[via]
The young poet in this video is a good friend of mine, Carl Lewers. In light of the recent killing of the young man, Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO, he has chosen to artistically express his beliefs. Though we are miles away, he, I, and countless others are avidly supporting Michael Brown, his family, and the protestors in Ferguson. It is important that we come together as a race and as a country to fight for justice for our fallen Brother, and to end police brutality in America.
Demons
Deep empathy masks openly narcissistic situations,
Selfishly neglecting or missing emotional desires
To be one.
And where two should be one, one became two, but one was actually three, so three became two and now there's only one.
Alone.
Wishfully thinking.
And suddenly a once great memory turned into the greatest enemy,
So swiftly and effortlessly
So who won?
Not she.
Unable to attain peace,
Because all she needs is a piece to release the abyss of wonderings and wishfuls and questions of "what if?"
All he had to do was try.
Sitting in reverse.
Intimidation to shift gears seeping from the overwhelming occupation of her affection and consideration,
Unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a sadistic situation.
He needs no gratification.
Sophisticated stupidity.
Too young and dumb to realize the stability she seeks is not in the weak, but so old and bold to accept that perfectly imperfect perfection is perfect
For her.
Transparently opaque.
Everybody's fake.
She hurts the people that love and loves the people that hurt because the hurt that's so real is pleasurable to feel.
Hesitation towards progression and appreciation of someone else's concentration on her.
Projecting the sadness of this sadistic situation.
Somehow no one means every decision.
Damn every man's open neglect of a soul.
- Kayla Cherry
