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Rhyme Time.

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I promised poetry, and so without further ado – it is yours for consumption. My professor was teaching us about rhyming assonants and consonants, and read us some examples for clarification before turning the torch to us (Assonance rhyming is when you rhyme words that contain the same vowel sounds, or rather, contain the same vowel in the word; consonance rhyming is the same, but with the same letters and different vowels – so, in a sense, like alliteration). We had 7 minutes to write whatever came to mind – assonance wise – and this is what I  produced. Makes no sense, really. But sometimes that makes it interesting.

Occasional opportunity
orders orange conversation
How about now, young soldier
come closer
hold out on opulent  sorrow
born from narrow organs
one world over done
cover constant chorus of corduroy
hopes corner colors collect
octagonal  innovation
ordinary offerings
of corpulent tongue posture.

So our assignment was to write a bunch more assonance/consonance rhymes and take words or phrases that really stood out and said something pretty – and compose a poem with them. The point was to find internal rhyme, rather than external. I took a few from above, but my main inspiration often comes when I walk back from campus or just down any sidewalk. When this happens I usually have nothing to write with, so I just note them down in my phone for good measure. I ended up doing a combination of both assonants and consonants. This is probably my second favorite poem.

“In the Family”

Sister Jane is justly dubious
She ruffles your hair, sings
“Hold tight, brutal brother.”
You curl into the crook of her arm;
comfort comes cautiously.

Your mother’s royal moans
distract father from farming.
He enters the kitchen, sees her
weeping. Narrow organs that own
opulent sorrow. He could comfort
her tomorrow. For now,
father lets her be.

Brother collects conversations
that seep from cracks in wooden walls.
Father isn’t who he appears to be.
Cavernous swears quell quiet pleas,
Mother just wants father to leave.

“Don’t cry, dear sister,”
you whisper. Her brutal baby brother.
Sister Jane smiles with sorry eyes.
Colors collect as pools of wet
on her rose cheeks.
You trace your fingers over
her tears.

Two able bodies born from botched relations.
Come morning, you still have each other. 

Now back to home-working. I hope your day has been swell, reader – whoever you may be.


Sex and the City, and the City.

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I’m actually a little disappointed in myself for not having found out about Sex and the City until now. I didn’t tune in regularly to watch episodes while the show was still running on HBO. To be honest, I was always a little nervous about turning it on and seeing something I wouldn’t be ready for or themes that went over my head. I mean, it premiered in 1998 and I don’t think I would have gotten much out of it as a 7-year-old.

But both my roommate Ashley-Michelle and my friend Ivy rave about how good it is, and I’ll catch a few episodes when AM puts it on or I’m at the gym. But until now I never thought to put it on high priority in my queue of things to watch. Now that it’s over, I guess my consolation is that I can see them all sans commercials, and without seasonal interruptions. If I want. And I guess I want. Mostly because I would like to figure out which one of the characters – Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte – I resemble (in terms of persona) the most. But it’s also a pretty clever show.

I’m pretty sure I can rule out Samantha. What I noticed is that while each of the characters have certain traits that could easily fit to one stereotype, they’re really not one-dimensional. After all, no one is. So I’ll have to do some more research.

Right now I’m torn between Miranda and Carrie, although I often see a lot of Charlotte in myself. See what I mean? Work in progress. To be determined…

Meanwhile, in the real world –

I’m still hunting for jobs, internships, and anything to keep me on my feet this summer. Most people like going back home to relax, get their bearings, and reconnect with those they left behind. I do too, but in shorter bouts of time. Four months is an eternity. Especially in Guilford. I usually get super bored, and that’s when I start getting lazy. So if I’m in NYC (which I’m going to be), I don’t miss out on the city lifestyle and I don’t spend all of my time watching OnDemand and eating junk food. That was high school, this is now.

I Feel…Oh, So Pretty.

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Hello, and welcome to another lovely addition of Wait, Wait, It’ll Come to Me!

Let me fill you in on what you’ve missed, if you haven’t been paying attention. And let’s face it: there’s only so much you probably know about my life.

I probably tweet more often than I should, which is why I sometimes don’t feel like going into more nitty-gritty details on my blog these days. But I’ve been going through some stuff this weekend, and feel that it’s probably best to just be more open and say what I really mean more often. Even if I’m being brutally honest.

I did some more apartment hunting this weekend. I feel like I’m living up to a high level of expectations though, based off of the level of awesomeness I had with my win last summer. I wouldn’t mind living uptown again this summer, but here’s where my pickyness comes into play. I just want to live downtown, where people are my age and I don’t feel so cut off from everyone. I think I grow too independent when left in a part of town that’s more residential for this stage of my life. But I should count my lucky stars regardless, and hope for all the best. When I checked out another potential this weekend, I tried to weigh the bad with the good. But I really really need to find a job if I’m going to, from the mouth of Tim Gunn, “make it work.”

I cried during a movie I rented, bought the book it was based off of, and decided that I’ve been hit with some kind of emotional bug. Out of nowhere, it seems I’ve accumulated all of these feelings, and it’s confusing me. I’m a robot, didn’t you know? Okay, maybe not. But there are some issues that have snowballed to a breaking point, and that’s one of the reasons why I’m trying to be more open. Like telling the truth and stuff like that. I don’t want to be mechanical. So far, it hasn’t been that easy. I tend to hold things back more than I should. And sometimes I wonder if people can see this in me. But I hope the Tin Man will one day get his heart.

So besides it being National Poetry Month, I actually do enjoy posting poetry here for whoever wishes to read it. But I’m taking a break tonight, and instead will be posting some very embarrassing pictures of myself and my roommate Michael. I’ll understand if you never see me the same way ever again.

Okay, and the story behind them is that Michael thought it would be a really good idea to come up behind me as I’m sitting at my desk and to start combing his fingers through my hair. It’s nice, at first. Then he’s no longer massaging my scalp, but has somehow gotten it into his head to completely transform my hair into a ‘masterpiece.’ He leaves me wondering what the hell is going on, and returns from the bathroom with a bottle of hairspray and a devilish twinkle in his eye.

I could have stopped him. I didn’t. I was curious. Then – then, he asks innocently “Where’s your make-up?” Oh gad.


new tattoo


He started to draw the Triforce upon my neck. Kinda failed. As you can also see, he experimented with many a color and design, using eyeliner. I can assure you, when ingrained into my skin – I mean – drawn on, it becomes more difficult to remove.

I got my revenge.


Circle Circle, dot dot


And then he did, again.

Cliche photobooth pictures were next.


We're French.

I could have been angry, could have prevented this by shutting my door and locking him out. But I didn’t because I never really know what this kid will do. I kind of like that. Curiosity might kill me.

But don’t I look so pretty?


Soot and Smurfs.

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Here’s another poem I wrote a while back for class. My professor thinks it’s very “Blake-like.” You can decide for yourself:


Would you like to hear the story about a girl who tried to fly?
She decided she would take some clay and climbed up to her roof.
She envied not the birds, but others with wings that kept them high
The girl thought she would make it when she leapt up to the sky.

Time moved too slowly while her thoughts moved too fast.
She beat hard those heavy arms that were never meant to last.

Her mother found the little girl, after having heard her yell.
The clay had shattered all around, broken pieces everywhere.
The sun had been too hot that day, but that’s not why she fell.
The little girl managed to take flight, reaching heaven but not hell.


I can see why she might think that. I find that my poems often have a moral attached to them, or tell a story. Maybe it’s because of all the Aesop’s fables or Grimm’s fairy tales that I read when I was younger.

I like “The Chimney-Sweeper”, by William Blake.

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry “Weep! weep! weep! weep!”
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said,
“Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.”

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight! —
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and let them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

Mind you, it’s not a very happy poem. Blake presents images of a depressive nature within the common rhyme scheme of aabb – death, orphaned children, labor – contrasted with images of renewal and resurrection – angel, innocence, freedom, etc – which are all relevant conditions and themes for the time period that he wrote this (England, late 1700s). I find it both interesting and clever how poets such as Blake can write about such dark matter using a form that most people associate with nursery rhymes.

As for me, I sometimes find poetry that rhymes somewhat difficult to like. Parts of me find it cheesy, while I simultaneously wish I could write just as well. I guess I’m more of a fan of internal rhyme than external.


On another note: We watched a video claiming that the ’80s television show, The Smurfs, was overwrought with themes of communism. Papa Smurf : Karl Marx. What? Yes, apparently. What I learned: I know way too much about this show – more than my TA who evidently used to watch it – because she was surprised to learn why Smurfette was the only female character of non-smurf origin present in the town of blue men (she was created by the evil wizard Gargamel). Of course I filled her in. Why do I know so much about this stuff?


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So April, as it turns out, is poetry month. Well, well, well, what a thought. Challenge accepted!

The prompt for my last poem was to pick up pieces of conversation that I thought stood out in some way, or bits of language that seemed interesting to me. I would then need to find a few other quotes or lines from miscellaneous sources that I could assemble together with what I already found. I would wind up with a poem with a collage of all sorts of stuff.

Let’s just say I understood the prompt in my own way. I took bits of conversation I heard from people walking past, a line from The Killers, a line from my Media Audience teacher, some scenes from movies or situations I have seen, and a few street signs. I noticed more “He said, she said” language than anything else, which is why the perspective of this poem is told in the third person p.o.v.



In the Beginning

He says, “They say the Nile used to run from east to west,

like the streets I walk on to meet you.”

She says, “People rush in waves, this river

hasn’t been calm for years.”

He says “Its flow is fast, loud and the undertow

will catch you unawares.” “If you’re not

careful,” she said.


He says: “Coffee leaks from the mouthpiece of my cup.

I sip the stray beads, remember

I don’t like coffee all that much

but I like the feel of it in my hand too much.”

Jagged holes. His hand needs something

to hold, because looking into

her face has become



As they rummage through the rubble,

she starts zoning out. Images play back

of past nights together. He says: “You

partied like a fucking rock star.”

A golden God, he watched her fall,

taking him with her. “A vicious

cycle,” she said.


He says: “We were happy.” She asks: “Were we happy?”

“Once,” he says. She begs to differ.

“I will wager all my marbles that I

was happy once. You came along,

with your New York look, my heart

beat beat beat for you” he says.

“Genesis,” she says.


“Omega,” He said.

He has taken precautions for the flood

that comes, with floaties and goggles.

Her days as lifesaver are numbered.

“It is just like you said it would be,” she whispered.

God said, let them be



Tune in next time for some more poetry –  if you aren’t tired of it yet.

I’m patiently waiting for Lent to end so that I can indulge in some sweets. Then the days of posting cupcakes and cookies will begin!

Get ready.

Lucky Number Nine.

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More poetry today.

This form is modeled after the poem “Meatloaf” by Donald Hall. Check it out sometime.

I like it because it’s almost like writing in free verse; you can say anything really. And it sounds conversational. But there are nine stanzas with nine lines, and each line has nine syllables. I used to dislike writing poetry in a prescribed form – especially when rhyming is involved – but I have come to appreciate that. It’s almost like coloring inside the lines. The guidelines definitely help me when I can’t think of what to write, or where the poem is going to go.

But there are occasions when I do like to stray from the beaten path.

Soul Searching


Sometimes walking the streets of New York,

the days as metal as the buildings

I keep my head lowered as I stroll

the grey concrete roads of my city –

not on purpose, although sometimes I

feel its easier to face the world

in which my shadow always moves first

as the wind turns my cold cheeks to ice

and I wonder as I watch my feet


if the paths I chose will lead me right.

I once dreamed of being an actress,

and though it sometimes haunts me when I

watch the glass that mocks without mercy

and the voices that tell me to buy

buy, buy! I can’t hear my thoughts again.

Rage, rage but I will not go gently

for the light that shines upon my face

as I lift my head up to the sky


and breathe in deeply despite the cold

and raise my timid gaze to strangers

watching me, judging me like they know –

but no they don’t see everything, not

the girl who waits to break from inside.

And I blush but say nothing at all

while my eyes may give my soul away

my smile is linear, loyal

on those days I don’t feel anything.


I once wanted to save animals

soft and furry bunnies, kittens with

big eyes and puppies who chased their tales.

But if they had sad tales of their own

my heart could not bear to hear it, no

I would rather be immortal

like the gods of Greek mythology

but then they are just as imperfect

as us humans who hide our faces.


Our shadows, they are faceless, but not

formless. If you try to find her eyes

you would fall forward, grow closer to

uncertainty, unless you are sure

of where you stand. Is it on two feet?

What has four legs at dawn, two at noon,

and three legs in the evening, man

I need some more direction. I fear

growing up but not alone because


we are never alone, just look out,

not in. The early bird catches worms

and if I was a bird I would too.

But the heat of the sun melts my wings.

I fall back into reality

tasting more than the red blood on my

pink lips, the ripe fruits of the lush trees

that have to be shipped some place else

because here my city tends to grow


paper, smoke, and a high work ethic.

Entrepreneurs can have their field day

here. Tourists too, with their cameras.

Smile at this statue, or this bridge,

shadows on the streets blend into each

other, no can tell who is who

until you stop, look at a map, ask

a stranger for directions I look

up when you ask, raise my face to meet


yours. It takes me a second but I

pause my Ipod, wondering which way

you are going, if our paths will

cross again. But I doubt it, you see

we are strangers, alone together

but lonely? It is hard to tell when

your sunglasses hide your eyes from mine

So I look back down once you leave me,

My thoughts grow so loud again, I feel


Time pass, the chill air that means winter

but hints at the coming of spring and

then I smile despite myself I

know that I am home, there is nowhere

I would rather love and learn and live.

Local bars and speeding cars that honk

despite the two hundred-dollar fine.

My world is never quiet or calm.

I keep walking until my feet hurt.




What’s in a Sonnet?

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Hello all!

I’m going to save you readers any nagging about the lack of things I’ve done today and surplus of work I still have to do by posting some poetry instead. Okay? Awesome.

For my creative writing class, we were told to write two sonnets, using 5 lines that someone else wrote and had passed on to the person on their right. They could be anything, full sentences or not. The lines I received were :

and led you without consent into the dark
of roses wafting from each bloom.
Bittersweet shapes of round deliciousness
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness
into the closed air of the slow

Here’s what I wrote for my sonnet, Shakespearean style.


Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness
You were prompted, nay, tempted by a certain vision –
Bittersweet shapes of round deliciousness
and by doing so, made you regret your decision.
He saw, despite how you tried hard to conceal
guilt painted black on your naked bodies, raged,
would not, could not, believe you refused to reveal
yourselves. He turned his back and how you aged,
and led you without consent into the dark
of night, into the closed air of the slow
realization He would not be there to help mark
the way. Now you cut your feet on rocks below.
Silent tears. And the rain that falls upon your tomb,
mixes with the scent of roses wafting from each bloom.

Next, we were told to write another sonnet, using the 5 lines we originally wrote before passing them on. Mine were :

my breath caught in my throat.
and… how he ran tirelessly with
parted, mountain and valley
The clock’s right hand stopped on 8:12
let die the glimmer of hope, she

And now for the final product:


The clock’s right hand stopped on 8:12, I swear
when I saw him my breath caught in my throat.
Of all the minutes of an hour to see him standing there.
A river of opaque moments past, I am without a boat.
He once let die the glimmer of hope, she holds on to his hand,
lips parted slightly, their interlocking fingers now do
mock me. I stand alone but I cannot stand
to remember and… how he ran tirelessly with blue
shoes in summer grass to meet me, when we had the world
to ourselves. We had no concerns, no obligations to fulfill.
My heart, with him, parted, mountain and valley unfurled
between us. I gave more than I got. I think of him still.
I look my last and breathe again, wonder if I should’ve let him know.
My dress is tight in certain places; I’m trying not to let it show.


The last part of the assignment was to reorder the lines so that they don’t look, sound or even feel like a sonnet. That’s where my professor and I differed in the definition of a sonnet in class. She appreciated my opinions, but I don’t know if that’s what she really wanted to hear.

Anyways, they’re here for your enjoyment now. Go listen to some Peter Bjorn & John if it so moves you.

Have a great day!