This week has been soup. I've been reading a bunch of old journals lately and I used to use soup as an adjective a lot. I have no idea what I meant by it but I used it nonetheless.
Anyway, I'm going to reply to your posts.
Grace, I really feel your post. I think I spend half of my time wishing I was someone else somewhere else and like 25% percent of my time reprimanding myself for being ungrateful. And the rest of my time sleeping. I sleep a lot. I'm like a sloth.
Laura, I don't have to reply to your post you sleep in my bedroom. And it is my bedroom because I spend so much time sleeping in it because again,
Mercy, OUR FREAKING BOYS AND THEIR FREAKING SELVES AND OH MY GOD i LITERALLY CANNOT.
My brain had been officially fried by junior year. So this week I don't have any of my own words for you but I do have some other peoples.
First of all, the little white girl in me is so excited for fall.
September, by Helen Hunt Jackson
The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook,
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.
But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.
'T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.
This next poem has been a recent obsession of mine. Also Rod McKuen is bae.
Empty Is, by Rod McKuen
Empty is
the sky before the sum wakes up in the morning.
The eyes of animals in cages.
The faces of women mourning
when everything has been taken
from them.
Me?
Don't ask me about empty.
Empty is a string of dirty days
held together by some rain
and the cold wind drumming
at the trees again.
Empty is the color of the fields
along about September
when the days go marching
in a line toward November
Empty is the hour before sleep
kills you every night
then pushes you safety
away from every kind of light.
Empty is me.
That's it. That's all I've got for you today. Grace, we'll hear from you tomorrow?
Gurl please, -Rose.
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