Magnum's Muffins

My brain snapped again.

Nothing is quite like spending the day,

Eating poppyseed muffins,

Offered by the ghost,

Of Magnum P.I.

They taste delicious.


- mine, in response to a time my insomnia kept me awake for about a week, many years ago.

The Chase

I think it's the chase,
the pursuit.

I think it's the heart,
pounding away.

I think it's the breath,
harder and faster.

It's the crack of a branch,
the scraping of stone,
the whipping of leaves,
the splash in a stream.

It's the scent,
it's the taste.

I think it's the panic,
the fear in the eyes,
the knowledge
of impending demise.

Watching the lights go dim.
It's not that.

It's the chase then,
not the kill,
that brings joy to my mind.

It's knowing there's something
left to be chased,
relentlessly,
unwaveringly,
fanaticly even.

I think it's the soul
running free.

-mine once more

Orb in a Void

Fire in my skin,
burning away the flesh.

Fire in my skin,
seeping down to bone.

Fire in my skin,
boiling the blood.

Fire in my skin,
reaching to my eyes.

My cold husks of eyes.
My burnt black eyes.
The ember lights their shell,
Patch of yellow,
Orb in a void.
Yellow,
Surrounded by black;
By burnt, decaying windows.

- you guessed it...me again

Sea Stands Alone

Walk inside,
knees wet,
glasses fogged,
lightly speckled,
with powdery tears.

The water comes
in waves,
in bursts,
in gushes.

Alone.

The water's been gone,
dry, arid,
a desert of a person,
the water's been gone.

It gushes now,
and lingers on sideways pines,
rushing down valleys,
trickling over cliff.

Alone.

It rests on rock,
chest of the world.
Resides,
in pools of sorrow.

Alone.

Water fuels the thirsty,
fuels the lonely.
It dries up,
soaking into
the desert's sands.

Your voice is in the water.
The desert becomes the marshland.
Your blood is in the water.
The marsh becomes an sea.

A sea stands alone,
swallowing the world.
A sea stands alone,
tickling the skin,
of this weary world.

Alone.



- also mine

Chaotic Shore

I found this one again today...seems like I was trying rhyming this time.


Twitching muscles, throbbing skull,
to me it matters not at all,
the billowed husk is but a chore,
as chaos falls upon my shore,
for nothing ever follows suit,
when one tangles up with swollen truths,
that luck would wind up in my hand,
then I shall make my stubborn stand.

Planning

Never ask for a title,
to an uncompleted work.

Never finish a novel,
without writing it down.

Never create a character,
without fleshing them out.

the meaning won't be the same,
the words won't be restrained,
the person will have a name.

Never let your fantasy,
get ahead of you;
you cannot predict
just where it will go.

-mine again

Poetry

Words flit about my head,
around it;
over it.
Words coming from dead tongues,
coming from dead air,
flitting about my head.
Coming from dead air,
from dead breath;
dead hearts.
These words are poison;
hail pummeling my skull.

A halt,
 a pause in the
cacophony of stale air.

Birdsong,
wind through branches,
rain falling on glass.
rain falling on me,
my face,
my skin;
rain; melted hail.

Rain,
flitting about my head.

Blood falling on me,
my face,
my skin;
your blood is in the rain;
pumped,
beaten from your heart.

Rain, blood, words,
flit about my head,
around;
over it;
on it;
tickling it sweetly,
capturing my gaze.

-mine again

Tribute to Formality

Eyes straight,
hackles raised,
a tribute to formality.

Ears twitch,
nose sniffs,
a homage to ambiance.

Eyes; green,
stare into an eclipse.
Eyes; yellow,
Eyes; black,
stare into a meadow.

The green meadow,
where the sheep graze,
where the wolf waits.

The eclipse
darkens the scene,
turns all to black,
the meadow of green,
turns black.

The wolf tenses,
as does the ambiance.

The wolf pauses,
as does the formality.

Eyes; red,
reflect the blood
on teeth no longer muzzled.

- Corey Roth

Belief > Science + Faith

And I wrote this one just now:

Evidence supports no deity.
Science supports no God.
Fact rejects the supernal.
Faith denies evidence.
Religion contradicts science.
Feelings reject fact.
There is no middle ground.
There is no compromise.
Only belief.
I find no god to be real.
I know no God to be real.
But I believe,
not through religion,
not through feeling,
not through faith.
Belief.
Believing what is
known to me,
not to be.

Irrationality's the name
of my game,
I do believe.

This is Love

I wrote this one a few years ago:

When whatsoever we feel alive inside of ourselves,

 but that which is preordained by the divine triumphs of our individual souls;

 when naught but the jealousy of what was takes precedence over the living,

 as would the rotting flesh become whole once again,

 so to shall that be brought before us.

 The filth and stench of the golden hemlocks of old drive us to madness in the hopes of attaining that which was,

 and shall never be again.

 When the darkness that resides in all Man comes alive,

 slithering out of the pit which we have built it,

 digging with our feverish desires and frivolous greed;

 then shall the light be extinguished from the candle of our real hope;

 the fires of our hearts smothered by soil.

 Smothered perhaps, but smoldering still.

 When brought into being a dream,

 such thoughts of the peace of man,

 the strength of unity,

 the feeling in our skins that reverberates throughout our being,

 the embers, still glowing, find fuel in our minds.

 They may roar again,

 like they were meant to do,

 warming us with the aspirations of youth, beauty, and I daresay, perhaps love.

 Perhaps, yes, perhaps love is attainable through a dream,

 and only dreaming,

 for what could possibly be powerful enough to awaken that inferno,

 that holy fire that drives the hearts us dreamers?

 What could possibly warm our souls so?

 There is no love, no true love.

 Love is a hug, a kiss, an exchange of body and mind,

 never soul.

 It only serves to stuff full the pit of loneliness in all of us,

 and only for a time.

 We are doomed to that pit eventually.

 But I say this to you now,

 do you believe it?

 Do you believe what I have said,

 the dooming prophecy of it?

 Most of you say no,

 no there is hope,

 there is love.

 But do you believe it?

 Truly?

  Can you?

 You’ve felt the pain,

 the sadness,

 the pit.

 You’ve been there,

 you know,

 it dawns just around the corner.

 So I ask you…

do you believe it?

 I do.

 The pit dwells within us,

 and is constantly close to convergence;

 it is felt by all of us,

 on a unique, individual, horrible basis.

 That much is true.

 But do not expect me to say that a light will shine through it all,

 illuminating the deep caverns of your pain,

 simply because I believe there is hope;

 there is love.

 Love is no fire.

 Love is no blaze from the depths of your heart,

 no flash of light,

 no warmth.

 Love, love is a smell;

 a tingle on the tip of your nose,

 a delightful pluck on your sanity,

 just strong enough to render you useless;

 hatred so deep you could kill for it;

 sorrow so dank you could die for it;

 a hope running as a river through your soul,

 always flowing.

 It is a knowing,

 a thought given form,

 given over to your baser instincts.

 Ask yourself,

 when you loved, did you know?

 Could you feel?

 When your eyes met, did they speak to you?

 Eyes or not, person, place, thing, or simply not,

 it matters not.

 When your eyes meet, do they speak to you?

 Those in love,

 those with love inside them,

 for someone,

 something,

 an idea,

 know of what I speak.

 Love is knowing.

 Not the details,

 not the facts,

 not the truth,

 not what is or isn’t;

 the soul.

 The spirit.

 The essence.

 Knowing an existence.

 Love is speaking,

 speaking not with words, but with yourself.

 Your speech,

 your quirks,

 your thoughts,

 your dealings,

 your moods,

 your minds;

 this is you.

 And love is not to use it talk,

 so much as act out your very being.

 When you are you, and they are them,

 and the eyes of your souls meet;

 This is Love.

Labeling and Photos

I feel pretentious labeling my poetry. Especially on my own blog. I guess I have to do it anyway, so it doesn't get stolen (Who'd steal it? Mole people, that's who...). The photo of my profile is a completely different matter that also bothers me. We, as a class, were instructed to put up a picture for our profile from our computer. The closest thing I had was a doctored webcam photo of myself as a Chinese afroed-werewolf in a thunderstorm. It looks dumb, and I think I added it wrong, because it's only showing up for some of the little thumbprint images. So, to you very few people out there who will read this...I am not actually an Asian werewolf from the seventies. Sorry to disappoint.

Blue Lightning

What are the words,
he told me to use?
Be smooth.
What are the words?
I find hazy the memory,
sinking into the dark.
What are the words?
I stand; gibbering,
mumbling, jabbering.
What are the words,
he told me to use?
Be confidant.
But I stand;
a deer caught in headlights.

Paralyzed.

I never knew lightning was blue,
until I saw your eyes.

The words never dribbled
down my chin,
like globby oatmeal,
until I saw your eyes.

What are the words?

- Corey Roth

Concerning ownership of poems

The poems put up on here are all mine so far; that is, Paws, Chaos, and Bones. I'll be sure to put markings labeling ownership under them as I put up more. That being said, you cannot use them unless there's some kind of monetary transaction. I'm not saying they're good enough to be bought, but I would also not appreciate them being stolen. That is all.

Paws

My feet hit the hard earth;
four pads; four claws.
They scrape across the ice,
throwing snow to the sky.

My hands feel the air
between my fingers,
as my feet; my shoes,
do all the hard work.

My eyes don't agree;
with what my nose implies.
That senses follow the heart;
not the mind,
of those they serve.

My heart has killed my mind.
It has run free through the woods,
killing for survival.
It knows the risks;
living on my sleeve,
but it will not be denied
its beautiful freedom.

It lives for the moment;
for the hunt; the kill.
It lives for the chase.

Five fingered hands,
slow down the pursuit.
Shoes take away
the snows powdery embrace.
They will be discarded,
at a moment's notice;
paws will push me
toward my heart's
prey.

Chaos

You speak of control?
You speak of emotion?
You lie; you cage.
You classify my rage;
a thrashing chaos;
a world in flames.
The dancing fires leap,
to the threshold of my veins;
acknowledging freedom's need.
So let my rage fly free.

Do not control my rage.
Do not control my sorrow.
For if you do,
so to do you control the joy
that passion brings.
So bring not your control to me,
for I shall ever dance
across the keys to Chaos' cell.

Love Song Vs. Heritage

I compared T.S. Elliot to Countee Cullen according to several of my teachers peramiters. Here's how that ended up:

1.    Characterize the speaker of the poem. What quality of voice comes through? 

Love Song: The speaker is questioning everything they’ve known. They’ve become fixed on the universe; its nature, and how to relate to it. They know that time is always marching on, and that they will come to pass just as surely as everything does. He knows, or believes that his peak is beyond him, that he’s done what he came here to do, and now he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Because of this his voice came off as listless.

Heritage: The speaker both questioning and sure at the same time. He wonders at what Africa means to him, what his heritage truly means, but he is sure that is a big part of his life. He can’t quite fathom what it’s doing to him, but he knows that it burns bright in his blood, and his restraint is constantly being challenged. He comes off as strong, but unsure.

2. How is the speaker’s cultural tradition and past represented—in terms of images, language, etc? What is the relationship of the speaker of the poem to his past?

Love Song: The speaker’s past is exalted. His culture is an intellectual one, mentioning women talking of Michelangelo, perhaps in a university setting. He seems to hail from city life, possibly near the coast, based on the industrial, and sea imagery.

Heritage: His past is questionable, as he was taught the new ways of the world, but it conflicts with his heritage. Culture permeates this entire poem. Christianity is a part of his new American heritage, and countless references to the jungle and Africa remind the reader of his clashing heritages.

3.    What are some technical poetic devices common to both poems? How do they differ in this respect?

Well, the rhyme schemes sure seem to be exactly the same. They both use imagery, and repetition. Personification also plays a part in both poems. Love song uses more repetition, and Heritage uses more imagery.

4.    Identify any conflicts you notice between the “self” of the speaker and the various interpretations, limitations or expectations his past places on him as an individual and an artist.

Love Song: The speaker limits his future to unanswered questions because he believes his past is as good as life would get, and that he’s done his best/his part for the world. So now he wanders, questioning the point of his future.

Heritage: The speaker seems to find it hard to maintain a life as a good Christian because his heritage keeps shouting at him to become a barbarian. As far as the actual author goes, since you mentioned “artist” being African American, and competing with white poets would have been very difficult at the time.

5. Which speaker seems more like an “American self” to you? Why?

The speaker in “Love Song” seems much more like an “American self” if for no other reason than that the speaker in “Heritage” keeps questioning his heritage to Africa, what it actually means, and how it takes effort to keep the Africa in him under control.

5.    Who is the intended/assumed audience for each speaker’s poem or story?

Love Song: The intended audience is…I don’t know; everybody, probably. That sounds about right. Maybe people who likewise question themselves and their futures.

Heritage: The intended audience is the black community; those who might be trying to find themselves in their peoples’ new land as well; those who question what their heritage really means. It’s also for the people who might be trying to pick up on just how good a black poet could be.

7. Comment on the ways in which each of these writers is restricted by a “single story.” In other words, what story does the reader expect to hear from the poet? How much freedom does the poet have to tell a different story of his own making?

Well, Countee Cullen was completely restricted by a black poet. They expect to read how he’s reconciling the hostilities and problems that come with that. It seems to me that T.S. Elliot would have more freedom with it, but speculation seems to be something that the public would expect.

Bones

My bones scream to me;
they throw themselves against
the sinews and the skin.
They want out; they want air.
My flesh smothers them.
They drown in the earth of myself;
clawing at the dirt;
trapped in the coffin of me.
Soon they will be free of my earth,
when my own body is confined
to the ground,
in a box.