this is a poem composed in my writing class last year. I am a little more self-conscious about my poetry than my prose, but this one I liked, so I hope it sits well with everyone in blog land!!
in the winter tree branches snap
splintering like old bones
snap, crackle
they remind me of her
because she reminds me of breakfast cereal
seems like a good idea at the time
but always leaves me hungry later
it’s my fault really
should have had the whole balanced breakfast
but all of her is a pointless dream
like bran muffins and orange slices
my boots are waterproof
but my toes are wet anyways
mostly because labels lie
and a little because they tell the truth
the snow turns to water and leaks in
leaks in like milk with its rolling whiteness
breakfast is everywhere
I’m hungry or lonely
both I suppose
because I hate to eat alone
supposed to be able
to feel winter chill in my bones
but I’ve never felt my bones
not even when I broke my leg
then I just felt the skin all around
swelling up to hug the break
flushed with the love of it
the rest of me all white
like the snow
like milk
like her
snap, crackle again as I cross the ice
she is everywhere
because she is dangerous
but no one puts up warning signs
I might go under
walking on thin ice
or eggshells
all over the counter after breakfast
don’t cry over broken egg shells
they look like spilt milk
all white
like suburbia
all white
all cold
all alone
like wintertime
here I am walking away from it all
from her, snow white
over thin ice
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Welcome to the Blog
Hello and welcome to the blog. I am here avoiding some serious writer's block by, ironically enough, writing. I am trying to work on my summer novel project that I have started up with My Hero, as he is also a writer and we thought it would be a fun and couply thing to do, because that is what writerly nerds do. I, however, am having trouble getting started, the plot is sorted, it's just finding the opening that seems to be the problem. Without revealing the story, I shall tell you that our idea is not to write passages together but rather to trade off between two characters on a chapter by chapter basis, my character a woman and his a man... this is of course a fantasy novel. There live intersect at various points and it is kind of a battle to see which character will end up more sympathetic, given each is a hero in his/her own story and pretty close to a villain in the other character's story. I am excited.... if only I could find out where to being.
In any event, I am going to have to give up soon and jump in bed as I am started a new job tomorrow, not a dream job, but something that will minimum wage my way through the next two symesters.
This was indeed lovely,
Ebon
In any event, I am going to have to give up soon and jump in bed as I am started a new job tomorrow, not a dream job, but something that will minimum wage my way through the next two symesters.
This was indeed lovely,
Ebon
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Yggdrasill's Cradle
This is my rendition of a Norse myth, please enjoy!
These stories are all old to them, the norns, weaving away at their tapestry. I watch them, but they do not care for me. I am just a tiny rodent, my name Ratatoskr a small stitch in their unfurling battles of giants and gods. Ratatoskr, doomed to run from end to end of the dying trunk of Yggdrasill from the beginning to Ragnarok, poor little red squirrel. I see my life as no such doom at all, my fur still safe from the eagles and the snakes, and my eyes seeing all the nine worlds from Asgard to Niflheim, where as they, poor old fates and their calloused fingers just sit hunched and gnarled as Yggdrasill’s roots. They never really see.
Norns, doomed to report but never to be.
My feet fly me across the notches of the great trunk, the sights familiar, the glittering body of the Midgard Serpent twisting below me and the sprawl of branches above. I feel the familiar wood, but sense something amiss. The vibrations of the wood are wrong, something too large and two legged is trespassing in great Yggdrasill.
I spiral back down the tree, rounding the thick trunk in a moment, and see what has caused the upset.
A man, heavy with the armaments of a warrior is making his way deftly up towards the high sprawling branches. A warrior the Valkyries have led astray perhaps? Some poor soul who cannot hear the call to Valhalla? It matters little, for Hel will surely come and claim him soon.
I turn to leave, but hesitate, watching a moment more. He does not seem so unsteady here, he has some goal, I am sure now. I envy the norns a little in moments such as these, with their old stories, for they already know the purpose and the end of this trespasser.
His face turns up towards me, fair skinned and white bearded. One eye remains closed, the socket empty, while the other stares up blue, wise and purposeful.
I freeze to my place, knowing at once who this is, the eyeless hole in his face marking him. His other eye sits at the bottom of a well, sacrificed for wisdom. What purpose is Odin now trying to accomplish with his wisdom?
I follow out of sight as he ascends further. The eagles surge down to meet him with silvery talons and the snakes rise to hold him down and bite him with silvery teeth, but he cuts trough all with a powerful arm. What are snakes and birds to a man who has slain giants? His sword must barely notice. When his arms raise I see a wound in his side, from whence it came I do not know, but it does not slow the elder god in his climb.
Yggdrasill’s pests soon abandon their attack on one-eyed Odin and he shortly reaches the lower branches of the great World Tree. This seems to be his destination.
He looses a length of rope from around his waist and flings one end over a thick and sturdy branch. The dangling end he ties deftly into a noose, wrapping it around his own neck. I watch, transfixed, as he pushes away from his perch on the trunk and the noose chokes up on his throat.
I have never seen such a thing in all my years. For nine days I keep vigil, cold and still, abandoning my purpose to watch the as Odin dangles still, his feet knocking together as his limp body is pushed by the breeze. For nine days he rocks slowly, suspended from Yggdrasill’s great cradle of branches.
On the ninth day, Odin stirs and at once cuts himself down, latching to Yggdrasill as he falls. He stands still for a moment and I venture close as I dare, seeing new knowledge in his blue eye.
I understand now this was another of his sacrifices, like his eye. This time, he has been granted the power of the runes. Strong old magic.
Odin begins his journey back, resolute as ever. Content to watch him no more, I make my way back to the norns, seeing if this great happening has disturbed them. But still they sit, weaving away. I suddenly think my speculations foolish.
Of course, they already knew.
These stories are all old to them, the norns, weaving away at their tapestry. I watch them, but they do not care for me. I am just a tiny rodent, my name Ratatoskr a small stitch in their unfurling battles of giants and gods. Ratatoskr, doomed to run from end to end of the dying trunk of Yggdrasill from the beginning to Ragnarok, poor little red squirrel. I see my life as no such doom at all, my fur still safe from the eagles and the snakes, and my eyes seeing all the nine worlds from Asgard to Niflheim, where as they, poor old fates and their calloused fingers just sit hunched and gnarled as Yggdrasill’s roots. They never really see.
Norns, doomed to report but never to be.
My feet fly me across the notches of the great trunk, the sights familiar, the glittering body of the Midgard Serpent twisting below me and the sprawl of branches above. I feel the familiar wood, but sense something amiss. The vibrations of the wood are wrong, something too large and two legged is trespassing in great Yggdrasill.
I spiral back down the tree, rounding the thick trunk in a moment, and see what has caused the upset.
A man, heavy with the armaments of a warrior is making his way deftly up towards the high sprawling branches. A warrior the Valkyries have led astray perhaps? Some poor soul who cannot hear the call to Valhalla? It matters little, for Hel will surely come and claim him soon.
I turn to leave, but hesitate, watching a moment more. He does not seem so unsteady here, he has some goal, I am sure now. I envy the norns a little in moments such as these, with their old stories, for they already know the purpose and the end of this trespasser.
His face turns up towards me, fair skinned and white bearded. One eye remains closed, the socket empty, while the other stares up blue, wise and purposeful.
I freeze to my place, knowing at once who this is, the eyeless hole in his face marking him. His other eye sits at the bottom of a well, sacrificed for wisdom. What purpose is Odin now trying to accomplish with his wisdom?
I follow out of sight as he ascends further. The eagles surge down to meet him with silvery talons and the snakes rise to hold him down and bite him with silvery teeth, but he cuts trough all with a powerful arm. What are snakes and birds to a man who has slain giants? His sword must barely notice. When his arms raise I see a wound in his side, from whence it came I do not know, but it does not slow the elder god in his climb.
Yggdrasill’s pests soon abandon their attack on one-eyed Odin and he shortly reaches the lower branches of the great World Tree. This seems to be his destination.
He looses a length of rope from around his waist and flings one end over a thick and sturdy branch. The dangling end he ties deftly into a noose, wrapping it around his own neck. I watch, transfixed, as he pushes away from his perch on the trunk and the noose chokes up on his throat.
I have never seen such a thing in all my years. For nine days I keep vigil, cold and still, abandoning my purpose to watch the as Odin dangles still, his feet knocking together as his limp body is pushed by the breeze. For nine days he rocks slowly, suspended from Yggdrasill’s great cradle of branches.
On the ninth day, Odin stirs and at once cuts himself down, latching to Yggdrasill as he falls. He stands still for a moment and I venture close as I dare, seeing new knowledge in his blue eye.
I understand now this was another of his sacrifices, like his eye. This time, he has been granted the power of the runes. Strong old magic.
Odin begins his journey back, resolute as ever. Content to watch him no more, I make my way back to the norns, seeing if this great happening has disturbed them. But still they sit, weaving away. I suddenly think my speculations foolish.
Of course, they already knew.
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