Oct. 27th, 2004 09:36 pm
aithne: (hat looking down)
finally got to the end of my chapter. I'm not done by a long shot, and I need to let it sit a day or so while I stew on a couple of things (convenient that tomorrow's a day in which there is no writing time scheduled whatsoever), but I should be out of this chapter and onto the next by the end of the week.

I wrote like a fiend tonight, made dinner for myself (mmm curry), and just did the dishes. All in all, it's been a productive evening, and I think I might cap it off by making an early night of it.

It's very strange, still, to not have the two bookcases that used to be down here in the living room. I sort of didn't like it at first, and now I'm liking it better, and ways to rearrange that part of the living room are occurring to me.

I've also been working on a new poem, for the first time in a while. This isn't done by any means, but it's enough of a draft that I feel like I can let it peek out into the world.

beyond here be poetry )
aithne: (angel (happy))
Whoa. it's been a while.

mostly because I find it difficult to write poetry when I'm happy without descending into saccharine cliche.

I'm not saying that this avoids said cliche, but it is indeed a happy poem, so.

no longer a tourist in happiness )
aithne: (Default)
This isn't exactly what I was aiming for when I set out writing, but this is what it turned into.

maybe we're a bliss of another kind )
aithne: (angel)
...but I discovered tonight that it's not on my LJ and thus not in my Memories section, and I'm a wee bit of a completist, so.

This one's meaning's a bit shy. It's sort of about sex. Well...kinda. It's also about other stuff. Er.

the path that lightning follows )


Dec. 2nd, 2003 10:10 am
aithne: (Default)
I think this one never managed to make it to my writing section.

cut for, yes, old poetry. )

uh. Poem.

Oct. 29th, 2003 09:29 pm
aithne: (Default)
It just sort of slipped out.

No, I have no idea who Catsumirande is, either. I do know that the name is pronounced, "cat-SU-mir-and".

beyond here be poetry... )


Aug. 5th, 2003 09:36 am
aithne: (Default)
This...just wrote itself just now.

cut for verse )
aithne: (Default)
I had some ideas on how to edit it, so you get to see it again. this is much closer to finished.

aren't you tired of this poem already? )


Apr. 13th, 2003 09:18 am
aithne: (Default)
The cats got me up at about 8:30 or so, and I'm not hungry for breakfast yet, so I thought I'd spend some time doing some writing before I got on with my day. I have lots of marvelous unstructured time today; I need to clean house and write an article for Chris, but other than that i can do pretty much whatever. I'm hoping i can put together a couple more book covers; I was thinking about painting the CD chest, but alas, it's all damp out so that wouldn't be a good idea.

I did spend some time writing poetry. Whee! (It's not wonderful, but, hey, it's been a while.)

poetry beyond here, yarr! )
aithne: (Default)
a note to the redhead

Nine years now, and I am only lately
realizing how beautiful you are;
your hair falling away from your face
precious as a cat's lifted to the sunlight.
The seeing eye clouded, the bad eye clear,
your knowledge of the heart clearer than blue.
I feel a hunger to know you
another decade, and another;
and after that, to tag along
as long as you will have me,
till we are both old ladies who snore
delicately in the afternoons, when the cats
puddle around our feet and purr.
aithne: (Default)
shopping list

I want
a new heart. One that is not stupid,
one only lightly worn without a lot of miles on it.
One with extra logic circuits and digital technology.
I am tired of my analog emotions and desire something more precise.

I want
a new illness. This one bores me.
It's all very tiresome to have something so pedestrian
that yet cannot be fixed with all of medical science's new devices.
I want to trade it in on something newer, more exotic, and more importantly curable.

I want
a new calendar. One that does not roll
over year after year, where grey January is followed by dreary February
and you have to live for April and May.
I want a calendar where the months are named after plants.

I want
a new world. Something tasty, for me to discover
and gnaw on when I'm down to the rind.
A new place, where travel is cheap and nobody is trying to kill me.
I dislike this one right now and am thinking about trading up.

Also, I need milk.
As long as I'm at the store.
aithne: (Default)
because I was not expecting to miss you

I am pealing, hollow like a bell,
away in the steeple over the hill,
far-off and faint. A sound that lingers
pooling as mist does in the rucked-up earth
left by glaciers, slow like granite,
struck dumb by a hammer, a rope.

struck dumb, by rope, by hillock,
scraped and stretched and left to dry,
marvelous golden tone wasted by distance
and by the inescapable speed,
limited always by physics.

Limited by physics, in the steeple
I am swinging, swinging, swung.
I am empty as water, I kneel
below the campanille, praying:
let this pass, let this pass over
and let me feel no more.

And hollow as a bell,
I peal.

Let there be an end to sorrow.
aithne: (Default)
on hearing the news that you will be married next June

You were never mine.

History was against us, time and tide and terror,
my hand in yours for only a while. So I
am happy for you, knowing that you
have tasted him and found him good enough
to keep.

The boundaries that divide the centuries,
the young year spinning up;
I am sure that the day of your wedding
will be sweet and calm and I am also sure
that I will not be invited.

But I wonder still if your body remembers my hands
as I remember yours; your body
welcoming my entire hand, your heartbeat
thick and fast as I hold you and you cry
again. again.

March 2017



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