Bunnyrabbit's diary: +broken jpegs edition+

I think it must be hard to be friends with me because I give out mixed signals. Sorry.

But anyway, I wrote this poem last night. I had a line in my head that I'll probably end up using eventually ("They had to add twelve inches to accomodate her ears") but I didn't use it at all here. I like writing poetry so much more than writing fiction and I write poetry a lot. I wanted to write something to mark the occasion of the end of normal, lazy girl Bunny. This is what I got.

On the Day Before

Last year's trees
Hunched still from winter's abracadabra
Black with scars and ripped bare limbed,
Stand taller tonight.

They've shaken out the canvas-colored colonies
Removed the sot and moss lined innards
For the chance to raise high, tribally, one arm
Aimed up, one down.

He is like a grandfather
A witness to small summer amber girls
From seedlings he saw, and
From spider infested roped goodyears.

So like one of his own, and
When the call goes out it is a silent weep
Heard through the dense scrim of night time blue
Carried in the bellies of bugs.

A yell of pride
Collected like vintage wine, it has stirred in his mouth,
Already open as wide as the moon,
It stirs the old gang.

24 August 2003

College tomorrow, new life, Bunny. Tree in the backyard, been there since forever.

When I was editing an online poetry zine, the guy who owned it (and the main say-so guy) told me that I write old poetry. I asked him what that meant and he said people don't write poetry like I do anymore. I didn't know if that was a compliment or insult. I'm starting to think it was a compliment. Ha. I remember when I had the poetic hots for Wallace Stevens and tried writing like he did and I just couldn't. There is always a sense of whimsy and Alice-In-Wonderland-ishness about his poetry and I totally dug it. But I'm a bad copier because all of my "inspired" (as I fancied it) poetry sounded like 2nd rate crap.

Dance of the Macabre Mice

In the land of turkeys in turkey weather
At the base of the statue, we go round and round.
What a beautiful history, beautiful surprise!
Monsieur in on horseback. The horse is covered with mice.

This dance has no name. It is a hungry dance.
We dance it out to the tip of Monsieur's sword,
Reading the lordly language of the inscription,
Which is like zithers and tambourines combined:

The Founder of the Statue. Whoever founded
A statue that was free, in the dead of winter, from mice?

What a beautiful tableau tinted and towering,
The arm of bronze outstretched against all evil

- Wallace Stevens

SEEEEE??? I looove Stevens. LOL Then though, I crushed (poetically) on Ezra Pound but I was better at mimicing Stevens. Ezra Pound - I wanted to be him. He's so high above me, so genius, so... yeah. Like I said, I'm a terrible copycat so it's best to stick with what I have... which isn't much, but it's better than Jewel.

::snicker::