justomnitings

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V. Music and Rhythm

Chapter 27:

I woke up angry again today

but my blankets were warm and my pillows soft

so at least I could function.

I painted my room yellow to let in the joy,

to hold onto the Sun even when winter snatches

the day away with icy, greedy fingers.

My phone broke, but I suppose that’s for the best

This is the most present I’ve been in a while.

I scared myself the other day, but it was only my hair

kissing my shoulders for the first time in moons.

Numbers are constantly running through my mind

My spirits hum in hushed voices against the walls of my home.

There is wine and rum and incense.

Laughter bounces

Anger flies

Sadness thuds

And I am different in all the same ways.

When I was a teenager, I realized that rap was poetry. Take away the beats, the drums, and maybe even some of the flair-- and there's poetry pure and simple. The musicality is apparent in the flow, the rhythm, the bounce in the words.

That's what I want to harness in my poetry, and one of the things I feel I struggle with. One of the best things about the artform of rap is its use of rhyme and clever language tricks that showcase the proficiency and skill of the performers, but in my novice state I not only don't have a grasp on rhyme-- truthfully, I don't even like using rhyme in my work!

But I still want that musicality, I want the flow and the bounce, but I am unsure of how to make that happen. I would love nothing more than to get some insight and advice from anyone out there.

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IV. Image and Metaphor

I went to the Black Queer Creative Writing Club on February 18th. I almost didn't go: I was very drained from a full day on campus and a particularly debilitating Differential Equations class. I wanted nothing more than to go straight home, drop the weight of the world from my shoulders if only for a minute, snuggle my cats, and get lost somewhere between my comforter and my mattress.

But I was getting a ride home that day. A ride from my partner of nearly ten years, who was there in the car with me when the Google Calendar notification I set a month before went off. Not to get too deep into our conversation, but he essentially cajoled me into going, saying that it would be good for me to help recoup from the long day and to get more into the new medium I've been exploring.

Long story short, I had a great time.

Not only was I able to connect with other poets like me, I also was able to practice writing and sharing my work with others. I got so many compliments on my work, and it really boosted my confidence. I didn't realize it then, but I was engaging with the theme of this blog post: image and metaphor.

Here's one of the poems I wrote that evening:

If I Ruled the World

The thing about me is that I do believe in getting

my lick back.

I believe in retribution.

I am Saturn’s Daughter

holding Pluto’s Gun

and baptized in Mars’s Rage.

You will feel me

rock the Earth

beneath the weight of my Ancestors’ cries.

Our screams will rip apart the sky

and our tears will bring the ocean to your door.

But when all is said and done

When their transgressions are washed into the sea

and when the tide resides

We will languish beneath a dome

So full of stars

On freshly watered green

Spirits clean.

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III. Word Substitution Poetry

Alternative Title: Starlight, Substitutions, and Strapped for Time

There're two things imperative to this blog post that would help anybody reading understand me as a writer and a person:

I love space and the stars.

I am chronically, regretfully late.

I developed my time sensitivity impairment (haha) sometime in childhood, perhaps as a coping mechanism for dealing with my own mother's "condition", but that's another story.

It's embarrassing to admit, but I forgot about this particular assignment until the day it was due-- an hour before it was due, in fact. I'd spent all day doing Math homework (if anyone out there is any good at differential equations, please hit me up!), then my evening doing a paper for my Existentialism class (if anybody out there is interested in talking about Nietzsche, get some help), so by the time I checked D2L to make sure I could actually relax it was nearly 11 o'clock at night. Imagine my shock and horror when I saw my first Poetry class assignment due in a little more than thirty minutes and I had nothing to show for it.

Needless to say, I panicked. I'd never heard of the people I was meant to emulate (Eileen Myles who?) but one of the most beautiful things about poetry is how short the work tends to be. The act of reading it took seconds at most, but the writing of course...

I've not written a lot of poetry, but I have fallen in love with a theme in my poetry when I do, and that is stars.

I've loved space and the cosmos all my life, with my passion for it emerging in high school following the release of the Hubble Deep Field photos (go check them out!). For me, they represent the past, possibilities, and-- oddly enough-- a deep sense of longing. The best emotion I can relate to it is homesickness. A homesickness that reaches my core, like a bottomless well that always pangs within me. So, when I was pressed for a poem, all I had to do was reach down into the starry night within me.

No one was able to read my poem however; I posted it too late for anyone to notice. I hope that I can get some input on it now though. Please let me know~

To the Stars                                                                               

when I look up                                                                                   

at you                                                                                                 

how sad to think                                                                             

of dead satellites                                                                                      

obstructing us

I’m stuck here

on the ground

Yet here we are

bright and blinking

The unkillable two

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II. Introduction to Poetry

I never really got poetry.

When I was young, I remember being sat in front of a brightly colored piece of construction paper and a handful of crayons with instructions to 'make a pretty poem' rattling around in my head. I'd stare at that indignantly blank paper and those miserable crayons for minutes that last eternities, trying to come up with anything that wasn't the childish, yet evergreen: Roses are red, violets are blue...

But ultimately, that's usually what I would end up writing anyways, furiously scribbling it in at the last minute before a teacher would come by to grab up our work.

Maybe it is because of that that I never got into it personally, even when writing became my life's purpose, my obsession. I was a fierce lover and creator of prose, but I just couldn't bring myself to write or read poetry for myself.

That's not to say I completely wrote it off though-- I just concluded that, while I was a writer, I was not a poet. Poetry was for those real artsy people, the willowy hipster and downtrodden emo. It was for the heartbroken teen dropping mascara-stained tears into their journals. It was for the girls who wore long skirts and headwraps, armfuls of beaded crystal bangles clinking as they swung and moaned in front of an open mic.

I just didn't think I was one of those people, those poetry types, and I was fine with that.

But then I stopped writing entirely for a few years, only picking it up to write papers for school every now and then. I hadn't written for pleasure in quite some time, at least since the pandemic. I didn't turn my back on it all at once, no switch flipped. But a purposeful dimming that I eventually grew very accustomed to. When I joined Dr. Byrd's Creative Writing class last semester, I did so with the hope that something would be reignited.

And to my surprise, it was an intense interest in poetry.

I found so much joy in starting and finishing poems, in reading them, in feeling the emotion inherent to them. There was a beauty there that I could not appreciate in my childhood, something that time and wisdom had to train my eyes and mind to understand.

Since then, I have started attending regular open mics and reading and writing poetry. This has given me the opportunity to get back to writing more in general. Poetry helped me get back to myself in a big way.

It helped turn the lights back on.

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I. Introduction

My love for writing was born out of a love for reading. I remember how voracious my appetite for books was in my youth; anything and everything I could get my hands on was a treat, but I absolutely had my favorites:

Junie B. Jones Series

Guardians of Ga'Hoole Series

Percy Jackson Series

Harry Potter

Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry

Their Eyes Were Watching God

And the list goes on and on...

But what prompted-- no, propelled me into writing was Beloved by Toni Morrison. My mother got the book for me when I was around 8 or 9, and if you've ever read it, you'd probably think I would be too young to understand the complex storylines and nuances that Morrison masterfully weaved into this seminal work of hers-- and you'd be right.

I couldn't really comprehend the metaphors or allusions, but I was moved nevertheless by the unique and beautiful way she crafted that story. It has stuck with me ever since.

When I envisioned my life as a writer, I always thought I would be emulating my idol, Toni Morrison, by writing novels like she did. That being said, I did not put much thought into poetry until very recently. Last semester was the first time that I'd ever felt the pull to read poetry, not just because of assignments being due but because there was something that resonated so deeply in me with that art form. Since the conclusion of the semester, I have read and written poetry willfully, joyfully, several times and I am so excited to do more of both.

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Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase

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Deadass if try guys had a patreon tier where for 20 bucks I could hear becky and Eugene go off, they’d make back all their lost revenue

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Available as a print!

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My shop is officially open! All pins have been restocked and new ones have been added. All merch is pre-stocked and ready to ship!

mothcharm.com

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sorry for bothering everyone again lol but I really need money for my mom's medical bills. she isn't really doing all that well - going blind in one eye which will require surgery on her cornea + she needs new heart medication/treatments to prevent a stroke - it's stressing us out cause most of it won't be covered by insurance rip. the pandemic rlly fucked me over and I had to leave one of my jobs due to a racist, islamophobic manager and it's really getting too much oops

any little bit (and a reblog!) helps out

PayPal.me/ilhammm

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This variant of the Goldentail / Bastard Moray is known as the Banana Eel due to its colouration and markings resembling a ripe banana.

(source)

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💸 Abundance flows to me with ease 💚 I attract all forms of green into my life 🔮 The Universe works in my favor

Have a blessed day everyone! ✨🐍

[justomnitings]

“Writing is a very vulnerable thing. But it’s also the safest thing. Because when you’re sitting and writing something personal, you are completely, at that moment, unexposed. It’ll only, after that, kind of open up to more and more people, and eventually it’ll be out there for everybody. But it’s the easiest thing to do alone in a room, when you don’t have to show an actor, you don’t have to show an executive… there’s safety on the page. To start.”

— Mike Flanagan, ep. 266, “The Boo Crew”

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Baby elephant thought man was drowning and rushed to save him

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Hey, if you’re not black and can’t get out and protest but want to know how you can help black people, consider donating to the Black Covid Relief Fund which goes directly to black people who’ve been affected by this pandemic. Black People are being disproportionately affected by this virus and anything you can give helps.