I just finished watching an episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender, called "The Tales of Ba Sing Se." If you haven't watched that show, you should. It's fabulous. A great show you can watch as a family that everyone will enjoy.
In this episode, Sokka accidentally "drops" into a poetry class, in the midst of a haiku lesson. He gets involved in a haiku battle with the teacher and does pretty well, right up until the end, when he puts six syllables on the end instead of five. Of course, he gets kicked out.
There are so many things going on in the world right now, and so many things going on in my personal life. Sometimes, the only way to deal with it is to write poetry. Am I right, moms? Because of Christmas I've been feeling pretty nostalgic, so I decided to share a poem I wrote about Nostalgia. There is a lot of meaning in this poem, and this is pretty much my blog for this week. Call it the lazy way out. But I love writing poetry, and whether it's good or not, it's an expression and communication of my experiences. (See Tolstoy's definition of art)
In this episode, Sokka accidentally "drops" into a poetry class, in the midst of a haiku lesson. He gets involved in a haiku battle with the teacher and does pretty well, right up until the end, when he puts six syllables on the end instead of five. Of course, he gets kicked out.
There are so many things going on in the world right now, and so many things going on in my personal life. Sometimes, the only way to deal with it is to write poetry. Am I right, moms? Because of Christmas I've been feeling pretty nostalgic, so I decided to share a poem I wrote about Nostalgia. There is a lot of meaning in this poem, and this is pretty much my blog for this week. Call it the lazy way out. But I love writing poetry, and whether it's good or not, it's an expression and communication of my experiences. (See Tolstoy's definition of art)
Nostalgia
A
fire-laden sun beat down like the hair-dryer on hot,
the
ants all argued with each other about the smell of the rotten apples.
Waves
rose from the blacktop, begging for that rain-on-hot-cement aroma
while
the robins sang C sharp to make blue
and
Jenny would talk about her trip to Yellowstone;
but
the rain didn’t diminish the waves that day.
I
could taste homemade vanilla ice cream as it melted, sticky on my lips
until
I cried, “Oh snap! Brain chill!”
because
if I didn’t walk back to Jenny’s now, we would climb the mountains to the east.
Are we human, or are we dancer?
the
sensitive boys of our town would say.
Our
brains would whisper and shout in the soft columns of pleasure,
made
me jump over the flat, tarred rooftop until I sang.
Her
sister said “Moose! Come down from there!”
We
will both have no daughters,
those
magnificent lawn chair straps as our trophies.
Our
shoes can dance from rock to stream to fairyland!
Solstitialem oblitus!
Damn
ants, they came back to tell me they wanted my soda.
Now
I hear the pitter patter,
smell
the watered hot cement,
see
the red robins still digging and singing
before
the summer’s over.
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