Ravyn Flight

El idioma de amor

2008-05-28T18:14:00.000-07:00

De nuevo, ella sienta
la toca
de su Musa.
Viviendo sola,
en la ciudad
de historia y amor,
ella sienta.

Metaphor

2007-09-24T11:10:00.000-07:00

She watches helplessly
as her life creeps
on without her,
without asking
her consent
to continue.
She can't help
but to tolerate
the blatant
disregard for
her authority.
It's not fair,
she thought as
she sat in the
backseat of
her metaphorical car.

Love's Philosophy

2006-01-19T07:12:00.000-08:00

Telling you that I miss you
doesn't say anything at all.
Whispering that I love you
doesn't explain what I feel.
Every love poem ever written
is far less than insufficient,
and every love song ever sung
is nothing more than wind.
Every word ever used
to attempt to describe this--
a thing called "love"--
is nothing more than
a child's meandering babble.
Every piece of art created
to portray to the eye this "love"
tries to minimize something
which transcends all the senses
into only one.
Every prescious stone ever given
in "love's" sweet name is nothing,
only a biproduct of nature.
But every kiss that has followed
all of these in true, pure love,
these are those inexpressable,
inexhaustable truths
and unportrayable sensations.
And so, my love, it is nothing more
than a simple, honest kiss
that I give you.
And with it, my love.

This Rose

2006-01-19T07:09:00.000-08:00

This rose was not trampled,
nor was it crushed, dropped, forgotten.
It has not lain here in abuse,
nor was it thrown here by force.
This rose has never been stepped on,
nor has any rough hand ever touched it.
Nay, this rose was ever so knowingly,
lovingly, and ever so gently
pulled apart.

Not really so amusing

2006-01-19T07:05:00.000-08:00

A wedding is a funny thing,
intricate, happy, yet simple and sad.
The bride and groom happily kiss
and take each ring and vow,
but somehow tears also veil the bride.
A mother and father gayly spend,
yet cry when giving their child away.
But the funniest thing about a wedding
is those who came to witness it.
Some laugh and applaud, smile yet cry
at the wondrous beauty of it all.
But I do not laugh, nor do I smile,
I only cry inside, and mourn
for everything I shall never have.

Costly

2006-01-19T06:58:00.000-08:00

Every teardrop I cry
crochets
another row of lace
on the wedding gown
I
will never wear
Each clear, pure tear
details
a delicate spiderweb
in the dazzling white
I
will never wear
Every bright diamond drop
weaves
an intricate snowflake
on the virgin gown
I
will never wear

Romance of Rain

2005-10-14T08:06:00.000-07:00

Each round, perfect, crystalline drop,

Falling, racing, flying,

Wishes deep within itself to find

Another further down to join.

Missive

2005-06-04T19:22:00.000-07:00

Picking up the pen
and setting it down again;
the paper is mottled with tears.
Pressing on the pen
the ink bleeds blackened words
onto the wrinkled paper.
Picking up the paper
folding it over again;
the paper has some small tears.
Pressing on the paper
and sliding it into the envelope;
the paper catches and tears again.
Picking up the envelope
and licking the flap;
papercutting the tongue.
Pressing shut the envelope
and picking up a stamp;
the address is unimportant anymore.

Yeah, nice try...

2005-05-30T15:19:00.000-07:00

smiles and wishes and kisses and dares
flowered pink bathingsuits and Disney towels
curls and sunscreen and visine and stares

...aw screw it...i can't write right about childhood right now...

Canal Street

2005-05-23T08:06:00.000-07:00

She stood on the balcony over-looking Canal Street, her bathrobe wrapped carelessly around her lithe body. She leaned forward against the railing, oblivious of the slipping terry cloth revealing her pink-tipped breast, chin in her hand, watching.
The bed lay unmade behind her, the sheets rumpled and twisted around his body as he lay sleeping, unaware that the light saw his entire body, exposed. The fan whistled softly as the air caressed his skin gently under its whispered command.
The parade passing below was ignorant of her magnificent presence, of the perfection the horses and riders and trumpets and glorious little miniature men and women did not look up to appreciate. The sun’s golden rays did not even stop to kiss the face of this goddess, passing instead onto the balconies lining the west bank of the canal. Neither did the sour-sweet scent of the incense rising from the hand of the cloaked priest soar so high as to intoxicate her senses, dismally resigning itself to the less-preferred undeserving people lining the sidewalks.
A sigh escaped from her lips, its inaudible words sharing with the world the night of bliss in a moment. Negligent of the white folds of her robe, she leaned back and stretched to pull a bit of cotton from the clouds, the perfectly preserved Venus of days past on display for all who never knew she existed.
The sheets behind her rustled and she turned, a heavenly smile floating softly about her mouth. Moving away from the view into the microcosm that is Canal Street, she stepped back into the unbounded space of their world, the soft white pile of terry cloth on the carpet behind her the only evidence that she really had touched the clouds.

(c) Brianna Grantham 2005

Dulce de Leche

2005-05-23T08:03:00.000-07:00

fresh-cut lilies lying
soft
against the pale white
soft
curve of her young
soft
rigor mortis small breast

(c) Brianna Grantham 2005

Acid-Free Paper

2005-05-20T09:07:00.000-07:00

A want-to-be Picasso
splatters paint across
the canvas
of my heart
The art school drop-out
sketches the fragments
of a dying rose
in red crayon
Some free-lance photographer
captures the tear falling
from eyes
in black and white
and freezes it forever
on acid-free paper

2005-05-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

Finally violated copyright and scanned my pics!

Philosophies in the Absence of Socrates

2005-05-06T18:53:00.000-07:00

Some things just ought not to be held onto...others we are never able to let go of...the difficult part is learning which ones are which--and that is life.

Only fools and children can ever be truly, wonderfully, bluntly honest without fear of retribution.

It's the little people who truly make the world go round, the big ones merely slow it up.

Actors do on-stage what the rest of us will not admit that we do daily in public.

An actor's life is a dream, the one we all long for: of escape into a world where anything is possible and everything is beautiful and even tragic endings are magnificent.

Love is not a flame, it is an icebox: tend it properly and keep it at the right temperature and it'll work right, let it get too cold and it'll freeze, too hot and everything will spoil.

The only thing which never changes is the one thing humans have no control over: time.

Smile at a stranger, it says so much more than the words you're too shy to say.

Life is a ferris wheel: ride it with the right people and it's a dream full of stars and cotton candy, with the wrong ones and it's a sick stomach and a head hanging over the side.

(all above random and unrelated quotes are original by me, Brianna Grantham (c) 2005)

The World Inside Out

2005-05-02T18:38:00.000-07:00

When the rain sets the house on fire
and the matches are nowhere to be found,
When the air drowns the soldier
and the ocean is nowhere to be found,
When the emptiness swallows the key,
and the crowd is nowhere to be found,
When the walls shatter all to pieces
and the windows are nowhere to be found,
When the dandelions come crashing down
and the chainsaw is nowhere to be found,
everything is real again.

Strip-Mall

2005-04-25T18:25:00.000-07:00

it's a sad, dingy strip mall
and it's closing down
after today

the red shopping cart
with the errant wheel
will remain

the holiday half-off sale
will strengthen and
never end

the greasy fingerprints
on toddler-level glass
are tattooed

the two bolted benches
covered in gum
will harden

the pristine lanscaping
over-run by weeds
now racing

the empty parking lot
marred by stripes
you painted

Lost

2005-04-20T19:50:00.000-07:00

these great big bones are quiet now

but they talked once

they talked and they sang

and painted

they told stories and tales

of men and women

who lived long long ago

they sang of the exploits

of great heroes and maidens

of a time long-lost

and they painted the faces

of a generation of people

who've long stopped being

these great big bones held more

than just a body on them--

they held a heritage

Fragments

2005-04-18T18:22:00.000-07:00

Friendships falling apart

into tiny black diamonds

patterned on the ground

malleable and shapeless

open to interpretation.

Friendships in chess

each piece a new move

yet another argument.

It's your move now.

Take it.

Hidden Silence

2005-04-13T22:12:00.000-07:00

Faded satin ballet slippers

tip-toeing slowly, quietly,

down the carpeted hall.

Stolid grey eyes following

from crooked daguerrotypes,

rearranged ashes re-shifting.

Knicked old oaken door

creaking sweetly, mournfully,

entrance into the forbidden.

Philosophies, conversations and a window into my soul

2005-04-11T19:17:00.000-07:00

liver-bellied dandilions carpet my rotting floor. this house is built of cotton but it ain't white no more. ashes of flesh make dust in the corners and the trees outside are all dead. the axe is blunt and the knives are all dull. there hasn't been water in these pipes in years. great big spiders reside in inky nothingness where once glass held the world at bay. the floorboards are warped. ain't nobody opened that front door in years. ain't been no mail since we all died but the milkman still comes. i drink a jar of milk every day and leave him the empty ones at night. the ice box is full of nothing just corpses frozen in position. that treehouse out back is gone. the neighbor boys pulled it down. black demon smoke streaking toward a heavenly hell when they burned the water-logged planks. and we are all dead now.

Ravyn1725: i want to write again
Ravyn1725: i want to create art again...and i don't have time
Stop 9: you will
Ravyn1725: but i want to now!!!
Ravyn1725: it's in my head now!
Ravyn1725: my fingers itch
Ravyn1725: what i just wrote...that's how i feel
Ravyn1725: but i have more in me, things from my muse, poems, tales, pictures
Ravyn1725: ...and they're trapped
Ravyn1725: and suffocating
Stop 9: :-(
Ravyn1725: and once they've run out of air...they'll be lost
Ravyn1725: the day will come when art will lose its place in society
Ravyn1725: and it's already begun
Ravyn1725: we no longer write masterpieces characterized by blood, sweat and tears, now we write New York Times bestsellers--because the publisher pre-sold a certain number of copies to chain book stores across the world
Ravyn1725: we no longer write poetry, we write song lyrics
Ravyn1725: we no longer sculpt and paint and draw
Ravyn1725: we build monuments to our egos
Ravyn1725: we publish political cartoons
Ravyn1725: we are losing art
Ravyn1725: why?
Ravyn1725: because society--as shaped by the government and the world at large (and what is the world but what it is defined to be by the government?)
Ravyn1725: have made it impossible for the artist to live
Ravyn1725: we are controlled by the tiny hands of the clock
Ravyn1725: and the green staked snake $
Ravyn1725: we no longer know what love is
Ravyn1725: we have explored sexual passion ad nauseum
Ravyn1725: but love has been forgotten
Ravyn1725: we have devalued life
Ravyn1725: and what is art?
Ravyn1725: art is the preservation of love, of passion
Ravyn1725: and what is life?
Ravyn1725: life is love, life is passion
Ravyn1725: if we have devalued these, we have tied the noose about art, and stand waiting only for the floor to drop beneath his feet
Ravyn1725: it makes me nauseated to think of all the things I may have missed simply because I was working on school work
Stop 9: :-( it sucks
Ravyn1725: i understand why thomas edison failed out of school
Ravyn1725: why einstein's math teachers thought he was mentally weak
Ravyn1725: for god's sake, look at shakespeare's education
Ravyn1725: but we are not allowed to be artists anymore
Ravyn1725: society has decided that artists are too dangerous
Ravyn1725: so they found people who will write New York Times best sellers
Ravyn1725: and began to "teach" the populace a "new" art
Ravyn1725: the art of losing, the art of hating, the art of lust, the art of irreconcilable tragedy, the art of destruction, the art of forgetting
Ravyn1725: this
Ravyn1725: where do i fit?
Ravyn1725: i don't
Ravyn1725: i have no place in society
Ravyn1725: i am a chameleon and can change for everyone
Ravyn1725: but i still do not fit one place all the time
Ravyn1725: this is what characterizes an artist
Ravyn1725: the poet, the concertist, the sculptor, the painter
Ravyn1725: all of them is our society
Ravyn1725: they do not fit in society at large, and do not even fit together with those other poets, concertists, sculptors and painters

incomprehensible...

2005-04-11T11:06:00.000-07:00

she sees him from across the room
he's watching her over the sea of faces
they've never met
they don't know each other
but they dance
and they find they know each other

she sees his writing on the wall
he's reading hers and understanding
they've never met
they don't know each other
but they bare their souls
and find they know each other

(this wasn't anything more than a thought, it may look poetic, but it isn't meant to do anything more than convey my thoughts to a tangible medium; I find it incredible that two people can sense each others' souls from nothing more than a look or words on a computer)

monsters under the bed...

2005-04-04T17:46:00.000-07:00

when we were little, our parents checked under our bed and in the closet for the monsters we were sure were waiting to pounce on us the moment the lights went out. now, those fears have been pushed to the backs of our minds and our lights are on until so early in the morning that the dark barely gets a chance. and our parents? they are no longer there. we pushed them away years ago. physically, they may still sleep in the same house, just down the hall, upstairs, or just on the other side of the house, but they're gone. we are no longer their babies. we've lost our youth, our monsters under the bed, and have traded it, traded them, for late nights and monsters who haunt us indescriminately, regardless of day or night. mommy and daddy are no longer here to scare the monsters away before turning on the nightlight and kissing us goodnight. we've lost them, and gained more monsters. the monsters of our childhood came from the scary movies we were never supposed to watch, from cartoons, and from our own hyperactive imaginations, but they stayed in their closets and under the bed if mommy or daddy were around. our monsters today have names and faces. they have account numbers and expiration dates. they have interest rates and insurance. they have consequences and pros and cons. they are nameable and unnameable. they are everywhere. and they are there all the time. unlike the monsters under ourbeds, these monsters do not run for cover with the light, nor do they cower from the glow of a nightlight or the sound of our parents' voice. our monsters are stronger and they are here to stay. our monsters grow bigger and stronger as we do. and as they grow stronger, they can only be defeated by one person. you.

Stare-down

2005-03-31T11:05:00.000-08:00

cold black eye
staring emotionless
at me
immoveable metal
tangible and untouchable
smooth gleaming obsidion
stoic and unnerving
and thunder cascades over me
in waves

(C) Brianna Grantham 2005

Vegas' Goddess

2005-03-28T19:35:00.000-08:00

toss the dice
kiss me thrice
frozen daquiri lips
marring chill marble
stack the chips
squeeze me tight
numb mai tai hands
caressing cold granite

glittering glitzing glowing
and everything's so real
but me

mark the deck
toss me a wink
hidden emerald eyes
never sparkling in darkness
count the cards
restless jaded eyes
sparkling in fluorescents

flashing flipping flying
and everything's so real
but me

carved face
perfect Grecian god
amidst smoky haze
framed against man-made grass
my mortal face
merely surreal
and optional

shimmering shining sparkling
and nothing's real
but me
(C) Brianna Grantham 2005

An old stream-of-consciousness piece I came across...

2005-03-27T13:59:00.000-08:00

So, I don’t know what to write. I have something pent up inside of me, but I don’t have the words to express it; at least, not yet. Don’t exactly know what it is, well, know what part of it is, but not the part I need to get out. Nice contradiction, huh. So, I don’t know what to write. Some words sound great, but I just want to write them, they hold no significance, yet. Someday, yes: someday, that’s a good word. I was going to say that someday these words will have significance, but now someday has become one of these words and it now holds significance; strange. How utterly loverly, yah? Yah. So, don’t have anything to write? Wrong, have lots to write, have no words to write. Yet, what are words? The insanely simple way that human beings communicate with each other, and expect animals that aren’t human to understand them too; isn’t that just the ultimate pompousness? So, we use words to communicate, but don’t we also use gestures, looks, touch? What if we really are all connected by an invisible but very real spider web that connects us to everything we hold dear and love? So, I am connected to God, yah? And I am connected to my parents, and my friends. But I am connected with a stronger fiber to those I love more. But what if I once loved but do not any longer? What then? Does the connection break off? No, it can’t, because once you have loved, you cannot be indifferent. Either you will hate them (does hate me un-connection?), or you will still have a small place in your heart for them. This does not mean that you are still connected, necessarily, by the strong twine that you first were, but you are still connected, yah? Yah, you are still connected. But if the other person does not return the love? What then? Is the web weaker at one end? How can this be, for the first person’s love is still as strong. Ach, but it is all a tangle. How shall I ever undo all the knots? But if the knots were all untangled, what reason would there be for further existence? A purpose would have been fulfilled, and is that not what life is? A purpose? Yah, life is a purpose. But what is yours, what is mine? Are we born with it or do we attain it? It would be easier to be born with it, no? Yet on the other hand, one must still find it, even though they were born with it. But mustn’t we still find it if we attain it? Ach, an endless tangle. Aye, and endless knot, endless still. But when the knot is unraveled, life is ended. Life weaves its intricate pathway on thin, fragile threads in patterns that only its maker knows. Is this not life? Yah, this is life. So, it is raining now. Pouring, actually. Does it not always not rain, but pour in Florida? Rain. Washes away the dirt and the grime, but mixes with dirt to make filthy mud. A contradiction, yah? Yah, it is a contradiction. But what does it contradict? Itself? But if life contradicted itself, it would cease to exist. So, the contradiction of life is death, no? This is true, the contradiction of life is death. But, then, what is the contradiction of me? You? But, then, which you? For, there are so many. There is the love you, the God you, the parents you, the friends you, the enemies you. And in each of these yous, there are an infinite number of yous. So, which you? What then, is the contradiction of you? If it is me, then I must be the contradiction of everyone but myself. Yet, if this is true, then every person is the contradiction of every one else in the world. Yet what about those that are dead? What is there contradiction? Is it there selves when they were alive? If so, then this means that everyone’s contradiction that is presently alive, is their death. But cannot there be more than one contradiction? If the contradiction of every living thing is death, then are not all living things the same? For if they all have the same contradiction, must they all be one? For how can two things have the same contradiction, or, for that matter, two billion things? So, then, what is a contradiction? Can one object or being have more than one contradiction? If so, then every you that is not me, is my contradiction, yet so is death, and everyone else’s deaths, and their lives. But now we are moving in circles, for my contradiction cannot be me, can it?
9-1-03
So, then, what is a contradiction? Can any one thing have more than one? Yet it seems they must. Yet, a function has only one inverse, or has it? Perhaps it has only one known inverse. Multiple inverses could, perhaps, be found if only one knew where to find them. But that is the problem, isn’t it? Where to find things, that is. For, if one has not found something they do not know exists, is it lost, or merely undiscovered? Finding a thing then, has two contradictions, for one can find something that has been lost, or, one can find something that has previously been undiscovered. But, what is undiscovered? For has not everything always been, since its inception? Yet, if it were incepted, would it not have been made, or rather have had a conception, as do the new lives coming into the world? Are these new lives then lost, or undiscovered? For, these new lives have been made, yet, has not everything? And if everything has been made, then must it not all be lost? Discovery, then, is only a pompous human notion. For, if everything has been made, those things that humans ‘discover’ are not truly discovered, but, rather, lost. Then, found has only one contradiction, for discovered is only a concept, and not a reality. Yet, when does a concept become a reality? Where does one draw the line between reality and that which is not reality? How does one know what truly is reality? Is not reality itself only a concept? Then, reality and concept are not opposites, or even synonyms, rather, as not all rectangles are squares, but all squares are rectangles, all realities are concepts, believed in by those who hold that particular concept to be certain. What then, is certain? Is life? This cannot be, for it is a fact that death must occur, yet, must it? If one never exists, one will never die. Yet, if one never exists, how can one be? Yet, what if one is not called an existence, a life, as it were, and is extinguished merely because this one is not recognized as an existence, is this not a death? Yet, if it is never called a life, how can this be a death? Once more we return to concept and reality. This existence is a reality, and therefore it is a concept. But, what if this existence is a reality, and there is nothing conceptual about it? If there is nothing to be conceived, then is this not a reality? Is not, then, a concept a separate entity from a reality? Is reality, then, not a concept? How can this be? If reality is a concept, but when a thing is a reality it is unquestionable, then are they separate, or no? Once more, we walk in circles, yah? Yet, if one continues to widen one’s circles, eventually, ever so slowly, will he not extend the distance he is traveling? But, then, he would not be traveling in a true circle. But, this is all contradictions.
9-2-03
So then, is the contradiction of stupidity intelligence, or is it common sense? Perhaps one must delve into which sort of stupidity is being discussed. Yet, does not stupidity stem from a common root, like all mankind? Does not everything that has a contradiction come from a common source? Then, does not every contradiction, and its diction, have a common source that is exactly opposite on a circle? Yet, this can not be if one thing has two contradictions, for, if these contradictions were to both be exactly across from their diction, they would be on top of each other, in the same spot. Yet, if they were on the same spot, then, they must be the same, yet we know that this is not true. How can it be? For, if my contradiction is you, then all the different yous are the same, and I am the same as everything that is the contradiction of a single person, yah? Yet, if this is so, and if my death is also my contradiction, then all the yous that are my contradiction are the same as my death, no? Then, I, also, am the same as the death everyone and thing that I am the contradiction of, and this cannot be, can it? For, if I am death, how can I be life? It is a contradiction. Is not life then a complex set of contradictions? Yet, if death is also a set of contradictions, for is it not the contradiction of everything that is living, then life and death must be the same. For, if everything that is alive is the contradiction of both everything else that is alive, and everything that is not alive, is not everything that is dead the contradiction of everything else that is dead, as well as everything that is alive? Are they not at the same point on the circle, then? How can this be? All our lives we are taught that life is the antithesis of death, yet if they are the same, this cannot be so, for something cannot be its own antithesis, or contradiction, can it? If this is so, then I am my own contradiction, therefore, I, and my contradiction, are the same. If this is so, then how can there be a contradiction? Is, then, contradiction only a concept? Or is it a reality? Yet, what is the line between concept and reality? Ach, must it return to that? If one could draw this as of yet undiscovered line, would it solve all problems? For, is not everything either a concept or a reality? Yet, then, would this line be a discovery, or a find? Would one have found it, being lost for millennia on end, or would it be a discovery of something never before known? Once more, we return to concept and reality? Are they the same, or are they contradictions? Yet, what is a contradiction? Ah, there is a question to be answered, for therein lies the answer to all these questions, which, after all, are the same, are they not? Or are they contradictions?

Les âmes de la mer

2005-03-20T18:50:00.000-08:00

Sous le mer, sous la mer profonde,
il y a un monde secrète
oú sont les amoreux
qui ont perdu l’amor
et avec lui, ses vies.
Sous les vagues et sous l’eau
les âmes des morts
vivent, seules mais toutes,
elles vivent éternellement.
Sans espoir, et sans amor,
elles vivent en désespoir,
seulement noms, ni rien plus,
elles sont la mer de noms.

[English Translation]

Beneath the sea, under the depths of the sea,

there is a secret world,

where the lovers

who lost there love,

and with it, their lives, are.

Under the waves and under the water

the souls of the dead

live, alone but together,

they live eternally.

Without hope and without love,

they live in despair,

only names and nothing more,

they are the sea of names.

La glace dans la mer

2005-03-20T14:48:00.000-08:00

Quand la mer est calme,
quand il n’y a pas des vagues,
il y a une glace
oú je peut me vois
en vérité parfaite.
Cette glace me montre
qui je suis, mais plus,
elle me montre qui tu es
dans moi.
Et quand je te vois
dans la glace de la mer,
dans moi, dans ma figure,
je veux mourir.
Je veux mourir
et tuer tout qui tu es
qui est dans moi.
La glace me séduit,
et sa voix douce
m’apaiser et je vais,
je retourne s’étreinte,
et je m’unis avec la mer,
et tu disparait.

[English Translation]

When the sea is calm,
when there are no waves,
there is a mirror
where I can see myself
in perfect truth.
The mirror shows me
who I am, but more,
she shows me that you are
in me.
And when I see you
in the mirror of the sea,
in me, in my face,
I want to die.
I want to die
and kill all that you are
that is in me.
The mirror beckons to me
and her sweet voice
soothes me, and I go,
I return her embrace,
and I join with the sea,
and you disappear.

Une mer de mensonges

2005-03-20T14:13:00.000-08:00

Si j’avais une goutte d’eau
pour chaque mensonge
qui tu m’as dit,
j’aurais une mer.
Et cette mer serait
la plus profonde
que toutes les autres,
mais pleine de rien—
comme tes paroles.
Le vent qui soufflait
sur la figure de cette mer
serait ta voix,
et comme ta voix,
ce ne serait pas audible.
Si j’avais une mer,
mon ami, de tes mensonges,
j’aurais le plus grande mer
de rien qui déjà étais existée.

[English Translation]

If I had a drop of water
for every lie
that you've told me,
I would have an ocean.
And that ocean would be
the deepest
of all the oceans,
but full of nothing--
like your words.
The wind that blew
over the face of that sea
would be your voice,
and it would be inaudible.
If I had an ocean,
my friend, of your lies,
I would have the largest ocean
of nothing that had ever existed.

(C) Brianna Grantham 2005

Dusty Pantry

2005-03-18T19:16:00.000-08:00

i canned you up so nicely
and decorated you
with a golden bow
and placed you on
the back of the shelf
where no one else would go

but someone found a matching can
and presented you to me
i accepted with a smile
and tried to set you aside
beside the others on that shelf
but the can had been open awhile

and a little splashed up out
i wiped it off so quickly
i thought no one had seen
but when he smiled craftily
i knew he'd seen within
to everything we had been

Inspired by the fool's line at the end of Act. I Scene v in King Lear

2005-03-18T18:53:00.000-08:00

raise your face,
o rose,
to be kissed
by dawn.
lift your lips,
sweet virgin,
to the sun.

his kiss lingers,
in gold,
imprinted on red,
still warm.
lower your eyes,
young maid,
from the sun.

cool night comes,
too soon,
covering your lips
with dew,
hiding sun's kiss,
yet warm,
burning through dew.

sun's kiss remains,
under dew,
shining bright gold
on red.
close your eyes,
rosy maid,
and surrender.

Another Wonderful Assignment for SciFi

2005-03-14T19:26:00.000-08:00

The Sky is Falling (A Farce of Trifling Magnitude)

Characters (in order of importance):
Nicholas
Alice
The Indigo Algae
B. Fok
Taxi Driver

The curtain rises on a stage occupied by one man sitting on a park bench. The backdrop is painted with a green, park-type background, but one sees a great metropolis, perhaps New York City or Chicago, in the not-so-far distance. The lighting on the backdrop grows darker by stages throughout the scene, emphasizing the melodramatic nature of the plot.

Nicholas (to himself, as he reads the day’s news on his palm-sized computer): Nothing but junk, absolutely nothing but royal, rotting garbage—what is our world coming to? We finally unlock the secrets to inter-stellar travel, but rather than news of possible inhabitable galaxies, all we hear about are more “flying saucer” stories. The only difference between these and the ridiculous rot of the 21st century is the level of education of those claiming to have seen these marvels. (Snorts in disgusted derision as he thumbs to a different storyline, becoming engrossed as Alice enters)

Alice (out of breath, flushed, wearing white lab coat): Nicholas! Mon dieu! I’ve been looking all over for you!

Nicholas: (placidly glancing up from the image on his screen): And you have found me. Should you like an award for that marvelous accomplishment?

Alice (having caught her breath enough to look at least remotely piqued): Nicholas, can you ever take anything seriously?

Nicholas (innocently, sarcasm evident): My dear woman, how else would I take things? I cannot take things in jest, for if I do, I shall merely have to return them to their proper owner, in which case I should not actually be taking the said thing, but rather borrowing it for a period of time.

Alice (although having caught her breath completely is even redder, due, perhaps to her irritation at Nicholas’ indifference): You know what I meant, Nicholas Christopher Sinik! (Rushing forward quickly so as to not be interrupted again) We finished tracing the DNA of that specimen of algae-like-substance the last star-ship brought back this morning—It’s definitely alien, and most likely sentient!

Nicholas (dryly, his attention refocused on his computer): You don’t say?

Alice (ignoring Nicholas’s obvious cynicism): The planet where they found these life-forms is in the closest star system to our own, do you realize the implications something like this has?

Nicholas (very dryly): Indeed I do.

[BEAT]

Alice (taken aback by Nicholas’ seeming interest): You do?

Nicholas (still reading his digipaper, perhaps the audience sees that he is merely reading the comics and horoscopes): Of course I do, this means that there is at least one other form of life outside of our solar system, opening the door, of course, to higher-evolved species than the one you speak of, as well as more technologically advanced than your alien pond-scum. Although, (Pauses as he looks up at Alice, then back to his computer as he begins to read again), yours seems to have enough intelligence to recognize a possible vehicle when it sees one.

Alice: (slightly confused but still wary of Nicholas’ cynicism):What makes you say that?

Nicholas (without looking up and completely unconcerned): The color of this new-found alien of yours is indigo, is it not?

Alice (really confused but surprised as well): How did you know that?

Nicholas (still reading his paper): You are not a clumsy person, Dr. Czikenlidle, yet there is a large blue region on your otherwise spotless white coat.

Alice (disbelieving): There is n— (turns about, searching for it, revealing to the audience a large blue stain, trailing off as she sees that Nicholas is right)

Nicholas (still reading, oblivious to Alice’s strange reactions, as enjoyed by the audience through her variety of facial expressions): I wouldn’t use bleach on that, you know, one never knows how these alien varieties react to basic chemicals, even if your coat is white.

Alice (the expression on her face has now become one of permanent but growing horror): Nicholas…

Nicholas (still oblivious): You might take it to B. Fok’s Cleaners, he always does a wonderful job on my trousers, and you know what a mess I am after a day’s work. Do tip him well though, I know he has a houseful of little ones, and his wife had some sort of debilitating accident last year, so every little bit helps.

Alice (her horror has grown until it cannot grow anymore, and the audience sees that the blue spot on her coat has moved toward up the back of the coat, wrapping itself about the front of the high buttoned collar): Nicholas!

Nicholas (waving her away with his hand as if she were a young child): Oh Alice, it’s nothing, I’m more than willing to take it to him for you if you don’t have the time to do it yourself.
At this point the audience sees that the indigo algae has wrapped itself about Alice’s neck and is tightening itself about her esophagus, cutting off her air-supply.

Alice: (whispered, unheard by Nicholas, trailing off part-way through): Nicho…

Nicholas (still reading digipaper): Oh, and Alice? Do be careful with that alien algae, especially if you suspect it is sentient, one never knows what the little buggers might have in mind for us. (chuckling at his own imagined joke) You never know, it may find a way to slime us to death! (still chuckling)

Alice is now on the ground, leaning against the bench, her back to Nicholas, dead.

Nicholas (standing, slipping computer into his pocket, turns to see Alice, tsk-ing): Alice, for all the times we’ve squabbled, I’ve never seen you pout so before. (pauses a moment, waiting for response, when none is forthcoming, shrugs) Well, as I said, I would be glad to take your coat down to B. Fok’s for you if you should like, just drop it by my office at the university. (whistling as he exits into the wings, raising his hand just before stepping out of the audience’s line of sight) Taxi!

The End.

Je suis une mer

2005-03-14T16:00:00.000-08:00

Je suis une mer
mais, je ne suis comme les autres mers;
je ne suis pas composé d’eau,
mes vagues ne sont pas d’eau,
et n’y a pas des poissons sous ma figure.
Les vents qui soufflent par ma figure
n’apportent pas la voix de la mer—
ni la touche du sel de la mar.
Non, je suis une mer,
mais, je suis une mer unique;
je suis composé de noms,
mes vagues sont des figures,
et au lieu des poissons, j’ai des vies.
Les vents qui soufflent par ma figure
apportent la voix de ces vies—
des personnes sous la mer que c’est moi.
Je suis une mer,
une mer de noms,
une mer d’amour perdu.
Je suis une mer.

[English Translation]
I am a sea.
But I am not a sea like other seas;
I am not made of water,
my waves are not of water,
and there are no fish under my face.
The winds that blow over my surface
do not carry the voice of the sea--
nor the touch of the sea's salt.
No, I am a sea.
But I am a unique sea;
I am made of names,
my waves are of faces,
and instead of fish I have lives.
The wind which blows across my face
carries the voice of these lives--
of the people who are under the sea that is me.
I am a sea,
a sea of names,
a sea of lost love.
I am a sea.

(C) Brianna Grantham 2005

Une mer de noms

2005-03-14T12:37:00.000-08:00

Je vois cette mer, avec l'eau bleu
et j'ecoute le vent qui chante
et les mots, les paroles,
me parle de toi, de toi.
Je ne te vois pas, sur la mer,
les vagues chantent aussi...
et je les ecoute, aux paroles;
Ils parle de toi, toujours.
Je vois les vagues et j'ecoute,
et je crois, je crois,
que je peux te voire et t’ecouter.
Mais, ce n'est rien qu'un nom,
seulement un nom
dans la mer de noms.

[English Translation]
I look at this sea, of blue water,
and I listen to the wind singing,
and the words, the words,
speak to me of you, of you.
I do not see you, in this sea,
and the waves sing also...
and I listen to them, to their words;
They speak to me of you, always.
I watch these waves, and listen,
and I think, I think,
that I can see and hear you.
But you are nothing but a name,
only a name,
in the sea of names.

Lullaby

2005-03-09T19:15:00.000-08:00

so sing a lullaby to me
filled with love and longing
serenade my soul tonight
this sweet bliss prolonging
save a smile for morning
filled with truth and time
sing a lullaby to me
of love and life and peace

Raining again today...

2005-03-09T10:29:00.000-08:00

each drop of water falling from the sky a soul. pooling, intermingling, gathering in puddles on man-made ground. flooding. drowning bodies. souls. embracing, inundating, encompassing. bodies no longer absorbent, repelling, refusing, disgusted. souls, forgotten, forsaken, cumulatively alone. all warmth already used. possessed in the non-absorbent bodies. repelling the souls. forgetting their names. life hides behind the white of the veil. the veil of souls. a wedding. lift the veil. kiss the bride. the body. the non-absorbent body. the souls lay lost and lonely on the man-made earth. life waits behind the veil. life is the bride. will you say i do?

Kick-Ass Essay on "The End of the World, Methods 1, 2, & 3"

2005-03-03T19:07:00.000-08:00

Humanity’s fascination with war, destruction, and apocalypse began influencing philosophy in the days of the Greeks and Romans, and literature only slightly later. The advent of the television era brought even more steam to the speculative written and visual literature which was later dubbed “Science Fiction,” much of which focused on the human race’s eventual downfall and demise. The following are accounts, in a variety of forms, of individuals who witnessed first-hand the respective apocalyptic, viral, and environmental falls of humanity. These accounts are concurrent, taking place in parallel universes in the same setting: the planet earth.
Account I: Krayton Nicholi Kalipso, male, 26 years old, GIP (Government Informant to the People), inhabitant of the Eastern Land Mass. Account type: Objective narrative, composed with the intention of presentation to the remnant of the global public as a government statement. “The Global National Association of the People has composed this statement in an effort to encourage those who have withstood the events of these past three days: GNAP is working to restore power to those colonies whose resources have been damaged, in the event that your abode is without water, GNAP would like to take this opportunity to remind its citizens that each colony is well-stocked with sealed containers of water in the storerooms of each GNAP station. As a part of our global family, you are welcome to any resources available to you in the absence of the all-covering arm of GNAP. The full extent of the nuclear entanglement of the past three days is not yet known, but we do encourage our citizens to remain within their sealed abodes for as long as possible, due to fall-out. GNAP, in preparation for what we had hoped would be an avoidable occurrence, made protective suits available to all families beginning last quarter. While we realize that this is said in hindsight: Please make use of these suits, protecting yourselves and your dependants. As with water and rations, all GNAP stations have a stock of these suits within its storage, however, we do strongly urge you to remain within your abodes for as long as you can.
“GNAP, although hard-hit, was the victor in the recent attack of the western land masses against our citizens, and are confident that we shall have no more difficulty with our opponents, as the last images have shown no infrared emanating from any animal beings, human or otherwise. This is lamentable, as there were many decent citizens of those land masses, however, GNAP had to look first to our own preservation, to your preservation. Our hearts reach out to any of you who may have suffered harm from the nuclear warheads launched by our enemies, please know that we are here for you.”
(Citizen Kalipso noted in his private journal: “There are no humans left alive on the other land masses, and few on our own…I live in my radiation-proof suit, even to using the horribly uncomfortable catheter pouch so as to not expose even the slightest portion of my flesh to the outside air. The compound is sealed, but I stole some seeds from the granary storage and have been tending them these past few days in the hopes that they will yield something edible, as I anticipate that the rations of the compound will run out sooner than one might hope…I also stripped a dead guard of his weapons, one of the lasers I wear continually, and the others are hidden in my chambers. The Global Appointee is dead, and I am the highest official left…I do not know how many of our own people remain, but I do not have great hope for those who have survived…it is only a matter of time…”
Account II: Xylia Jeanna Worster, female, 32 years old, physician, inhabitant of what was formerly the North American Continent, now the United Americas. Account type: Medical Report written with the intention of presentation to the GMB (Global Medical Board). “The new strain of the virus Necator is even stronger than its earlier forms, with an average rate of 100% lethality in a time period of less than 16 hours in all affected persons. The virus, which was first discovered in the United Orient just two months ago, has now spread to every landmass of the planet, the only notable exception being Antarctica, due to a forced quarantine ------ at first discovery of the virus. A team of experts has followed the quickly-morphing virus through each of its genetic stages and have reached the conclusion that the virus is not only wonderfully adaptive, it is growing in complexity and appears to have an extraordinary ability to evolve according to which treatment is attempted, suggesting intelligence. Antibiotics of all strengths have proved to be ineffective against this virus, as well all over-the-counter medicines. Types of radiation therapy had some amount of success while the virus still needed 52 hours to run its course, but as mentioned previously, Necator evolves rapidly, growing stronger and more resistive to any attempted treatment and even the strongest radiation therapies are no longer effective.
"The difficulty now also lies within not only the virus itself, but the minimal time it now requires to run its inevitably fatal course. Necator, as with any virus, can be exchanged and passed on any number of ways, and it is extremely resilient to both temperature change and standard antibacterial cleaning products, allowing it to thrive in any environment. There does not appear to be any end in sight for this epidemic, but the number of fatalities is still climbing, faster even than before, due to the short time necessary for the virus to run its course. The board’s only suggestion is quarantine for all persons, insulating face masks, and other protective clothing, which should be burned after any possible contamination.”
(Dr. Worster recorded in her personal journal: “There is no hope…Necator will wipe the face of Earth clean of humans…It has no weakness. My only hope is to go to Antarctica and hop the blockade. But, the virus will reach there eventually too…there is no place to run, nowhere to hide. There is still plenty of food and water, but I don’t trust it anymore: Who knows if that virus has gained the ability to enter sealed containers? —I haven’t eaten in three days, and I’ve drunk only water which I’ve personally sterilized and tested for the virus…I’m going to go to Antarctica…it’s my last resort, but the only hope I have left…”)
Account III: Laurence Tyler Grant, male, 17 years old, student in a public high school in Wyoming, USA. Account type: Personal journal, written with no intention of publication or public presentation.
“Terra firma lost its concrete hold
On your mind
You stole my voice from me
And hid it
But everything was in my mind
And I remembered
Stumbling on the shoelaces
You had untied
And fighting against the earth
Her very breaths
Still running I heard the hiccup
And looked back
But she had already swallowed you
With no regard”
“no food, no water…everything covered in ash, grey, grey, grey…everything is grey…searching for green, green, green…must stay focused, must…focus…eyes watering—can’t lose water! fighting poison in the air, poison in my mind, poison in my heart…nothing left…I breathe in, and I breathe out…I am the wind of the world, I am the world…must find green: green means water, green means life…I am grey: am I dead? I am dead…I am hungry: if I am hungry I am alive…I am alive…but I am grey. I am alive and dead. Searching for green…ate all the green. I hid the green, I saved the green, I saved the water, saved it all: I was ready…you didn’t listen to me, you ignored me and laughed at the green I hoarded…all my green is gone…too long, had to eat it, had to drink it…all gone…looking for green, must find green…so much grey…so very much grey…I am dead, I am alive.”

These events were each, in their own right, the end of the world. Two of the survivors had made provisions, while the third had neither warning of the impending cataclysm nor of the magnitude of its culmination. The words of these individuals survived long after their own physical deaths to give testament and account to what happened, to the end of their world and how they survived, for a time at least—the accounts survive to bear witness to any and all who come after, how they are handled is in the hands of their descendants.

Your Little Girl

2005-03-02T20:17:00.000-08:00

she speaks in a very

tiny

voice

but no one

hears her except

say

how cute she is

in her frilly dress

pink

trimmed with white lace

Roasted

2005-02-28T16:33:00.000-08:00

cozy little bonfire
burning bravely
at the edge of the field
rosy flames
licking gently
at brown potato skin
creamy insides
melting slowly
at the fire's touch
sizzling brown skin
splitting open
at the flames' prod
and steam releases

Garden of Earthly Delights...(thank you Heronimous Bosche)

2005-02-23T09:34:00.000-08:00

so plant me a garden
of kisses and roses
red and in full-bloom
and build me a tower
of stone and brick
grey and impersonal
and leave me there

Le pouvoir d'une plume

2005-02-17T18:14:00.000-08:00

(Le francais)

Si je pouvais écrire quelque histoire que je voudrai, j’ecrirais les histoires trés poignantes et vrais. Il y a beaucoup des histoires que j’ai sur ma tête que je ecrirais si j’avais l’audace et si je savais qu’ils ne vont pas blesser á quelqu’un. La vérité est que un auteur ne peut pas écrire toutes choses qu’il voudraît pour le peur des autres personnes et son sentiments et vraiment aussi, des temps en temps, pour son sécurité. Il n’y a personne qui veut que tout le monde sait tous les detailles de sa vie, et la vérité est que l’auteur peut découvrir la vie reticent d’une personne. Le pouvoir de la plume est vraiment magnifique mais devrais être utilisé avec beaucoup de prudence pour éviter les blessures qui pourrait donner aux autres. Pope avais dit que « Un peut de savoir est une chose dangereuse » mais avec un auteur n’importe pas combien d’information il a : s’il veut écrire une histoire il va l’écrire. Alors, la plume est une epée de deux faces (figures/visages) parce que la personne qui l’a peut bénir et jurer avec seul une motion de main, c’est un jouer dangereuse oú les joueses ne savent pas les règles et donc écrire aveuglement.

(English Translation)

If I could write whatever story I wanted, I would write the ones which are true and poignant. There are many stories in my head which I would write if I had the guts (audacity) and if I knew that they would not hurt anyone. The truth is that an author cannot write everything that he wants to for fear of other people and their feeling, and truthfully, sometimes for their safety as well. There is not a single person who would want their entire private life made known to the world, and the truth is that an author has the ability to uncover the secret (inner/hidden) life of a person. The power of the pen is truly great but it should be used with much caution in order to avoid the pain which it can cause others. Pope said, "A little learning is a dangerous thing," but with an author, it doesn't matter how much information he has: if he wants to write a story, he is going to write it. Thus, the pen is a double-edged sword, as the person who wields it can both bless and curse with only a motion of his hand, it is a dangerous game where the players do not know the rules and therefore write blindly.

Tragically Beautiful...cry a tear for me...

2005-02-15T16:38:00.000-08:00

the mockingbird sings sweetly from its nest,

sings sweetly to you of me and i'm in the cellar,

cleaning the rotten apples out of the barrels

and throwing them at the damn bird...

smile sweetly, love, at me

but don't look for kisses in return,

dying tulips your only repayment...

so drown me slowly,

in the river of your embrace,

and hold me close while i draw my last breath...

Someone told me....

2005-02-14T14:50:00.000-08:00

the other day, while discussing "O invierno," that you know you're good when you can start using poetic devices in other languages. admittedly, that made me feel good, but i don't know if i really am that good yet...? i mean, yeah, i write pretty damn well in English, and I'd like to think that I can write well in Spanish and decently in French (oh, that reminds me, I volunteered myself to write a collection of poems in French for an extra credit project, guess I should start writing those, eh?...), but I don't know...I guess it's the whole breaking into the publication world, ya know? I dunno...I want to get my stuff out there, but at the same time, I don't write to publish, I write to put what's in my head into a medium which is comprehensible to the rest of the world...does that make any sense? anyhow...I've been really inspired the past couple of days; I even sketched a little last night while lying on my stomach before I went to bed (miserable, if you'll recall, with a really bad allergic reaction)...we'll see where this leads me. I'm back to flying solo, with only one or two really close friend I actually [somewhat] talk to, which generally gives me more material than when I try to deal with large groups of people...I'm going back to the way I used to be, and it feels amazing!!! (ok, so this post has little or nothing to do with my writing, but whatever, it's my blog, i can do whatever the hell I want to with it =) I'm getting back in shape, tanning, losing weight...it's incredible, I love it =)

Every Tear...

2005-02-14T14:48:00.000-08:00

every tear you shed
for every cry i made,
every cry you made
for every wound i bore,
every wound you bore
for every mistake i made,
made us who we are today.

2005-02-13T11:58:00.000-08:00

the artist at work...

definitions...

2005-02-10T18:55:00.000-08:00

Main Entry: re·in·car·na·tion
Pronunciation: "rE-(")in-(")kär-'nA-sh&n
Function: noun1 a : the action of reincarnating : the state of being reincarnated b : rebirth in new bodies or forms of life; especially : a rebirth of a soul in a new human body
2 : a fresh embodiment

is this so difficult to grasp? is this sacreligious? show me a reference where this is addressed and i shall revoke all i have said concerning this...in faith i doubt you can show me such a verse, yet you may try. i am so many things, so very many things...how could one negate this? but talk to me, i am a reasonable person.

Mirror, Mirror...

2005-02-10T18:33:00.000-08:00

Shimmering onyx mocking my soul,

each breath a reprimand for your sins;

A silver circle winding around the bowl,

eternity hammered with skilled hands;

The wind stirs, mocking as I strain

to see your soul within the waves,

a tiny ocean within the wooden grain

of this ancient scrying bowl.

2005-02-08T21:24:00.000-08:00

http://http://www.angelfire.com/journal/isisart/images/Ophelia.jpg

go look.

2005-02-08T10:01:00.000-08:00

"Invierno"

O invierno, mi maestro,

enséñame en sus métodos

de pintar todo en blanco-

puro, hermoso, y magnífico;

como pone todo el mundo,

con todos sus problemas,

debajo de una manta blanca

y a la vez se hace frío;

como esculpta los brazos

de los árboles, tan fuertes,

que podrían soportar el ciél;

O invierno, mi maestro,

enséñame en sus métodos

de tener todo captivo-

sin cambio y a la vez vivo;

como puede tener todo el mundo,

con todos sus capríces,

debajo de su manta inmensa

y a la vez se tiene frío;

como esculpta la escarcha

en los árboles, tan hermosa,

que podrían hacerse espejas;

O inveierno, maestro mío,

enséñame, le suplico:

como pintárme todamente en blanco,

pura, hermosa, y magnífica;

como poner mi corazon,

con todos sus dueños,

debajo de una manta blanca

y se hace completamente frío;

como esculptar mi corazon

de helado, tan fuerte,

que podría soportar mi vida;

O invierno, mi maestro,

enséñame en sus métodos

de tener mi corazon captivo-

sin cambio y a la vez, vivo;

como poder tener todo mi alma,

con todo sus emociones,

debajo de una manta inmensa

y a la vez le tiene frío;

como escuptar la escarcha

en mi corazon, tan hermosa,

que podría hacerlo bonito de nuevo;

O invierno, maestro mío,

enséñame como no sentirme nada.

“Winter”

Oh winter, my master,
Teach me your ways
Of painting everything white-
Pure, beautiful, and magnificent;
How you put all the world,
With all of her problems,
Under a white blanket
And still keep her cold;
How you sculpt the arms
Of the trees, so strong,
That are able to hold up the sky;
Oh winter, my master,
Teach me your ways
Of holding everything captive-
Without changing it, and yet still alive;
How you can hold all the world,
With all her caprices,
Under your enormous blanket
And yet she is still cold;
How you sculpt the frost
On the trees, so beautiful,
That make themselves mirrors;
Oh winter, master of mine,
Teach me, I beg you:
How to paint myself all in white,
Pure, beautiful, and magnificent;
How to make my heart,
With all it’s wounds,
Under a blanket of white
And make it completely cold;
How to sculpt my heart
Of ice, so strong,
So that it can support my life;
Oh winter, my master,
Teach me your ways
Of holding my heart prisoner-
Without changing and yet still alive;
To be able to hold all my soul,
With all her emotions,
Under a great blanket of white
And still keep it cold;
How to sculpt the frost
In my heart, so beautiful,
That I could make it beautiful again;
Oh winter, master of mine,
Teach me how to feel nothing.

First Real Literary Post

2005-02-08T09:30:00.000-08:00

"Orchids"

Every
Icy purple
Orchid
You planted
Outside
My bedroom
Thrives
Choking each
Memory
Of me
Until

Nothing remains

Proposal:

2005-02-07T17:08:00.000-08:00

I'm going to turn this blog (as opposed to my livejournal) into my own personal online book. Translation: this blog is going to consist largely of my writings-not the flippant crap I post on lj, but real stuff-so enjoy.

darn teachers who are too advanced for their own good...

2005-02-07T13:00:00.000-08:00

yay for another blog...yeah yeah...bite me...