| Jackie님의 프로필carpe diem블로그리스트 |  도구  도움말 |
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8월 15일 Blue MoonBlue Moon It was getting dark The nocturnal creatures loomed from the thick forest with their bloodshot eyes and bloodthirsty antenna And ceaselessly chased by a big bearded man with a heavy metal club, I was short of breath and came to the edge of a vast ruin perched precariously on an abyss of darkness like a dumbfounded bird awaiting a thunderbolt There I saw the Blue Moon the Mother of Beauty for eternity Who said, it is but that little mental prison of yours the Grand Cathedral of Illusions, Delusions, and False Expectations So, fear no more, my child: Leap, and the net will be there; the Truth is -- (But they say that the devil you know is better than the devil you don't) a mountain top overlooking the emerald lakes glimmering in the charmed fragrance of the sagebrush and the cool moist winds rustling through the tall lodgepole pines -- a corollary of courage, really. (But who am I to negotiate with Fate, or Her personal assistant?) Feeling the heavy, chilling breath of Despair closing in on me, I threw myself in the air, And, sure enough -- Woke up, in warm embracing sunlight smelling coffee and bacon from the kitchen. (a poem from a dream) 5월 30일 A Lost WorldShe heard the ocean broadcast from a cellular phone: the amber-tinted breakers rolling fast onshore -- A deja vu, calling from the mermaid's ether home. Asleep she went, eyelids cold and pale as marble, her new legs, burning terra-cotta. Waking up in a little red dress, speaking a slick foreign tongue, an amnesiac wandered about in a labyrinthine supermarket stocked with perfumed shampoos and shimmering lotions enough to purvey the great Sultan's harem. No exit. In the plastic container, a sunflower blossomed in full vengeance of Clytie. "I'm all clear and pure," said the crystal swan in the window, "but why do I still leave a shadow?" She turned around, dissolving into defiant, foaming molecules.  3월 21일 Today is a Holiday. Right.Happy World Poetry Day! To observe the most poetic day of the year, I decided to make a top-five list of my favorite English-language poets. Here it goes. 1. William Shakespeare 2. John Keats 3. W.B. Yeats 4. Sylvia Plath 5. Walt Whitman I have to admit that this is probably one of the most difficult decisions in my life, and I spent an unexpectedly long time taking in and out names and shuffling them around. I have to say "sorry" from the bottom of my ruffled heart to Emily Dickinson, William Wordsworth, Elizabeth Browning, Theodore Roethke, Anne Sexton, e.e. Cummings, Wallace Stevens, Andrew Marvell and Allen Ginsberg, in that order (sorry again, Mr. Ginsberg. But I know you'd curse anyway.) Anyone else cares to share your top-five list? 3월 20일 Under the InfluenceI had an epiphany, seemingly upon my third drink of the night, a Cosmopolitan, to be sure, which half of me would disdain and favor a cognac or a Bloody Bull over this fruity duo of vodka and Cointreau an unlikely pair of baritone and soprano Luminously pinkish, tranquil ocean of unfathomable charm, as if Dionysus broke into Poseidon's coral chamber, garnished with rose petals, reposed silver-sequined mermaids. Therein, I got an impulse to plunge where I could shed the bridle and bit of my mortal self; Rising, out of ash, with my reddish hair, as Sylvia Plath already did; or, to "delicately undo an old wound," yearned Anne Sexton. They, too, were born under the inescapable sign of Scorpio. But I didn't plunge, because for a minute time stopped for us; so I merely stared into this graveyard of words unsaid, the playground of touches forgone, where the crested iris would bloom in June, and evening primrose whisper to the moon. How could a cocktail become an existential dilemma when an old man on a barstool -- holding a flashlight -- read Lolita, the hors d'oeuvre to a thin-crusted pepperoni pizza, amidst Disco backbeats, and a mishmash of guffaws, chatters, murmurs, and unheard weeps? The night was a cold and sour tart, my hair diaphanous filaments, and my feet a feathered, crisscrossing Balanchine soaring towards the Lucifer, whose determined look suggested a sealed pact, unbeknownst to us. I couldn't remember the last time when I was so happy and so sad. 3월 2일 CoffeeI watched the dark, brownish brew, trickling into a jar of foaming festivity, an allegretto graduating into an andante, then an adagio, consummating in a coda of teasing acidity camouflaged as bitterness, as clarifying as it is bemusing Like an alcoholic to a Grey Goose commercial a kitten to her newly discovered tail the insomniac to a receding crescent Turandot to her riddles; or, that little girl, to her small red umbrella, praying, please, please let it rain tomorrow: I'm addicted to you, I know and the prospect of a cure dissolved since your aroma eluded me like an enigma. 2월 25일 MokaMoka a small chocolate cafe on Orange Street, looking out to a quintessential strip of New Haven dusky, dreary, dilapidated; buildings wresting each other to be neglected like the eyes of a newborn. Azteka, a spicy Mexican hot cocoa; Spanish, sumptuous elixir infused with orange and peppermint accented by the amber light, melange of sips and sighs, chitchats awaiting meaning papers awaiting grading, an afternoon awaiting snow Now, five sixteen, p.m., my cup is empty but, the poignancy of sweet pungency betrays the fluorescence of evanescence |
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