Just finished up my prelims
It's Friday again and I've finally finished up my prelims! The last exam (today's) was a Physics practical, which also entailed the horribly boring "quarantine period" when we had to stay in this big, empty, cold room from 9: 20 am to past 1:00 pm. What a waste of time--we could have GONE HOME! Classmates decided to spend that time watching movies (some of them had brought the DVD disks).
But that's not important. I've finished my prelims...so now I'm on the internet as I've got free time tonight before I turn in EARLY (for the first time in weeks as I'm a typical nightbird who keeps on procrastinating on bed-time for the darndest reasons...such as brushing my teeth). And to celebrate, I will bring forth poems.
And then I will go on to make some confessions as I ride bravely tonight...with a mask upon my face.
Firstly, the poem.
By Kate Northrop, a new poet whom I found just last week while riffling through a poetry site.
Unfinished Landscape With A Dog
Not much of a dog yet,
that smudge in the distance, beyond the reach
of focus. It's just an impressionist
gesture, a guess. From the edge of the clearing, the farmhouse
materializes, settles
into wall & stone. The water,
making the surface
of the stream, makes
reflections. So why shouldn't the dog
accept limits, become
a figure? Is it like the girl who sits
in the hall closet and says she's not
hiding? She's inside—
listening without the burden
of sight, letting locations
release hold. Out of body,they seem lighter: her parents' voices no longer
hooked to their mouths. They seem
cleaner. Even the electric can opener;
the sounds of children
that rise from the yard, and fall; the opening window, these are no longer
effects, things expected
of a subject and verb. The world anyhow is too
straightforward.
Maybe the dog
does not want to be a dog, does not want
to be turned into landscape
but to remain in the beginning, placeless:
with the wind opening, the wind a vowel, and the stars and waters
that flash, recoil, and retch
unnamed as yet, unformed, unfound.
Her poems are great. They're out of this world.
They seem reluctant to obey the laws of this world; she seems determined on deconstructing the world, piece by piece to make us look at reality and our lives in a completely different way and see more. It's almost as if she were peeling layers of the world off, stripping life of it's firm lines, introducing doubt and telling us where to look and then leaving the revelation to us.
And now for my confession...you've been waiting for this, now aren't you? I'll bet you even scrolled all the way down, ignoring the poem and the other stuff just to see it. Well, I shan't disappoint you...
I DISLIKE Francesc Fabregas.
Yes, the footballer, yes.
Before you tell me that the WC's over and that I must be a little slow on the uptake, I must tell you that this has been inside me for ages. And this from a girl who doesn't even watch football.
The reasons:
1) Because he's rich and I'm not.
2) Because folks who don't even know him are fawning on him.
3) Because he's so smarmily perfect that he reminds me of the bright, pretty little kids whom the teachers in kindergarten (and all the way up from then...) drooled all over and favoured over me, and ignored me to fawn some more on. Not that I WANTED their attention, please. I'm not so needy, I just felt the bite of such unfairness.
4) Because he's got a promise of free shoes (I hear he has an endorsement contract with Nike or some other shoe company).
5) Because people on yahoo! Answers ask a billion questions about whether or not he has a girlfriend.
6) Because he has a fun life and I don't--I have to go to school and it's a lousy one at that.
7) Because he's likely the type that my mum would rave about in front of me if she even knew who he was...she already does that with her friends' kids (who are very smart and who study very hard). Of couse, I don't blame her and I understand...but I find it irritating.
8) Because he's nineteen years old and thus, just THREE years older than myself. It's just way too close for comfort...we're comparable on the success scale.
9) Because he's inescapable. Singapore newspapers keep a close watch on the EPL and he plays for Arsenal.
10) Because the above nine make such a huge dent in me that I'm actually typing up this shitty list.
But that's not important. I've finished my prelims...so now I'm on the internet as I've got free time tonight before I turn in EARLY (for the first time in weeks as I'm a typical nightbird who keeps on procrastinating on bed-time for the darndest reasons...such as brushing my teeth). And to celebrate, I will bring forth poems.
And then I will go on to make some confessions as I ride bravely tonight...with a mask upon my face.
Firstly, the poem.
By Kate Northrop, a new poet whom I found just last week while riffling through a poetry site.
Unfinished Landscape With A Dog
Not much of a dog yet,
that smudge in the distance, beyond the reach
of focus. It's just an impressionist
gesture, a guess. From the edge of the clearing, the farmhouse
materializes, settles
into wall & stone. The water,
making the surface
of the stream, makes
reflections. So why shouldn't the dog
accept limits, become
a figure? Is it like the girl who sits
in the hall closet and says she's not
hiding? She's inside—
listening without the burden
of sight, letting locations
release hold. Out of body,they seem lighter: her parents' voices no longer
hooked to their mouths. They seem
cleaner. Even the electric can opener;
the sounds of children
that rise from the yard, and fall; the opening window, these are no longer
effects, things expected
of a subject and verb. The world anyhow is too
straightforward.
Maybe the dog
does not want to be a dog, does not want
to be turned into landscape
but to remain in the beginning, placeless:
with the wind opening, the wind a vowel, and the stars and waters
that flash, recoil, and retch
unnamed as yet, unformed, unfound.
Her poems are great. They're out of this world.
They seem reluctant to obey the laws of this world; she seems determined on deconstructing the world, piece by piece to make us look at reality and our lives in a completely different way and see more. It's almost as if she were peeling layers of the world off, stripping life of it's firm lines, introducing doubt and telling us where to look and then leaving the revelation to us.
And now for my confession...you've been waiting for this, now aren't you? I'll bet you even scrolled all the way down, ignoring the poem and the other stuff just to see it. Well, I shan't disappoint you...
I DISLIKE Francesc Fabregas.
Yes, the footballer, yes.
Before you tell me that the WC's over and that I must be a little slow on the uptake, I must tell you that this has been inside me for ages. And this from a girl who doesn't even watch football.
The reasons:
1) Because he's rich and I'm not.
2) Because folks who don't even know him are fawning on him.
3) Because he's so smarmily perfect that he reminds me of the bright, pretty little kids whom the teachers in kindergarten (and all the way up from then...) drooled all over and favoured over me, and ignored me to fawn some more on. Not that I WANTED their attention, please. I'm not so needy, I just felt the bite of such unfairness.
4) Because he's got a promise of free shoes (I hear he has an endorsement contract with Nike or some other shoe company).
5) Because people on yahoo! Answers ask a billion questions about whether or not he has a girlfriend.
6) Because he has a fun life and I don't--I have to go to school and it's a lousy one at that.
7) Because he's likely the type that my mum would rave about in front of me if she even knew who he was...she already does that with her friends' kids (who are very smart and who study very hard). Of couse, I don't blame her and I understand...but I find it irritating.
8) Because he's nineteen years old and thus, just THREE years older than myself. It's just way too close for comfort...we're comparable on the success scale.
9) Because he's inescapable. Singapore newspapers keep a close watch on the EPL and he plays for Arsenal.
10) Because the above nine make such a huge dent in me that I'm actually typing up this shitty list.
posted by fairypenguin at 6:08 AM
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