L’attente est finie
ma joie est si forte
que la langue ne suffit,
et je trouve que je porte
toute ma foi dans l’ouille—
j’écoute, j’entends, les oiseaux que me chantent
j’écoute, j’attends, une voix qui me tente.
je cherche l’amour,
je respire quand je peux,
j’ai fait un grand tour,
trouvé un parmi eux—
j’écoute, j’entends, les abeilles qui travaillent
j’écoute, j’attends, qu’est-ce qui tombe dans la paille.
mes nerfs, ils se forment
dans un paquet tout beau
mais même quand je m’endorme
je l’attends comme un sot—
j’écoute, j’entends, qu’il est près, qu’il est là
j’écoute, j’attends, puis je saute dans ses bras.
— Amy Neal. April 2011.
Filed under: Poetry | 2 Comments
Tags: amour, attends, author, bras, est, finie, français, french, l'attente, love, poème, poem, poet, writer, writing
Workshop on Spoken Word
Today I did a spoken word workshop with a high school English class! I had a really good time – it combined my two biggest loves: art and teaching. (I don’t usually write real blog posts on this blog but bear with me, please.)
If you are a student from that class, I’d like to apologize either to you or your parents (or both) for suggesting The The Impotence of Proofreading by Taylor Mali on your handout. I thought I had suggested a different poem by him! That poem is very good and very funny, but very inappropriate in subject matter so I hope if you look it up you’ll enjoy it for what it is (as I said, it’s a very good and very funny poem), but be mature about it and understand that it’s a bit … dirty.
Anyway, this is why you (read: I) should triple-check your (my) handouts!
Also, for students of that class (or anyone else interested, really): If you want feedback or encouragement or anything like that, feel free to contact me. If you comment on this or any of my other blog posts and include your email address for notifications (it shouldn’t be publicized, but I get it as the owner of this blog), I can email you back and I will be more than happy to give you advice!
Happy writing! :)
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Reflexion on Reflexion
I haven’t been posting much here lately, because I want to start thinking about sending poems to contests and so forth, and I don’t want to have to worry about copyright laws.
However, on October 24th, I performed a spoken word poem at my church as part of the “sermon” for Youth and Young Adult Sunday. You can listen to it on Rideau Park United Church’s website (click on “Audio” to listen, or “Youth and Young Adult Sunday” to read along)! I start talking around 4:00, but I recommend listening to the whole thing because Katherine has some important things to say that I completely relate to! I was like that in High School, too.
http://www.rideaupark.ca/sermons/index.html (in case the link above doesn’t work)
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A Summary
i don’t want to be insane
but i want people to know that i am
if i am
but if i am not
i want people to merely be aware
that sometimes
the things i do
are not
kosher
are not
the norm
are not
fully sane
are not
exactly
what is expected of good little girls and boys
i don’t want to be crazy
but if i am
i want people to know just enough that they skirt around the issues
treat me in such a way that the crazy doesn’t come out
and never have to tell me that i am
in fact
crazy
without, of course, ever letting on to me that they are
intentionally
preventing the crazy
from escaping from my body
i don’t want to be totally bonkers
and i hate hyperventilating
i don’t want to be mistaken
and i hate being misunderstood
but if i have a problem
don’t tell me;
fix me …
but don’t let on that it’s there
the crazy must be there for a reason
is my purpose to teach someone else a lesson?
“don’t be like this one”
“this one did it all wrong”
“this one’s quite mad”
or perhaps something better
i am here for the new prophet to fix
so that they will celebrate them
and i will be fixed
or
at least that’s what the the people will think
but i will know better
and the prophet will know better
and jesus and his father will know better
but the people are what matter
because they create the future of religion
someday they’ll worship mr prophet
but i will be forgotten or misremembered
and i hate being misunderstood
i don’t want to be one of the miracles
of some jesus-minded hobo on rideau street
alive
only
in the memories
“`of the descendants
“““of his disciples.
i just want to be normal.
but normal is relative.
i just want to be okay,
just okay …
but what kind of a thing is that to hope for?
I must remember that
I
I
am special
I
I
am different
not in italics, as in “she’s different, stay away from her”
but as in “she is special. she is different. you can learn from her
and you too
can be special
you too
can be different
if you want to be.”
but who wants to be crazy?
and I hate being misunderstood.
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A Wedding Sonnet
Those of you who write with me are probably aware that I’ve been meaning to start writing sonnets. WELL, my friend/teacher is getting married this Saturday and I wrote a wedding sonnet for the card. If you would like to use this sonnet, you may, but you must credit me for it! You don’t have to use the title though. I just want my name there somewhere/please don’t plagiarize me. If you want to change the poem PLEASE ASK ME or else quote my poem and write your own changes. (This applies to all my poems, of course.)
A Wedding Sonnet
Amy Neal
Across the town the bells will ring today,
The joyous sound of love that’s just beginning;
Before the happy couple slips away,
The guests will share their toasts and leave them grinning.
The scene is set, the groom awaits his love,
She enters and he can’t believe his eyes;
A reverend invokes the Lord above,
And with two rings they make the strongest ties.
The moment is complete, but never gone,
The memories of this one day will last;
Love is never-ending; it keeps on,
Goes forward but does not forget the past.
In my short time on Earth I’ve not seen two
More fated for each other, yes, than you.
Filed under: Poetry | 3 Comments
Tags: bands, beautiful, bride, groom, guests, love, marriage, memory, poem, rings, sonnet, wedding
whispers
you can’t be real
you’re a dancer
in my mind
perfect
beautiful
inhuman movements
but somehow
human
in your complexity
they way you move
slowly
smoothly
impossibly well
you’re somehow
special
you can’t be real
man or woman
boy or girl
humans
don’t move like you do
you are impossible
paradoxical
in claiming to be
in any way
at all
like me
I am not like you
but I do like you
more than like you
how could I feel any other way?
perfection,
you see,
is more than a little seductive
how can I resist
a body like yours?
which moves and even grooves
and to which I could never possibly catch up?
mixed feelings
doesn’t describe it
I know how I feel
but it’s impossible to solve
the blacksmith’s puzzle you’ve made of yourself
the rubik’s cube of how I feel about it
and the check, so close to checkmate, of what you’ve done with it
with me
to me.
you are not human
you are advanced
you are art
you are a dancer
a singer
a poet
you are the dance itself
the song itself
the poem,
indeed,
this poem is you
and you are this poem
but most of all,
forever
(and ever)
a man.
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bitter
take the time to wonder why
aloud
and proud
and you’ll get by
without the energy you need
to have a little cry.
it’s simple, easy, très facile,
je ne sais pas
pourquoi
personne
ne sait répondre à ça
it must be something I can’t feel …
mais moi je ne sais pas.
drink the koolaid,
drink it down
the loneliness will hide the frown
of frantic typing in a barren room.
a place where no one lives and yet
it’s filled up to the brim with sweat
of those who’ve worked
to keep it
looking pretty.
a space where no one wants to be
it’s not what I would like to see
around me as I
type the final
words.
take the time to wonder how
you’ll know
to go
the time is now
to head for distant memories
and take the final bow.
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Sufferance
smiling faces
removed
from the greying sky.
in one gentle motion
take the burden from the page
with a white
empty
piece of rubber.
pull and twist it, rub it out
until the memories are gone.
speak in tongues or seal your lips;
no one wants to hear the answers
just erase
erase
erase them
your people
your family
your friends
further back in your mind
than blue blue skies
you can’t save them
(they told you as much)
so scratch them out
don’t leave a mark
no one shall remember
and nothing shall be done.
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Subtlety
Speak to me
Nobody wants to see it
But hearing is believing
Or maybe
I got that one wrong
Answer me
Nobody wants to touch it
But reasons are the answer
Or maybe
That one isn’t right either
Talk to me
Nobody is willing to taste it
But words are made of voices
Or maybe
Voices make the words
Read to me
Nobody is willing to notice
That the stench is empowering
But
You know
I’m almost certain I got that one wrong.
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Desperate Times
Sometimes all the bullshit is too much for me. It’s times like that when I just sit down and stare at a mirror for as long as is necessary. But how long is that? As long as it takes me to become completely engrossed in myself. So engrossed in myself that I lose myself. Has this ever happened to you? It’s like someone cares about you but their love is so overpowering that you could kill them for it. It’s like your own smile is poisonous to your own mind. It’s like nothing any sane person should ever have to face. But I have to face it or I lose my mind completely. It’s like a drug. If I use it once I have to use it again. It’ll drive you mad but if you do it again you’ll feel great. Just fine. Just dandy. But only for a moment until you sink back into the bottomless bottomless pit of prison-like freedom. They call it freedom – it’s not my words. They say, “She’s free. She can do what she likes. Nobody judges her. She is so free.” They wish they were me, but I’ve got news for them. I’ve got a much better idea – what if I could be them? Wouldn’t that be lovely? Then they could drive themselves mad as they save themselves from madness. Then they could stare at themselves, stare at their own reflections (or maybe mine; I’m getting quite confused) until they go mad (or is it me that has to go mad? I can never get it right). Then they could be crazy and I could be free (my words this time, I promise). Let them switch with me. They are naive but gorgeous. I am insane but ‘free.’ Let me go; save me from the ‘freedom’ – I’ve had quite enough of it.
Now if you’ll excuse me I need to find a mirror.
Filed under: Prose | Leave a Comment
Tags: crazy, desperate, insane, insanity, mad, measures, mirror, Prose, reflections, times
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