geekchick: (fangirl)
Forgive me
this was funny
and I
had to share

As if you needed any more reasons to love [livejournal.com profile] matociquala, here's yet one more.
geekchick: (lemming)


I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled;
Not prone to overstated gushing praise
Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled
With overstretched opinions to rephrase;
But on the other hand, not fond of fools,
And thus, not fond of people, on the whole;
And holding to the sound and useful rules,
Not those that seek unjustified control.
I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least,
I think I am, and usually I'm right);
And when more ostentatious types have ceased,
I'm still around, and doing, still, alright.
In short, I'm calm and rational and stable -
Or, well, I am, as much as I am able.
What Poetry Form Are You?


The alternative was terza rima.
geekchick: (compass rose)
Found in comments in [livejournal.com profile] matociquala's journal, in her post linking to this wonderful post by [livejournal.com profile] yuki_onna. Go read at least that last link, I'll wait.

...


After the Pyre, Li-Young Lee
(from Behind My Eyes)

It turns out, what keeps you alive
as a child at mid-century
following your parents from burning
village to cities on fire to a country at war
with itself and anyone
who looks like you,

what allows you to pass through smoke,
through armed mobs singing the merits of a new regime, tooth for a tooth,
liberation by purification, and global
dissemination of the love of jealous gods,
coup d'etat, coup de grace, and the cooing of mothers
and doves and screaming men
and children caught in the pyre's updraft,

what keeps you safe even among your own,
the numb, the haunted, the maimed, the barely alive,

tricks you learned to become invisible,
escapes you perfected, playing dead, playing
stupid, playing blind, deaf, weak, strong,
playing girl, playing boy, playing native, foreign,
in love, out of love, playing crazy, sane, holy, debauched,

playing scared, playing brave, happy, sad, asleep, awake,
playing interested, playing bored, playing broken,
playing "Fine, I'm just fine," it turns out,

. .

now that you're older
at the beginning of a new century,
what kept you alive
all those years keeps you from living.
geekchick: (pouty)
Tonight I am moping. Seriously, my bottom lip enters rooms before the rest of me. Eh. Bed is in my future soon, and I'm sure I'll be perkier tomorrow morning. There are a couple of things that are lightening up the mood now though:

1) The Fark Photoshoppers take on Rogue from the Crüxshadows. *dies* (ganked from [livejournal.com profile] anmorata)

2) My copy of The Stuffed Owl: An Anthology of Bad Verse showed up yesterday. There are some absolute howlers in here, like this fine example [edit:] which one probably isn't surprised to learn should be credited to someone named Bulwer-Lytton (Robert being the son of Edward, who brought us the immortal "It was a dark and stormy night"):

Check to Song )

There are also entries from Wordsworth, Byron, Longfellow, Tennyson, and others known more for their Good Verse. It's nice to see even they could turn out some real clunkers. XD Even better than the poetry though is the index. Picking some at random:

German place-names, the poet does his best with, 54
Italy, not recommended to tourists, 125; examples of what goes on there, 204, 219, 221
Manure, adjudged a fit subject for the Muse, 91
Rum, grateful strains inspired by, 8
Stud-farms, essential to the Empire's continued existence, 252
Truffle, love-lorn, 108
Wives should wash occasionally, 63; a modicum of intelligence desirable in, 158; but not too much, 211
geekchick: (Default)
The Layers

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written,
I am not done with my changes.

-- Stanley Kunitz
geekchick: (ohnoz!)
Ow. My brain.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, adapted for frat boys.
At the rager the chicks come and go
Talking about art or something, I don’t know.


And then there's March Madness for nerds like me who couldn't care less about basketball! ;) The Tournament of Books
We aren’t even sticklers about our own rules, frankly. For instance, the TMN/Powells.com ToB constitution explicitly states “only books published in the U.S. between January 1 and December 1, 2005 will be eligible.” The Accidental wasn’t published until January 2006, but hell, the Brits have been talking about it for so long it feels like it was published in 1987. We included it just because we wanted to, constitution be damned. Welcome to the post-Bush/Cheney world, bitches.


All this via [livejournal.com profile] bookslut, of course.

Not the most wildly appropriate icon for this post that I have, but it is teh funneh.
geekchick: (oh noes!)
From a post in [livejournal.com profile] grammargasm, why you should proofread even if you use spellcheck.

The the impotence of proofreading
By Taylor Mali

Has this ever happened to you?
You work very horde on a paper for English clash
And then get a very glow raid (like a D or even a D=)
and all because you are the word¹s liverwurst spoiler.
Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the the utmost impotence.

Read more... )
geekchick: (Default)
Which is, in fact, not at all unlike the state of my brain these days.

I'll cut it, because it is in fact a bunch of random stuff )
geekchick: (Default)
Looking at some of my recent entries, I realize that for someone whose stated goal is to get rid of stuff, I sure do want to obtain a whole honkin' lot of stuff.

I also had a nice long rambling entry about my fear that those people who have recently reappeared in my life after almost half a lifetime are going to disappear again with just as little warning (based in some large part on a particular incident this weekend) but I decided that was just too damn mopey to post right now, as even I don't want to read that kind of thing at the moment.

I think I shall instead post something from Kahlil Gibran, who is much more eloquent than I will ever be. (Mostly unrelated to what I was pondering before except in an extremely tangential way)


And an orator said, Speak to us of
Freedom.

And he answered:

At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you
prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom,

Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant
and praise him though he slays them.

Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of
the citadel I have seen the freest among you wear
their freedom as a yoke and a handcuff.

And my heart bled within me; for you can only be
free when even the desire of seeking freedom
becomes a harness to you, and when you cease to
speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfilment.

Read more... )
geekchick: (Default)
Poetry almost never gets to me, but this one published in last Sunday's Book World did. It's called "Brilliance" by Mark Doty, and is causing me to buy only the second book of poetry ("My Alexandria") that I've ever purchased willingly in my life.
Maggie's taking care of a man
who's dying; he's attended to everything,
said goodbye to his parents,

paid off his credit card.
She says Why don't you just
run it up to the limit?

but he wants everything
squared away, no balance owed,
though he misses the pets
he's already found a home for
-- he can't be around dogs or cats,
too much risk.  He says,

I can't have anything.
She says, A bowl of goldfish?
He says he doesn't want to start

with anything and then describes
the kind he'd maybe like,
how their tails would fan
to a gold flaring.  They talk
about hot jewel tones,
gold lacquer, say maybe

they'll go pick some out
though he can't go much of anywhere and then
abruptly he says I can't love

anything I can't finish.
He says it like he's had enough
of the whole scintillant world,

though what he means is
he'll never be satisfied and therefore
has established this discipline,

a kind of severe rehearsal.
That's where they leave it,
him looking out the window,

her knitting as she does because
she needs to do something.
Later he leaves a message:

Yes to the bowl of goldfish.
Meaning: let me go, if I have to,
in brilliance.  In a story I read,

a Zen master who'd perfected
his detachment from the things of the world
remembered, at the moment of dying,

a deer he used to feed in the park,
and wondered who might care for it,
and at that instant was reborn

in the stunned flesh of a fawn.
So, Maggie's friend--
is he going out

into the last loved object
of his attention?
Fanning the veined translucence

of an opulent tail,
undulant in some uncapturable curve,
is he bronze chrysanthemums,

coppy leaf, hurried darting,
doubloons, icon-colored fins
troubling the water?

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