ruethereal: (TOP ster)
2011-05-02 05:50 pm
Entry tags:

spit it out; or, do i come from outer space?

So aside from that one entry, I missed most of national poetry writing month.  But two days late won't hurt.
 
Gravity
Our call to arms: the newly risen moon,
Her howl of provocation unrestrained.
We heed, haphazard: armor shed and strewn
along, familiar territory gained
with practiced hands, in earnest contours mapped,
two heartbeats shared like sonic booms resound
across the linen war zone, spirits rapt
with bliss inflicted, minds sensation-drowned.
But even we to sated dreams relent;
thus, white flag raised, we yield to deeper night.
With dawn's approach, She makes Her slow descent
until next She in mortals' blood ignite
the roiling taste for skin; with fresh desire
we'll charge once more and welcome friendly fire.
--English sonnet, October 2010
 
And here are two versions of the same-ish poem, written at very different times.
 
What the Moon Saw
Last night the moon seemed to say something
As across the water we watched the city burn
Distant flames licked our sea-chilled heels
And our breath was as salty as the wind
Blood rushed louder than the surf
Sweeping us in its rolling embrace
Calling us to depths starry as the sky
Neither and both sinking and floating
Earthbound bodies learned gravity's dance
In the gauzy fingers of celestial light
Feeling only sand and skin
And a pulse shared by two
What the moon said we both failed to hear
--free verse, September 2009
 
What the Moon Saw (Revisited)
Last night, the moon seemed to say something
as across the water we watched the city burn.
Nicotine exhalations replaced the meaningful words
I'd promised myself to say.
Across the water the city burned,
its flames silenced by my roaring thoughts.
I'd promised you once
that being alone doesn't mean being lonely.
But the silent flames and my roaring thoughts
drown in the star-strewn waves,
hissing of loneliness without being alone.
Like the moon is pulled to the earth--
isolated in the star-strewn skies--
a victim of uncontrollable gravity,
my body, waning, is pulled to yours
with no hope of ever reaching.
So I, the willing victim to gravity,
replace meaningful words with nicotine sighs,
giving up hope of ever finding courage:
Last night, neither the moon nor I could say,
"Hold me closer."
--pantoum, November 2010
ruethereal: (TOP lieutenant)
2011-04-30 01:21 am
Entry tags:

tragedy; or, nazi teachers and navy whores

Did I really just read a 500-page novel in four days?  And before that, a 200-pager in a day and a half?  What has my life come to? At least both books were enjoyable enough.  Though I almost wish I could be ashamed of all the reading I do for school.  At the same time, it gives me an excuse to ignore people.

I go too far...I am remarkable (when it comes to spoilers) )
ruethereal: (TOP crepe)
2011-04-16 01:54 pm
Entry tags:

english excitement; or, come have a bathe

How can the Edwardian A Room with a View be toe-curl-inducingly disgusting and corset-swooningly romantic at the same time? I let the novel have it in my critique, a move I should've planned out better considering it was assigned because my (totally awesome) British professor actually likes the book. Not that I don't like it. I'll probably read it and watch the movie numerous times in the future, each time (probably) feeling both grossed out and wooed. Come on. Daniel Day-Lewis as Cecil? Rockstar. Besides, A Room with a View and A Clockwork Orange now have me listening to an obscene amount of Beethoven, which comes in handy when I'm trying to drown out the obnoxious elevator music played at Glazers.

spoilers as always )
ruethereal: (TOP holly)
2011-04-09 06:26 pm
Entry tags:

literature is life; or, this is me getting my kicks

I've just finished playing catch-up with my schoolwork (read: forced myself to stop writing and/or reading fanfiction for a single day) while on a caffeine high. And even five hours ahead of time. I shouldn't feel so accomplished, considering the work should've been done weeks ago, but Jupiter smite me: I'm smug. I managed to watch and read an eclectic combination of British stuff, and provide some meaningful commentary. I'm posting the criticism not to show off (it's honestly not the best work I could've done), but to recommend all three works. Have at it.

SPOILERS ABOUND )
ruethereal: (TOP letterman)
2011-04-07 11:11 am
Entry tags:

gossamer sleep; or, my ink well's dry

Seeing as how it's national poetry writing month, I ought to post something other than commentaries on British literature and fairy tale adaptations. Last year, I entered in The Chronicle of Higher Education poetry contest. The rules were plain and simple: write a poem in any form in response to John Keats's "On first looking into Chapman's Homer":

MUCH have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

A Petrarchan (that is, Italian) sonnet. Of course, I had to go and choose to write a Petrarchan sonnet myself to submit:

Through Muted Night the Quiet Dawn

If only, cleaving voids and heaven, could those eyes
a haven see past cosmic storms' obscurity;
perceive between the far-flung stars lucidity;
receive assurances divine from silent skies.
The jury, robed in thick abyss, unjust, denies
that mortal respite and relief from gravity
nor solitude. For she, in youth's naivety,
could not foresee dead ends untimely, love's goodbyes.
But she, in night's embrace of gossamer sleep, will find:
In dreams, not skyward prayer, can memories endure,
do heartfelt vows with whispering wind become entwined.
Though she may wake, her heart still hesitant, unsure,
the morning's gauzy fingers, radiant, extend
to dry the tears she's shed, that heart to gently mend.

I didn't win, or else that would've been one of the first things I'd say, but I did manage to get an honorable mention of sorts. Besides, Alyson Ark Iott won hands down. Her poem is like a slow burn, and hearing it is even more intense. Read and/or listen to it here.
ruethereal: (TOP tabi)
2011-04-06 07:41 pm
Entry tags:

into the woods; or, waste not, want not

Dear K______,

Like Charles Dickens, I'm so captivated by the "Little Red Riding Hood" cycle of folk/fairy tales. It's fun reading the story's evolutions: from teaching feminine behavior, to warning about men, to valorizing men, to illustrating a change in feminine behavior. And until reading Maria Tatar's commentary, I've never thought of it as showing competition between generations when Little Red lives but Granny stays very dead and eaten. But I was most interested in the adaptations by Roald Dahl and Angela Carter.

Dahl is undeniably an author of literature for children, so his "Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf" and "The Three Little Pigs" are suitably comical. Simply reading on the surface, Little Red is cheeky, contemporary and (who didn't notice?) homicidal. She shoots the wolf preemptively in the first story, then, opportunistic girl that she is, shoots the piggy who employed her as a mercenary in the second. As strange as she is, I prefer Dahl’s Little Red to her older counterparts who couldn't put two and two together despite noticing how hairy, etc. Granny is. Reading deeper though, I think there’s metaphorical weight behind her pulling the gun out of her underwear instead of a basket like James Thurber's Little Red. Guns are typically associated with masculinity, so producing it from her "knickers" makes the gun a phallic symbol. Dahl's Little Red becoming her own hero also makes the Grimms' huntsman obsolete.
 
On the other hand, Carter's protagonist remains characteristically feminine, but assumes an entirely self-constructed, self-controlled sexual role. The story follows the rape motif found in many of the adaptations, but instead provides an outcome similar to the moral of Thurber's story: little girls are no longer easy to fool. Rather than shoot the wolf (that is, the male sexual aggressor), Carter's Little Red meets him halfway and even asserts herself sexually. Arguably, she becomes masculine like Dahl's Little Red by being sexually aggressive, but I think her sexuality is of the feminine sort. It's just one far different from the sexuality expected of or imposed upon women, in that Carter's Little Red puts herself equal to and maybe even above men. She tames the man-made-wolf-made-man as a woman.
 
Considering the story’s conclusion, Carter’s version also differs from the older didactic tellings of little girls and men in meaning. The first half seems to be the obligatory warning concerning men, but ultimately, Carter’s apparent message is not for girls to fear men but to find and maintain their own form of control in the expected interactions with men. This message is proof that folklore adapts to the times. Young women no longer have to stick to the path, but they should nevertheless be armed with social knowledge and made aware of what they are capable of (so that they don’t need to carry handguns). Although Carter was known for being a feminist author, I think it’s refreshing “The Company of Wolves” doesn’t follow the notorious and unapproachable man-hating vein of some (if not most) feminist writing. Sexual equality is meaningless if it’s rooted in fear or hate.
 
Cheers,
Lulu Fisher
ruethereal: (TOP tart)
2011-04-01 04:17 pm
Entry tags:

juicy fruit; or, the earth is on fire

My awesome British professor has thoroughly convinced me to ride a bicycle everywhere. And maybe even stop eating meat. Of course, that'll only happen once I can afford such a lifestyle. His soap-boxing came out of a lecture about Burgess's A Clockwork Orange (adapted for the screen by Stanley Kubrick, that genius) and Ballard's Crash.  Long story short, sci-fi dystopia or not, people don't care enough about each other.  Forever and ever amen.

P.S. I now want to master the use of nadsat.

real horrorshow, my little droogs (spoilers) )
ruethereal: (TOP letterman)
2011-03-22 09:41 am
Entry tags:

don't eat shit; or, some days school > work



I've skipped work to loiter at a coffee shop.  It's only because hazelnut lattes and literature make one of the best combinations in the universe.  Then again, karma exists because 1) I walked in the rain wearing a white t-shirt, and 2) my latte was made by the not-so-great barista, "Mr X."  But who needs to get paid?  I'm not a capitalist, I'm a godless hippie who likes to read.

Anyway, I learned a very valuable life lesson a couple weeks ago.  During a conference with my professor, he complimented my commentary on the novel we'd read.  Thing is, I must've been wearing a shit-eating grin having heard him say in his totally awesome British accent, You're a bit of a mystery to me. Your writing is too good, because he then proceeded to ask me if I'd plagiarized my analysis (I hadn't).  But he let me stutter and mumble explanations and apologies for a good minute before he finally rolled his eyes and said he'd bothered to copy/paste my entries online to look for evidence of academic thievery and found none (because I hadn't!!).  So, lesson learned: always wear a pokerface when two feet away from green-eyed men.  Or something like that.
 
Not only do I recommend Vladimir Nabokov's Despair (who knew Russians could be so witty?), but also Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day:
 
I swear I didn't plagiarize (SPOILERS) )