Tra-la.

Spring has sprung, tra-la. As my Norwegian grandmother is fond of saying. Actually, she's half Swedish. As my Scandinavian grandmother likes to say. She's so nice. Anyway, I have decided that in light of the green shoots on the plants outside my loft, a change of blog was called for. So here it is. Don't freak out. If I don't like it after a while, it will change back. But for the time being, this is what you get. Okay? Okay.

Hm. Not much has happened. Bonaparte is maybe not coming back to the chainsaw murderer's next year because he has applied for a scholarship in Japan. Best wishes, Bonaparte. I have filled up my journal, or at least will have by this evening. Just two pages left, and a one and one-half page poem to copy in. I'll put it here for you to read. The third poem in which I have bird reference. I should publish an anthology. :)

Paper Luna

In the corner where the walls and ceiling meet

And paper fancies flutter and sway

Ruffled by the breeze of tragedy

That gusts like a breath, ragged and soft

I will stay, like a moth awaiting night

Or the memory of a moth, or dust off its wings

And rustle and slumber along with my dreams.

When the dark comes

And the parched white walls gasp life

And the cool evening puddles underground and creeps across the ceiling

I will cast off my cocoon

Dead for me, a dead husk of what I was

To skitter across the floor in the draft under the door

While I forge on in my quest for light.

In the alleys where the stockings quietly slink in the dusk 

In the gutters where the dusty rains collect

In every corner of the sky

I will search like a woodpecker, pierced and broken by the starlight

Pray the crumbling walls do not perish

But I have killed them

And they will fall with a mighty cry!

Ere the moon also dies, and its disciples fade and fold in upon themselves

Should some stray sunlight wander its way across the void, reflect,

And onto mine

I will drink it in

And be refreshed by it

And, satisfied, will sigh and fold my paper wings

And dream fluttery paper dreams.

Ah. Makes me sad a little bit. I've been feeling kind of intense lately. But that's awfully good for my poetic output. Tehe. I now have twenty-six. Although a few are for my eyes only. They are from when I was a freshman and oh, are they weird. Freshmen are weird. So weird. As are my poems of that era. Maybe four or five I've counted. But still, if I become famous and can get away with anything I like, I might publish them.

Working on "The Water is Wide" for voice. So pretty. So sad. So springy. I'm getting stronger. Vocally, that is. I can feel it when I hit the high notes. I can break into this really rich tone I wasn't getting before. So glad I started lessons. 

Well, I have a bit of homework left to do, so I should probably get on that. And hey - glad you are still maybe reading, because I intend to keep on posting. Whether anybody reads it or not... but I try not to think about that. :)