Friday, May 20, 2016

A Songbird's Lament

I see you sometimes

stuck to the earth below

like ants, carrying those

death machines you call guns.

Where have your wings gone?

Why is it that you shout instead of sing?

How much hope could you have lost

to be able to kill one of your own kind

in the blink of an eye? I’d love

to land near and help you

overcome your pain

but the truth is

you have made

me afraid of

the ground.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

October Writing

Once upon a time, there lived a family with a mother, a father, and their three daughters. Now, this family was unique from all the others because since the beginning of time, their ancestors were all extremely gifted at something. It was almost like a special power.
    The father was an extremely gifted scientist. He could recite every single chemical formula that ever existed, and he had been working on a time machine to add to his numerous inventions.
    The mother was a mathematician, able to multiply any large number immediately and

Okay, I have to level with you. I was going to write this whole original story about how math and science weren’t the only two things in the world that mattered, and how art and writing were also really amazing and each person is different and we can’t change our passions. But I got so stressed and those short two paragraphs alone literally took me ten minutes to write. So I’m just going to write what it was going to be about.
    There were three sisters, right? The two older ones were amazing at math and science (respectively) as well, and the two parents were so proud. But the youngest hated math and science and instead she liked the sound of words stringed together. She wrote poem after poem, and no one approved.
    Her parents scolded her, her sisters teased her, and she felt so alone. But then she dropped a poem she had been working on one day, and then the person who found it was so impressed that the girl got invited to show some of her poems in front of her whole town.
    So her parents saw how amazing she was at writing and everyone started praising her and she became the next Emily Dickinson.
    Maybe I’ll try a couple of poems instead.
Through a cloud of people
two pairs of eyes
two half hearts
and one spark

he smiles and
she blushes
her cheeks matching her
delicate lipstick
and he begins hoping
she begins praying

and it all starts.
The glance
becomes a stare
and the game
shifts forward
their path shortens
then lengthens
until they meet.

And he likes her eyes
hoping for a meal tonight
and she likes his smile
perfection from a view
he jokes
she laughs
she brushes against his wallet
the game continues
she's winning
he's gaining
yet only

We took the black cat out
Back when we were young
And we still had a trace
Of innocence in our eyes
We got away
With drenching her
In the lake
And leaving her
To dry off
Then our innocence
Got replaced
By insolence
And soon
We became the cat

I know the titles seem kind of wacky. I like it when the titles don’t fully go with the poems, because they can add a new, interesting portion to the story. But I get it if they sound (or look?) stupid

Le Petit Prince Chapitre

La prochaine planète était grande, mais trop vide. Les plantes mortes restaient sur le plancher, et il n’y avait pas de volcans ou fleurs. Tout que le prince voyait était sombre, et il a marché pour beaucoup d’heures avant de voir une seule fille. Elle s’asseyait sur le plancher et gémissait.

« Qu’est-ce que tu fais ? » le prince a dit avec hésitation.

« Je me cache, » la fille a répondu. Elle avait les cheveux bruns et très longs—touchant ses pieds. Aussi elle était jeune et petite. Elle portait une robe longue et rose clair, mais la robe était sale.

« Mais pourquoi ? Ici, il n’y a rien, » le prince a dit, intéressé.

La fille a continué sans une réponse. « Je ne veux pas rentrer à ma planète, » elle a chuchoté. « Les hommes sont grands et effrayants. »

« Oui, je n’aime pas les grandes personnes non plus. Ils sont étranges. » Le prince a pensait de quelque chose. « Mais pourquoi as-tu peur ? »

« Parce qu’ils veulent me faire grandir ! » la fille a crié. « Et je ne veux pas devenir grande ! Il faut parler avec des personnes qui me font peur ! »

« Mais pourquoi ils te font peur ? » le prince a demandé.

La fille était silencieuse. Elle a regardé le plancher, et a commencé encore de pleurer. « Je ne veux pas grandir, » elle a dit doucement.

« Donc tu vas rester ici pour le reste de ta vie ? » le prince a dit. « Dans cette planète vide et laide ? Qu’est-ce que tu vas faire ici ? Qu’est-ce que tu peux faire ici en dehors d’avoir peur et pleurer ? »

La fille a tourné sa tête pour le regarder. Ses cheveux ont volé rapidement derrière elle.  « Peut-être tu as raison … »

« Je sais que j’ai raison, » le prince a dit, et il a ri un peux en pensant de ça. « Et maintenant, je vais partir. »

« Non ! » la fille a crié. « Je t’implore, reste avec moi un peu. J’ai peur d’être seule. » Elle l’a regardé avec ses grands yeux.

« Tu as peur de tous les choses, » le prince a dit. « Il faut être plus courageuse quelque fois ! Veux-tu avoir de la joie ? »

La fille n’a dit rien.

« Si tu veux être heureuse, il faut avoir de la courage, » le prince a insisté. Il l’a regardé encore, jusqu’elle a commencé de pleurer plus fort.

« Peut-être les petites personnes aussi sont étranges quelque fois, » il a pensé en train de partir.

Michelangelo and his Works

Michelangelo was an Italian polymath, with many different skills including architecture, military engineering, painting, and sculpture during the Italian Renaissance. Many of his works are known as some of the most famous in existence. He was often referred to as Il Divino (“The Divine One”), and was looked up to by many people.

Born in 1475 in Caprese, Italy, Michelangelo Buonarroti and his family quickly moved to Florence, where his father worked for the government. Michelangelo was then apprenticed to painter Domenico Ghirlandaio at age thirteen, and then refined his sculpting technique under Bertoldo di Giovanni. Michelangelo always considered himself a sculptor before anything else, even with the mural he painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He died of an illness at 88 years old in 1564, unmarried and childless yet surviving far past the life expectancy of the era.

Michelangelo had a pure love for quarried marble and sought to prove his devotion to the stone block many times. He is quoted as saying, I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free. Using a chisel and stone, he carved many beautiful pieces, some of which are still unfinished today.

David is one of Michelangelo’s most famous sculptures, depicted from the Old Testament, and more than fourteen feet tall. He was constructed to enhance Florence’s famous Duomo, officially the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, and also “protect” the city of Florence. But although this was true, it was
Michelangelo's intention that the sculpture would serve as more than just a fierce protector of the city. David’s watchful eyes warned the people of Florence that “whoever governed Florence should govern justly and defend it bravely...eyes watchful...” This is reflected in David’s calm eyes.

Michelangelo gave David powerful athlete’s muscles, a massive ribcage and made him also have a powerful stance. David carries a stone loosely in his right hand and a sling lies over his left shoulder, expressing the superiority of inner strength over brute force.

The second famous statue that Michelangelo constructed actually has several versions—the Pieta.

The Pieta is a sculpture of the Virgin Mary holding her dead son, Jesus Christ. Her face appears almost peaceful, but her left upturned hand shows the true emotion that she is harboring inside of herself. Everything is highly polished to perfection in this sculpture.

I admire this sculptor because Michelangelo not only had a passion for sculpting, but he took it one step further and lived it. He took one look at a block of marble and saw what was hidden inside of it—all he needed to do was free the artwork that was already there.

Other people admire Michelangelo’s work because he was one of the most famous Renaissance artists, and for good reason. Although he excelled at many things, he channeled his focus into sculpting, and became immensely good at carving and bringing out impossibly microscopic details in each sculpture. This man was extremely prideful and knew that he was the best, but look where it got him—I believe that it was worth it for him, and all of his admirers.

Works Cited

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Friday, February 1, 2013

ENGLISH CLASS: Interpreting Dark Poems

For my English class, we're reading poems by poets such as Robert Frost, or "ee cummings." Today, I'll be sharing one out of three poems. This one is my personal favorite.

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

What's the first impression of this poem? What does it appear to be about? At first, on the most literal level, it's about this:

A man stops by some woods on his horse. He knows there is a man owning these woods, yet he does not think that man is here right now. He talks about his horse wondering where the farmhouse or shelter is. It's the darkest evening of the year. The horse asks if there is some mistake, but evidently, the man doesn't think so. He thinks the woods are great, and pretty, but he must leave now.

That's the most LITERAL interpretation. Before we went over it in my English class, I thought of it that way, too. But, really, it's about something way more deep, dark, and morbid. I'll tell you right now.
Two words: DEATH WISH.

This man is thinking about killing himself. 

In Stanza Number One, he's not talking about some rich man owning the woods. He's talking about God, and how God doesn't stay here in these woods. So, there won't be anything to stop this man, or protect him.

In Stanza Number Two, the little horse represents something: the man's conscience. He knows that he shouldn't stop here without some shelter, between the woods(death) and the frozen lake(even more death), in the darkest evening of the year. Why would he stop by the woods on the coldest day ever, if he doesn't want to at least hurt himself?

In Stanza Number Three, his conscience gives what a shake? His harness bells. And when else do you give bells a shake? When a king dies.

In Stanza Number Four, the final one, he says how it's so tempting to just stay there in those cold woods, just let himself freeze to death. But he has miles to go before he sleeps, or rather, years to go before he dies.

I realize this is really morbid, but it's really interesting to me how Robert Frost wrote this poem. He claims to have written in all in one standing. (I agree, if one standing can take four days straight.) It's my favorite poem, because it sounds so innocent, when really, it's about something way more powerful.


Oh, she's going to hate me for this. But the point is, my best friend, Goonga Galoonga (I'm not saying her real name) is a really good poet. She writes something down, and it's automatically framed, because of its talent.

Here is an example:

by Goonga Galoonga

When the world ends
So will hunger
For when people
World peace

Nice, huh? I'll admit that it doesn't make sense, but I think it has a powerful meaning if you look closer into it.

by Goonga Galoonga

Like me
Hug me
He will never
Love me
Kiss me
Will he ever?

For the record, Goonga's talking about a certain someone at school. (Cue the love birds!) Just kidding. I think she captures the voice of a teenager in distress because she has no idea if this certain boy likes her. (By the way, I think he does.)

This is the last one I'll say. It's very humorous, and that's why I chose it:

by Goonga Galoonga
He tried to eat me
I told Mom
I tried to eat him
He told Dad
Does this poem
Have a point?

No, I don't think it does. But it certainly lifts my spirits on some days.