// hebrew poetry //

 I will sing to the sky
send my voice on the four winds

I will take flight
on wings of gold, wheel in the sun

And  I will come down to earth again 
return to rest and fly once more

I'm taking a hermeneutics class online now, and we were learning about Hebrew poetry. They use parallelism(corresponding ideas) in different forms- this is the form called synonymous parallelism (similar thoughts expressed together).

Why should my head hang down?
I am blessed with the warmth of the sun
I am surrounded by a world full of flowers
and the smile of God has looked upon me by grace.
Thus will I hold my head high
like a sunflower, looking to the light

This is synthetic parallelism, where an original thought is built on to a climax.

In a clash of many colors without form, there is chaos
but where there is simplicity and expression, there is beauty.

Sort of weird poem, but this is known as antithetic parallelism, where one idea is contrasted with another. It's often used in Proverbs.

One last element, used in scriptural poetry and prose, is chiasm.

1.You are more wild than a thunderstorm
    2.More bright than a flash of lightning
        3.and yet quiet as the hush before dawn
        3.and yet I fear the quiet, as I fear a crouching tiger
     2.At least the brightness is visible
1.and the wildness beautiful though furious

Chiastic poetry  is a little harder to explain. Its name comes from the greek letter chi, which looks like an X. If the formatting is right, the poem should have a margin that resembles half of an X. This form uses a number of points/ideas, that build to a middle section. This middle section(in my example, the idea of quietude) is the main point of the piece. Then the ideas are repeated in reverse(as shown by the numbers). More than three ideas can be used, in the same form.

Anyways, hope this is a little interesting! I'm really learning about it, and am excited about using these structures in my own writing!!  Would you use them? Have you used them? Is there anything that needs clarity in my article? Let me know in the comments!

// the death of a dream //

via pinterest

dreams sail up so high,

with trails like rockets,

whistling and calling you to look, look up

only to then burst like a firework,

with a bang, showering down glitter in streams

its last glory sparkling brighter as it descends,

stinging like a spark where it touches you,

until all thats left as you stare 

from the ground to the empty sky

is the smoke and the echoes,

the feelings,

and the memory.

xx angsty little thing xx

//aegri somnia//

via pinterest

 You know how, in nightmares, there often is one bright thing

one good, natural thing amidst a landscape of freakish, surreal horror

and how that one thing in its goodness, it's normalcy,

 only serves to make the rest more vibrantly sordid?

well,

my life, now, is a nightmare

and I think-I feel- I know-you are the one good thing.

and even though you are the one bright spot in this murkish dream,

I don't want you to have to exist in its tainted chaos.

It will be darker without you, it's true

but somehow I think that will be better.

I think knowing you are out there, in the light

will be a comfort in the dark.

I would rather you be free of it

and I, to suffer alone.

aegri somnia- a sick man's dreams

xxx tomorrow is my birthday and probably-possibly-potentially- my 100th post!! xxx

// flower by ryn d. //

it was just a flower.

not even a blooming one.

it was dried up, and it was withered.

it was discolored. perhaps once it had been

pink or white or yellow.

but now if you were to try to describe it

you'd have to say it looked something similar

to stale, cold old tea, left out in the rain.

it was just an old flower.

but it was a flower

that caught my eye.

it was standing a little above

all the others in the bouquet.

like, even though she was far too old

she was hoping, just hoping, to catch

a whift of a beautiful summer wind

in her wildest dreams

even be carried away in his arms

another meadow, another summer

another life.

but of course

it had long been trapped in a foggy vase

never ever to breath that again.

someone took that away from her.

and as i came closer to her

i realized

just how very young 

she had been.

petals

so soft and delicate 

untouched 

underneath the wrinkled skin.

i could imagine how she must have blossomed

before she was broken.

how she must have danced before

someone came along and snapped

her long, slender leg.

how she must have stood on point so tall

a little above all the others

laughing 

her graceful arms twirling to the wind's

deep, passionate song.

and, i wondered, how she felt when she realized

as she fell limp in a stronger one's hand

that her beauty

had betrayed her

if she thought to herself 

she should have hidden it, amongst the tall grass.

and if

as she gasped her last when the door closed out her world

if she tried to warn her sisters

"though the world knows us for our beauty

don't let them know your own"

"for it is all you have

and all i had"

i wonder how she felt when her agile limbs

fell weak and damp.

when someone touched every inch of her 

helpless, sweet innocence

and smelled away her sweet perfume

for his own immediate pleasure.

on a whim, without thought he'd done this

because her beauty had pleased his eye

her youth, her blooming charm.

and with that, with one touch

ended that for her forever.

dunked in cold water in a hard, glass cup

and placed in the center of a dark table

her dying beauty for all eyes to watch.

when her lover, the wind's song, was beat out of her chest

by the suffocating cloud of indoors.

then how she felt when she was spilled and forgotten

eventually noticed and tossed amongst all the others

who'd lived and died just as her.

sad, hanging heads. she stood a little taller.

the second half of the last note she ever sang

still inside her.

one petal

cracked but facing the sky

as if she was caught mid-dance.

her face

still longing to feel the wind.

her beauty blossoming in a new way

from broken pieces had formed 

knowledge

regret

wisdom

humility.

her tears had fallen for lost love

injured dance and quieted song.

her heart had angered for the selfishness

of the hand who'd took what was her's.

but now her life

spoke the words of the world.

her story

tells us the way of humanity.

and her death warns us

of how we shall choose to live.

by my sister Ryn

// painted in blue //

i've been waiting for some feels to write, but since none are coming i guess i'll write myself some feels...

via pinterest

i am painted in blue, today

shades and tints of deep and fade

hues greenish and black

i stare at nothing

i blink

i feel if i were to cry

my cheeks would become stained

with oceanic ink

and if i speak

the words would drip 

with raw, rough sapphires

so i'll stay silent

yet even in my silence

i hear the color

i am painted

soaked,

seeped 

in a melancholy of blue

// elegy for a butterfly //

elegy for a butterfly

pretty butterfly with sun-kissed wings

dances with the wind in summers wild fling

tipsy on the suns golden wine

flutters to a twisted vine

and there alights, to hang and sway

intoxicated by the day

as her head begins to clear

she spies a flower, blooming near

she tiptoes nearer, takes a sip

and as the nectar wets her lips

the flower whispers, with a sigh

'you little know how your time will fly,

on your wings of vibrant hue

to your end, so swift go you.'

the butterfly, with dainty scorn

laughed at the words the flower bore

'i'm but new-born, with my bright wings,

it's not time yet for such dark things!'

and with these words, again arose

to search out a more cheerful rose

the drooping flowered sighed once more,

knowing too well what was in store

the day went by, and then the night

the butterfly soaring like a kite

the days turned into weeks, and soon

the butterfly was tired by noon

she couldn't seem to understand

why her wings let her down to land

despite her tries to stay aloft

she collapsed onto a tendril soft

her heart was pounding in her chest

she thought she needed but a rest

but as the moments passed her by

her fading strength her mind defied

she remembered then, the flowers words

and the warning that she hadn't heard

she sank lower, her tiny frame

bowed in painful, graceful shame

she thought back to the wild days

of pleasure free, until today

she saw where her thoughtless life had led

as darkness seeped into her head

memories of brightness passed

as with a sigh she breathed her last.

via google search

// what i've been reading //

My real-life bestie, Shandi(who blogs @ Beyond the Ordinary) asked me to do a post on what I've been reading lately. I've actually been reading quite a lot(as per my new years resolution) so I'm happy to oblige!

I feel vaguely bad, severely un-hipster, and (this is the plus side of the thing), motivated to buy some new books, because nearly all of these are on my kindle. I'm a firm supporter of e-reading, (it's the same content, and often in a price(free) that you can try before you buy, so to speak). But, it's just not quite as satisfying, AND you can't take nice aesthetic pictures of the lovely books. (or have your sister take the picture). Anyways, here's a list, sans photo, and then I'll elaborate a little(don't I always?;)

To Kill a Mockingbird
Some Emily Dickinson biographies
I really feel like I read something in between this but I cannot for the life of me remember if I did, and if so, what??
 THE MOONSTONE, that's it. Yas. Yay brain.
Villette
Picking away at Wuthering Heights, again.... I don't know why I just can't seem to get into it.
Assorted poetry(Walt Whitman, Lord Byron, Yeats)
I re-read 'What Men Live By', one of Tolstoy's short stories
I've been slowly reading, and just recently finished, 'Of Miracles' by C.S. Lewis, and then just last night read 'A Grief Observed'

To Kill a Mockingbird- Harper Lee
This book fully deserves its reputation. I can't tell you whether it's more social/racial commentary, coming of age novel, small town sketch or mystery. It's all those things, and more. Without re-reading it I can't give you a real breakdown, I have to read a book several times to have that. But I recommend it. The characters are so finely written, even the obvious hard parts are handled with a wonderful tact. Every last one is delicately drawn so that you feel you really know them, and enter into their world. Language in books is a fine line for me- if it's realistic, good. But there's no need to be excessive. This book shone in this regard. The people talked as they would talk, but there is never a point where it just feels like crudeness for it's own sake. And then there's Atticus. Oh, Atticus, Atticus. This was one of those books I couldn't put down; I read it in an afternoon which is something I've not done for a long time. I can't wait to buy my own copy, and also read the sequel. The film with Gregory Peck is very good too.

Emily Dickinson- I'm not sure why I'm so enthralled by her. The mystery that still really shrouds her true self, despite the attempted dogmatism by authors who want to prove their own point by pretending it had to have been hers? Her incredible poise with words and connection with emotion(something I wish I had, but lack)? Or is it just that I, too, 'am small, like the Wren, and my Hair is bold, like the Chestnut Bur – and my eyes, like the Sherry in the Glass, that the Guest leaves.”  As she described herself. Either way, I've been enjoying learning what I can about her, and drawing my own conclusions about her life and beliefs. To be honest, I don't even love all her poems as much as I'm captivated by her. But some of them are just beautiful, even if perhaps no-one but herself could really understand them.

The Moonstone- Wilkie Collins
A classic(the classic?) mystery with a pretty unexpected ending. It's long, convoluted, rather maudlin at times in true Victorian fashion(were there any high-bred ladies back then that didn't suffer from some sort of nervous complaint? It was as forced on them as 'confidence' is today). But it was a good, very enjoyable book. It didn't take me long at all to read, considering. It kept me in suspense the whole time. And I was very pleased with the ending.

Villette- Emily Bronte
I've not read Jane Eyre, yet, so I can make no comparison between the two. But I absolutely loved Villette. Lucy Snow, the protagonist, was someone I could sympathize with in many ways(although she actually cried a lot, and also suffered from nervous complaints. But she at least had legitimate excuse, other than boredom). She goes through a few circumstances in the begining which eventually lead to her moving to Europe from England and finding a job at a school. It deals with her relationships with others, and herself, and God. Something I really liked was her outlook on God. She never loses sight of Him and the fact that He has a plan, despite all her feelings and fallings. Her life, while hard, is not as unhappy as it feels to her, and it has a great love story. And another good man.

'But if I feel, may I never express?' 'Never!' declared Reason.- Chapter xxi

Wuthering Heights- Charlotte Bronte
It's one of those books I think I could like if I could just get into it. However both times I've tried it's been very slow going. I recognize the great writing- it just doesn't particularly captivate me. Oh well, I'll keep trying.

Poetry- I've been trying to read more of it(and not just Erin Hanson).
Walt Whitman- I love his style, actually. And a few of his poems I adore. He himself- the little I've learned about him, and the philosophy expressed in his work render him someone I don't line up with at all. But a good writer, a great writer, nonetheless.
Selected Poems- 
'Salut Au Monde!',
'The Dark Side'
'Wherefore' and "Answer", 
'Questionable' 
'Appearances'  
'Other Lands', 
and 'Tears'.
I think one of the nice things about poetry is that it is somewhat subjective. You can derive your own meaning, insert your own truth, into their lines so that they speak to you in a way they never did their author. It's scary, really.
Byron- I haven't gotten very far yet. Far enough to think the man a sap, but he writes beautifully.  Two of his so far I have liked(or at least have struck me)-
On the Death of a Young Lady, cousin to The Author and Very Dear to Him.
To Caroline(one of many I think, it starts with 'You say you love, and yet your eye...' This one I didn't like per se, but I connected with it very much. He complains that this girl is like a statue, unfeeling and doesn't love like he does. Foolish man. Perhaps she just loves differently than him.)
Yeats- I've read literally one poem of his so far. I liked it well enough. I need to get biographies of all these men before I can really read their poetry, I like to know what I'm getting into, not just read willy-nilly. I certainly am not recommending them as I know little about them and have read little of their work. I'm just listing them because I've been reading them a little.

What Men Live By- Tolstoy
Oh, this story. I like all his short stories, but this was the one that introduced me and anyways, it's just such a good story with a great message.

Of Miracles- C.S. Lewis
I love C.S. Lewis. So much. I only wish I had a fraction of the mind he had. I'm going to need to re-read this one, because sadly I'm not astute enough to absorb it in one reading. It's so well reasoned and written. I've read Mere Christianity and The Screwtape letters, as well as the Narnia series, also. I like his non-fiction works better still, but I've developed a new appreciation for Narnia as I've gotten older. His arguments have strengthened my faith, for sure, and they're just enjoyable to read.

A Grief Observed- C.S. Lewis
It's only four chapters, but four of the most authentic chapters I've ever read. Far from the conversational, vaguely arrogant and very confident tone of his other books, this one is raw emotion trying to be reasoned out by a philosopher in pain. His doubts, his fears, his anger- it's all chronicled as he wrestles through the loss of his wife and come to grips with his faith in God. And yet he doesn't lose his touch- it's written in such exquisite, agonized language that you can practically touch his tears and feel the nausea of his grief. I can't wait to re-read it(and probably use it when I ever get back to writing my own fictional tragedy.)

So there you go, what I've been reading. It's a longer post than I kind of thought it would be. I don't know that I can pick a favorite, although Moonstone and the poets would fall a little lower on a list of that nature. But I have to say, I really just enjoy reading C.S. Lewis. Even when I don't quite grasp a concept, or follow his argument, I can feel it expanding my brain, and I just have such a high level of respect(awe, actually) for thinkers like that. To be honest, it's something I need to work on- I tend to have a little too much respect. They're only human, I know, of course, but it's a weakness I have. I set too much stock in their writings at times, and forget a little that they are still fallible, and that inspired Scripture must be my highest guide.

 However, that being said, philosophy is a tool like anything else that God can and does use. I can only hope to ever even approach the greatness of people like C.S. Lewis, but thanks to him in particular, I can at least aspire to it. A new dream I have is to visit the locales of his life, in England.

I feel there was something else I was about to write but now I don't remember it. I'm so tired.

  Also, can you tell that I like scholarly men by my selection above? Atticus, the Professor in Villete(who I didn't actually mention but if you've read it you'll know him) and of course, C.S. Lewis. You can keep Mr. Darcy or any sort of dashing/swashbuckling/dreamy hero. I like them of course, but the scholars have my heart. Atticus and his glasses though.

Well, that's enough for tonight I think. Have you ever read any of these? Liked or disliked? Going to try them? Do you have any recommendations for me?

(one last thing- I use too many parenthesis, don't I? Oh well)

// hail the sunrise //

via google search

// Hail the sunrise, Christmas morn

Darkness dies as Light is born

Tender Babe in golden straw,

Should scarce be held be palace wall.

Hail the Infant, Heaven's King,

At His birth the stars all sing

Of what now is and what will be

This day of all eternity

Hail the God Child, sleeping now

What His dreams, as cattle low?

Of darkness deep and tomb of stone

Or suffering infinite on a cross, alone?

Hail the Sunrise, Christmas morn

Deaths death-knell has just been rung

As the light touches one small face

Night meets day and justice, grace //

xxx another one of those poems I've mentioned that just sort of pops out when I wake up... it honestly sounds more like Easter than Christmas... but really how can you think of one without the other? xxx

// a painters wish by karin boye //

A PAINTER'S WISH

I would like to paint a meagre fragment

of the shabbiest everyday, so worn and grey,

but radiant with that fire that made

the whole world leap from the Creator's hand.

I would like to show how what we disdain

is holy and deep and the Spirit's attire.

I would like to paint a wooden spoon in such a way

that people had an inkling of God!

xx by Karin Boye xx

 zinaida-serebriakova

// two poems //

by maya angelou

xxx i liked these two poems and thought i'd share them xxx

// i long to fly, i long to fly //

 via pinterest

// i'm an eagle with my wings clipped awry

but i long to fly, i long to fly

i'm a dove afraid to go so high

but i long to fly, i long to fly

i'm a little girl under a great big sky

but i long to fly, i long to fly //