Fiction/Poetry

b]Caitlyn[/b]

Control. Something we all desire, suppress, possesses, and fear.

Fear. A sense of discomfort caused by something you do not relate to or understand.

Fear. [i]The unknown.[/i]

She feared many things. Herself, or rather, the curse within herself.

The demon.

Her [i]sanntum[/i].

She feared it’s control over her. It made her do things. [i]Terrible[/i] things.

She killed her brother.

Emotions, though weak, controlled it. When she was mad, it lashed out.

And when it lashed out, people died.

When she was upset, it tormented.

Even then, people died.

She couldn’t stop it.

She couldn’t control it.

She needed his help, so she asked for it.

However, she never asked for his [i]love[/i].

The same way she never asked to [i]fall in love.[/i]

[align=right][b]Dameon[/b]

Unclean. They were all unclean.

The world, vile, dirty, and horrid as it was, deserved mercy.

His mercy.

The device to dominate the new world: her heart.

Fragile, ungaurded, and so [i]utterly[/i] devoted. It was perfect.

[i]She[/i] was perfect.

His tool.

His l[i]over[/i].

So innocent, pure…

and so very, very [i]powerful[/i].

She would never know.

Correction. He would never [i]let[/i] her know.

She would be guarded. The perfect, guarded [i]puppet[/i].

Her powers, immense and as sickeningly wonderful as they were, could be used for his bidding.

All he had to do was get her trust.

Her love wouldn’t hurt either.

Obtaining it would be easy….

…[i]keeping it [/i]was going to be the challenge.[/align]

Looking up upon the tree
I see the lights upon it blink.
They twinkle and sparkle
And shine like the stars
Yet still the tree seems so empty.

I stare up at the angel
That looks down at me.
Holding a harp, with wings spread wide,
Mouth gaping open, singing a song
And still the tree seems so empty.

Looking up upon the tree
I see the ornaments hanging.
They sit there, so still
And I watching them until
I wonder why the tree seems so empty.

I stare at the presents
All wrapped up nice
And putunder the branches
For tomarrow night
Yet still the tree seems so empty.

I walk down to dinner
My whole family’s there.
Grandma and Grandpa, sitting in chairs.
Aunty and Uncle, talking in pairs,
Cousin and siblings, nieces and nephews,
All of them crowded around.

I watch them all, in the best dress I have
Listening to the gossip
Watching everyone here.
Then I look down at the tree
And suddenly I see
That the tree isn’t quite so empty.

Reading: The Bedford Introduction to Literature by Michael Meyer (Hardcover)
Weight: 4.2 lbs

Poetry is cast in shades of moonlight, memories of the movie, “The Dead Poets Society”, and the words of Billy Collins. Of course poetry has sometimes been the impossible essays I’ve had to write in Spanish, the number times I’ve had to count meter, and “Anna Akhmatova’s Poetry as a Critique of Stalinism.” But on the whole, I love poetry. So far my loves are Billy Collins, William Wordsworth, Anna Akhmatova, Sylvia Plath, Becquer, Lorca, Julia de Burgos, John Donne, Shakespeare, Victor Hugo and Pablo Neruda. Sometimes however, I’m afraid that I only love the idea of loving poetry. There are poets I wish I loved, for example Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman, but… I really don’t!
I like the “Introduction to Poetry” that author Michael Meyer gives: Don’t let yourself be intimidated. It’s good advice because poetry can often be intimidating. I get this image sometimes of a woman wearing all black and a beret, sitting on a stool in a smoky café. A bongo player by her thumps out beats as she throatily talks about… weird things. Poetry can be pretentious and high-brow, not necessarily bad things. But it can also be accessible. I firmly believe what Meyer says is true, you must allow yourself to respond emotionally to the poem. Then, you may begin to dissect the machinery.
Can poetry be rushed? I think it’s unfortunate that (some of) my literature teacher have tried to motivate us to read poetry or literature because “it’s on the AP exam.” Then the work becomes required drudgery. I wish teachers would remind us more often to enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. I wish they’d remind us that reading a poem and writing an essay on it in 30 minutes isn’t exactly a true test of your literary capabilities. I wish they’d teach us to savor poems and remind us that we can savor a poem for our entire life and still not understand it.
While this anthology/textbook I have to read over break (in Bermuda!) is ridiculously large, I’m looking forward to it (sorta). After all, how bad can this anthology be if it includes Bruce Springstein and Kanye West?

Edgar allen Poe My inspirartion for begining to write any kind of poetry or any piece of writing. Granted that my creations are nothing compared to anyone else’s (meaning that mine is not very good). i have loved reading this man’s poetry since i was young. I loved the power he had through the words of his pieces. He had such imagery that you could see what he was writing about, you could even feel it sometimes. His writing would sends icy chills down your spine with every horror story or poem. everything in this man’s life was a gift. granted that much of it did not seem that way, He was a mastermind because of it! my favorite story by edgar allen poe is “Bon Bon”. take a read

I must confess: I enjoyed “Twilight.” Am I a rabid screaming fangirl? No. Only when it comes to RENT or Spring Awakening.
If you dig deep enough, you’ll see that Stephenie Meyer’s bestselling novel has characters that are, shall we say, not real. I’m not talking about the vampirical sense of the word, but the characters as people–their hopes and dreams, and more importantly, their flaws. I’m talking about Bella and Edward–the “Mary Sue and Gary Stu” of the novel. (If you don’t know woh Mary Sue is, Wikipedia has a surprisingly informative article.) Now, Stephenie’s plot twists are admittedly borderline cliche’, and her characters aren’t as real as they should be. However, “Twilight” is good for a light read, especially if you don’t want to think too much. For something just as fantastical but admittedly heavier, I reccommend “Wicked” by Gregory Maguire.