Found Fridays #1

I've decided to create a new section to my blog called, "Found Fridays". I will take things I've found outside and write poems about them. Maybe even a short story or two. I found this name plate in a copy of Frances Bacon's essays at our bookstore. Here is the poem I wrote it's called,

Anna Cecille

I found you Anna

inside of a book.

Did you know you were lost?

Perhaps you left on purpose.

I found you Cecille

With glue on your back.

Did it bother you?

Perhaps you like being sticky.

I found you Moorman

On Mr. Bacon's essays.

Did you read them?

Perhaps he wasn't to your taste.

I found you Ann Cecille Moorman

Your embossed letters seemed important.

Did you ever feel important?

Perhaps you will now.

The voice in my head told me to....write.

These are the facts.

1. I want to write.

2. I need to write.

3. I hate most of what I write.



How can I ever get going and stop whining? Argh. I found this poem by Sylvia Plath in a book of her letters, that her mother had published. Funny thing is my Mother bought the book for me :) . Anywho here is the poem---
You ask me why I spend my life writing?
Do I find entertainment?
Is it worthwhile?
Above all, does it pay?
If not, then, is there a reason?...
I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still.


That is exactly how I feel, that there is a voice inside me demanding I write. But of what use are my words? There are millions of writers out in the world, do I even stand a chance? My lovely Mother says that if you love something just do it, don't try and make a profit off of it. Maybe that's my problem, I'm very good at over-complicating things. For example next time you see me, ask me what my favorite color is. :)



Sometimes when I see numbers I add them all together and then divide them by however many numbers there were. I love discovering the outcome and for a few seconds I don't feel so empty headed when it comes to math. When I was younger I used to enjoy math especially dividing and multiplying, it felt sort of like magic to me. But then as I got older and math got harder I lost interest and was convinced I couldn't do it. Where is my motivation??? I could have kept at it with a little hard work and sticktoittiveness. How did I get talking about math?! Motivation that's what I need, caffeine gives it to me sometimes mostly when I drink too much.



I've given myself a challenge that I have to admit was not my idea. Kate Bingaman-Burt wrote and illustrated the book Obsessive Consumption. The author illustrated her purchases for three years annotating on each one. I thought this was an interesting idea and that I should try it for a year. Because I don't buy something everyday and I'm constantly wondering where my money is going. I believe I started April 2nd, I'll see if I can post some of my drawings. It figures that right after I start this challenge, my family and I go garage saleing and all of our purchases get mixed together >:( . I'll try and sort it all out, and maybe I'll have gained some motivation and discipline by the time this year is over!

William Stafford

I have posted the poem A Story That Could Be True by William Stafford before, so I won't post it again. But I have to talk about it. I love finding music, art or literature through movies. It makes me feel like I didn't just waste two and some odd hours sitting in front of a screen. Mr. Stafford's poem found me this way, on a t.v. show, I don't watch anymore. A character in the show quoted the last couple of lines from the poem and I was smitten. Of course I googled it and loved the rest of the poem as well. After I copied it in my "everything" notebook I realised I needed to read more of William Staffords poetry. A person blessed with a comfortable wallet would probably have just ordered a book of his poetry online. Alas, my wallet is usually lonely and empty, so it was either wait for my birthday to come along or go to the library. I'm not so good at waiting so the library was my destination. I could've gone to our local library, but it is a smaller library and usually disappoints me. Warsaw's library is where I was disappointed this time. They have such a huge collection of poetry I thought I'd find what I desired. Nope, they had a book about him sort of biography-ish with a couple poems. What a bummer, it looked as though l'd have to wait for my birthday after all.
Aha! Not so this time!!! I recently got a part-time job at our local library. Thus proving that I do in fact love books. Being a partner of a used bookstore and now a librarian!!! I'm still so excited with my new job. I am surprised with how busy we get sometimes, and then there are times when I have absolutely nothing to do. Of course the other librarian working with me has stuff to do but can't think of anything that I could do. This makes me afraid that my fellow librarians will see me doing nothing, complain and then fire me, so I try to stay busy walking around organizing shelves and straightening books. On one such venture I found myself in the poetry section and what do my eyes behold but a 249 paged book of William Stafford's poetry!!!!!!
Ah, the benefits of a paranoid librarian. :)

Obsess Much?

I tend to count how many times I use the bathroom at the shop. Silly, I know, but still. When I have to go use it I creep over quietly hoping Jack won't see me. Even though the door squeaks loud enough even for Jack(who is hard of hearing) to hear. In my head he's thinking, "Wow that girl uses the bathroom a lot. Maybe I should have her help pay for toilet paper." When really he probably doesn't notice or doesn't care.
Is it my generations desire to be obsessed with having some sort of mental disorder that causes me to notice these things about myself, and wonder what’s wrong with me? Is it all just a big cry for attention and medication? I have ADHD love me! I am Autistic fear and revere me! We used to go out of our way to pretend to be perfect. Now we compare our children’s doctors notes as if they were medals of honor. Where did it all come from? Are there still people out there content with there cross-eyed normal children?

Don't Know Why But I Do by Me

Why do I care what you think,
You are not the one in my head.
I never wanted your affections,
But then your smile gave me hope.

Stupid blind hope thats deaf to truth,
Blind and deaf yet still strives to live.
Even when I saw you walk with another,
My hope flew up forgetting all pain and tears.

I dreamt of your face untill I was sick,
And prayed that you would curse me.
But my hope would not give in,
She guides me to ruin.

Truth stabs me in the heart.
You never cared,
You never even
Knew my name.

Doubt

I Could Make You

What if I could make you doubt
Every thought you've ever had?
What if I could make you doubt
Every word you've ever said?

I could make you stutter,
And speak maybe's not sure's and I thinks.
I could make you hold your breath,
And count every time your eye blinks.

Your every step would falter
At the terror of going outside.
Your face would twitch at a question
Wishing it could just hide.

"What reason could there be?"
You ask me now with doubt.
Beacause I'm tired of uncertainty,
And whispering when I'd rather shout.


Spithead likes to walk our pet crocidile with me. It gives us time to talk and enjoy nature. He usually asks me, "How's your writing going?", and I usually say, "It's not.". I hate answering like that because he's so supportive. I wish I were different. I think about writing a lot, but I don't have the hootspa to actually write it down. What I have written usually disapoints or disgusts me. Spithead would tell you otherwise, but he's my brother. Thats not to say he's dishonest with me. No, he's a great critic.
My biggest problem is that I can't keep anything going. I've got a ton of beginning, middles and ends but none of them fit together. Or continue on by themselves. I sometimes think the reason I have a hard time writing is my lack of "college education". But haven't there been loads of authors that were genius' without extra schooling? My trouble is with my lack of confidence and motivation. Where does one purchase these? I've prayed many times to be blessed with them, but Lord you obviously said no or not yet. Moving right along.........
Currently reading an early reviewer for LibraryThing called Dracula's Guest. Very interesting, its short stories of the very first, or beginnnings of, vampire stories. Before Bram Stoker and Stephenie Meyer. Also reading Stardust by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess. Beautiful book with lovely pictures and an original story. Spithead got it for me from the library. Also reading poetry bur Rainer Maria Rilke and William Stafford. I was introduced to Rilke by Maggie Stiefvater's book Shiver. I have a nice sized poetry collection in my personal library. So I was very frustrated when I couldn't find any poems of the two previously mentioned poets in my possesion. And our printer is out of ink, so I had to wait till we went to the Warsaw library.
Didn't have much luck with Mr. William Stafford but did find some books of Rilke's poetry. One of the books is bilingual, so on one side you have the original German and on the other side english. That'd be an interesting way to teach myself German.
I shall leave you now with a poem each by the two poets I've been speaking of.

A Story That Could Be True
By William Stafford
If you were exchanged in the cradle and
your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.

He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand in the corner shivering.
The people who go by—
you wonder at their calm.

They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
"Who are you really, wanderer?"—
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king."

Love Song
By Rainer Maria Rilke

How should I keep my soul
from touching yours? How should I
lift it beyond you toward other things?
Ah, I would gladly shelter it
in darkness with some lost thing,
on some remote unsounding place
that doesn't tremble, when your depths stir.
Yet everything that touches you or me
takes us together like a bow's stroke
that from two strings draws one voice.
Across what instrument are we stretched?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.