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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

…I know where I’ll be this November.  Oh no…I don’t know where I’ll be in two weeks.

Dear goodness, the final weeks are upon us at university, and the realisation that I will be back home in less than two weeks slightly terrifies me.  Part of it is the looming desire to get a job that I just can’t get.  The other part is the angry rumble of finals starting this week and lasting until 7 May, which, by the way, is my birthday.

Now, I won’t say that I feel so old, because damn-it, nineteen was never meant to be old, but I won’t say that I’m particularly thrilled with getting to be another year older.  And it’s funny, too, because I used to scoff at people who feared their next birthday.  Sure, I don’t really fear the 7th.  I’m already an adult, so what can another year do aside from lower my drivers insurance?  But it’s still an odd realisation that I’m two years from drinking age, four from when I’ll have to get my own insurance, and six years from when I hit that middle bump in the twenties.  All of this is coming closer like a squall line.  You see it moving awfully slow, but before you know it, the rain comes.

Squalls have been moving in quite a lot lately, and my window gets pelted with mist and water droplets continuously.  It’s relaxing to just sit with the window open, feeling the mist pour into the room and stick to the cover of a National Geographic in hand.  Because, as we all know, I’m an addict for National Geographic magazines.  Add in some NPR, BBC News, and a cup of tea, and I’m set.  Set to be either educated or a fifty-two year old man: you decide.

Really, though, this grandmum of a girl has no clue where she’s going.  In two weeks, will I be getting calls about my volunteer job that the State said I’d get?  Or will I be listening to some Joanna Newsom and painting?  Never before have I been so fearful of what I’m doing in my future; I’ve always been a planner who knew exactly where she was going.  But the summer is a gaping hole in my vision.  Once uni starts up again, I’ll be right back in the swing of things: I know where I’m living, how my room will be set up, what classes I’ll be taking, the clubs I’ll be in…  I even know that I will be seeing Harry Potter in the theatres and Muse in concert in November.  Oh yes, MUSE!

I rant and rave about my favourite bands–Nickel Creek, Vampire Weekend, Regina Spektor, et cetera–and Muse is no exception.  I’m incredibly blessed to have the opportunity to see them and be in good seats.  The only downside is that buying tickets didn’t go according to plan, so my group will not all be sitting together.  But, such is life.  I figure that I did the best I could, so it’s time to except what it will be, get the fuck over everything, and just muse at, well, Muse.

Anyway, I’ll leave you with a poem.  It’s nothing fantastic, but I feel like I should add some of my more creative works onto this blog as well.

– – –

Invisible and present only to reflections

in glass ponds upon southern streets,

Drift the tears of ghosts once

scattered by the angels.

They miss the sun piercing the hearts;

the hearts of blossoms in mourning

of a spring that never came.

But Mason jars brushed with dust

lie in the arms of the angels

who wait beneath the spektors’ cry.

Sweet circles echo upon the mirrors;

rubbish from the point-of-view

of those so desperate to touch God.

And so, invisible be the mourning,

never viewed by the humans

who pass by the blossoms,

still lit in cold,

but in the pools of glass on southern streets.

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