Mazal Tov

Congratulations to the BIMA Writers for a wonderful day of readings at the Arts Festival. You all surpassed my wildest expectations and made me very proud.

Keep on writing (and posting your work on this blog).

Thanks for being such a great group of young writers.

JON

Reality Unseen

Clean-cut façade

Near impossible to see

the difference between the falsehood

and the reality unseen .

Two-faced Janus,

Deceiving as an elf

hiding behind the images

fashioned by oneself.

Looking glasses

Glazed in lies

created by magazines

and images flickering on screens.

Reflected in silver

Tainted with fading truth,

we find ourselves lost

within our fight to be part of the norm.

Using appearance as a shield

With words as a sword,

to keep ones image

we all wage our wars.

Fear of secrets being told

Those of new and those of old,

We hide behind our web of lies

Our glistening masks.

Those camouflage screens

That have become part of our very beings.

When We Saw the Heavens Aflame

When we saw the heavens aflame,
So were our hearts and eyes.
A burning madness, but no desire,
For filled with gladness were our hearts.

Glorious flags of forty nations
Flapped brightly in the midnight breeze.
Danced we, for the time had come
To fill the dark with our joyous cries.

For we know, but never admit,
That self-doubt is a master.
For we recognize, but never acknowledge,
That we chain ourselves to ourselves.

Now we walk the path undaunted.
Now we praise the martyrs right.
This is our chance. We take it gladly.
Free of guilt and regret, we dance.

She Speaks in Butterflies

This is the final version being put in the anthology.


She Speaks in Butterflies

She is soft.
She is soft,
soft copper waves of hair
and curving brows
Soft fabrics,
thin knit cotton and light,
clinging to her gently glowing skin
Her eyes like water, flowing
dreamily downhill.

She speaks in butterflies:
Not butterfly language, or butterfly tongues,
but in little bright-winged insects
flowing, flying from her mouth
Flapping their wings
to push puffs of air
building words
growing poetry.

She speaks in butterflies,
butterflies with finely feathered wings
feathery soft, like she is
dancing and swishing
and pouring, pouring
out of her mouth in shades of
turquoise, gold, violet, red;
Weaving words into wonder
with every flick and swoop
brushing listeners’ ears
with a wisp of their wings

Butterflies twirl
making silent air sing
making empty space shine
Until, at last, the final dance;
Vanishing
in little puffs of light
a whispered ending:
She speaks in butterflies.

Boxes

Should this be a poem or prose poetry? Any other edits? Here's both a prosetry and a poetry version:

Boxes

I am in a box.
It is a nice box, I think, looking around:
There are candles in one corner,
a challah;
there’s a Torah over there,
next to a bookshelf with ancient,
aging, fraying books;
Someone is cooking chicken soup on the other side,
and nearby, a man with tassels hanging from his shirt
is swaying over a prayerbook, chanting,
while a little girl spins a dreidl
by his feet.

Then another box appears around me,
its walls closing in
The praying man is on the other side
though the little girl is still here
now scrawling out a sign that says
“No Boys Allowed”
and pasting it to a wall.
Near her is a shelf with Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, American Girl magazines
racks and racks of dresses and tight jeans and jewelry and make-up,
and everything is pink
(I hate the color pink.)

Then another box surrounds me,
its walls slamming down;
It cuts off all the dresses and the pink,
which is nice,
But space is getting tight now.
This box has rainbow walls;
In one corner,
women with short haircuts and baggy jeans
are shouting about marriage rights,
waving protest signs.
In another, two girls are making out
so I look away.

Then, slam, a box — I’m a teenager.
Slam, a box — I’m white.
Slam, I’m the oldest child,
Slam, I’m a nerd.
Slam, I’m a brunette.
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.

Slam,
I am alone
in a tiny,
dark
room, curled
into a ball
so I can
just barely fit
within the
walls
of thousands,
millions,
of boxes.

......................................................................................................................................................................

Boxes

I am in a box. It is a nice box, I think, looking around: there are candles in one corner, a challah; there’s a Torah over there, next to a bookshelf with ancient, aging, fraying books. Someone is cooking chicken soup on the other side, and nearby, a man with tassels hanging from his shirt is swaying over a prayerbook, chanting, while a little girl spins a dreidl by his feet.

Then another box appears around me, its walls closing in. The praying man is on the other side, though the little girl is still here, now scrawling out a sign that says “No Boys Allowed” and pasting it to a wall. Near her is a shelf with Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, American Girl magazines, racks and racks of dresses and tight jeans and jewelry and make-up, and everything is pink. (I hate the color pink.)

Then another box surrounds me, its walls slamming down: it cuts off all the dresses and the pink, which is nice, but space is getting tight now. This box has rainbow walls; in one corner, women with short haircuts and baggy jeans are shouting about marriage rights, waving protest signs. In another, two girls are making out, so I look away.

Then, slam, a box — I’m a teenager. Slam, a box — I’m white. Slam, I’m the oldest child. Slam, I’m a nerd. Slam, I’m a brunette. Slam. Slam. Slam.

Slam,
I am alone
in a tiny,
dark
room, curled
into a ball
so I can
just barely fit
within the
walls
of thousands,
millions,
of boxes.

Steffen

Based on the photograph taken by Collier Schorr entitled 'Steffen'.

I pay the taxi driver and step out of the car, my legs wobbling while I try to stop my heels from sinking into the gravel. Unfortunately, it is my fate to break the heel of my right foot and I cannot help but groan aloud as I look down.

"Are you all right?" A half-worried, half-amused voice comes from before me, and I look up to see Steffen standing in the doorway of his family's quaint country cottage. He is trying to hide a smile, but I can see the laughter in his eyes; my ego demands of me that I do not beg for his aid, so I respond with, "of course, I'm fine."

To prove my point, I bend over, pull at the strappy contraptions that adorn my feet and relieve myself of the anguish that most women subjugate themselves to in order to appeal to the opposite sex. Yes, my relationship with Steffen has advanced to the degree that I am meeting his family, but even so, I know that I have to make a good impression; and no good impression, in my experience, has ever been successful without a pair of heels.

Nevertheless, the heels have been shed and so I am praying that my past experiences will be proven wrong as I tread across the gravel, trying not to cringe, and reach Steffen, who is now leaning on the porch railing. "Hello," I finally greet him and he smiles before kissing me and then grabs my hand.

"My family is in the kitchen, preparing a meal fit for a king," he says as he leads me down a hall, just before he enters a doorway, though he stops me from following with a hand motion, and closes the door behind him. I stand there like an idiot, unsure of what is going on but a minute or two later he walks out with a pair of flip-flops in his right hand. "Do they fit?" I take them and slip my feet into them. I look up at him and say, "perfect." He grins before taking my hand again and leads me back to our origin and down another hall which, finally, leads to the kitchen.

The five people within stop what they are doing, one, I assume she is Steffen's mother, stops cutting lettuce with the knife in midair. "Oh, she's gorgeous!" she says causing me to blush and Steffen to look slightly embarrassed, which he relates by crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. I can’t help but laugh at his embarrassment.

"It's fine, really," I tell him, still smiling. "Thank you," I say, turning to his mother. "I am Gabrielle."

Steffen's mother open her mouth, but a little blond girl, interrupts. "I'm Laura, you know, right? Laura, the little sister?" She appears to be about ten and very excited. "That's Mama, obviously. And Papa," she points to a man who has the same strong face as Steffen, albeit with a bit more age. She then continues, "that's Uncle Franz Schorr and Aunt Collier. She's American, like you!" I look to the last two in the kitchen and the middle aged, mostly balding, man with a slightly disturbing handle bar mustache and beady black eyes nods while his brunette wife smiles warmly; she seems very American, but perhaps I merely think that because Laura has mentioned it. I open my mouth to speak, but Laura interrupts again. "Are you going to marry Steffen? Because I want to wear a pretty dress!"

"Laura!" her five relations shout at her at once, Steffen louder than the rest and, yet again, I notice his uneas iness but this time I do not laugh at him but rather I just smile at Laura's bubbliness. The small blond girl seems as if she is generally a very enthusiastic child. The family starts to work again, as if they are all unsure what else to say, and as they do so I notice some of the tension flee; I am relieved that Laura isn’t further pursuing the question. I like Steffen very much but... Well, I met him less than a year ago!

Steffen walks over to where his father stands, using an indoor grill to cook either tilapia or halibut; I am glad to see that it is not pork for despite the fact that I am not a practicing Jew, I still do not eat pig. I want to help and glance around, trying to find something to do. Steffen’s aunt, Collier Schorr, motions to me to come over to her. I move and see that she is making dough. She gives me an apologetic look around and says in a comforting, American tone, “I’m sorry; I overslept and Sarah, Steffen’s mother, should have known better than to trust me to make the sourdough bread. Maybe we can have it as dessert, though.” She laughs at her own words and I can’t help but laugh with her and soon I am helping her shape the dough.

While I help, I notice that Mrs. Barbarostrase is finishing the salad while Steffen, his father, and his uncle are grilling, and Laura is bringing dishes through a doorway, down a hall which, after a quick question, I learn leads to an outside alcove.

Just as Mrs. Schorr and I put the dough into the oven, the little blond announces, “I’m ready!” in a sing-song voice. I wait a moment and then Steffen beckons so I follow him into a small grove with a prettily set table. We take seats opposite his aunt and uncle, while Steffen sits between me and Laura, with his parents sitting opposite one another, at each end of the table. Mr. Barbarostrase offers us wine, even Laura, who drinks a mouthful, makes a face, and then demands water. We start to eat the fish, the salad, and several other dishes which were prepared in advance and the meal is very comfortable; I find myself liking Steffen’s family a great deal.

We eat until we are full and then Collier realizes that she has yet to take out the bread and brings it to the table, thanking goodness that the oven t imer worked. Laura frowns and whines that she wants to eat the chocolate chip cookies she made as dessert and Steffen tells her that they shall have two courses of dessert, letting nothing go to waste; but savoring both the bread and cookies independently. Seeing him so at ease with his family makes me like my boyfriend even more than prior to the meeting.

After the bread is finished, while we wait for Laura to retrieve the cookies, Collier says, “oh! I almost forgot! I developed the picture!” She reaches into her purse and passes around a framed photo; everyone smiles an odd sort-of smile and I wonder what I shall see, for nobody is making a sound. Steffen passes it to me and I nearly drop it. “Is this a sick joke?” I demand as I stare at a picture of my boyfriend wearing the uniform of a Nazi. The photo slips out of my shaking hands, the glass of the frame breaking as it lands on the table; I say nothing and as the family stares at me in shock, which quickly turns to hurried explanations which I tune out, I kick off the flip-flops and walk to the front of the house.

There is a shout from behind me and I turn around, primarily out of desperation; I do not want to leave. I like Steffen and his family a great deal and the logical part of my mind tells me that he is no neo-Nazi. The Jewish part of my soul, however, shouts out to me that no German, unless they are Jewish, is to be trusted. But I stop and turn because I am a logical person.

It is Steffen; he is out of breath from running after me. As he approaches, I see that he has the flip-flops in his left hand. “What the hell is wrong?” he implores of me.

“What’s wrong?” I seethe, wondering how he can be so callous. He is aware of my heritage, even if I am not a practicing Jew. I told him about my grandmother who was in Dachau, for she died three months ago. And he had comforted me! Yet he had been a supporter of Hitler then! How could his family support that? They had seemed so nice, too! And yet none of them had said anything earlier... “How could you support the murder of eleven million people?” I demanded.

Steffen looked as if I had slapped him. He inhaled deeply and shook his head, “I don’t! You think because I were that uniform that I am automatically a Nazi sympathizer?” I nod and his eyes narrow; he is glaring at me as he has never done so before and for the first time since I’ve known him, I wonder if he is capable of hitting me out of rage. I never thought so before but that look... It is horrible; it is one of disbelief, dislike, and a little bit of pain. “Do you think I am capable of that?” he challenges me.

I stand there for a moment as I grapple with my thoughts. I never did before but... “I didn’t. But, how could you wear that if you don’t? How could anyone? We live in a free world but that... ” Why is nothing ever as simple as we desire it to be? I came to meet his family; not to confront him. And yet, I thought I knew him, hence the meeting. I am completely baffled.

And he sees this confusion and the anger on his face changes to something else. Recognition, perhaps? “Gabi, Gabi, Gabi... I forgot that you didn’t know. I thought Aunt Collier told you about it when you were baking. She’s Jewish too; she’s an artist. A Jewish artist.”

“Wait, what?” Collier’s a Jewish artist. And her nephew’s a neo-Nazi?

“Collier. Is. A. Artist. A Jewish artist who is using that picture for her exhibit to show that what you see isn’t always the whole truth,” he says calmly and my eyes grow wide. I say the only thing that I can: “oh.”

It’s nothing brilliant, but I cannot comprehend this; I am no artist. I’m majoring in childhood education and as a result the only art that I understand is finger-paintings. Steffen is watching me and I decide that I need to sit down, so I walk over to the porch steps, brush some dust away, and take a seat. He sits down besides me and looks at me expectantly.

“So... You’re not a supporter of the Nazi’s?” I simply had to ask the question; I needed to hear him answer, to reassure me.

Steffen turns his face away, runs a hand through his dusk-colored hair, sighs then turns back. His eyes bare into mine and he says, “I do not support the neo-Nazi cause and I posed for my aunt for that precise reason; she’s trying to explain the difference between German’s now and then. We’re not our predecessors.”

I say nothing, for there are no words and Steffen seems to understand this. I stand up, take his hand and murmur an apology. And then we go back to the table and I compliment his aunt on her photography skills. The mood is slightly tense but I see that Collier knows this and she realizes that it is her fault.

And I realize something; that’s the point of her art, isn’t it?

Alright, so I'm planning on putting this in the BIMA writer's anthology so any critique would be loved. Oh, and for some reason the indents aren't showing up for the first portion of the story, but there are paragraph breaks.
-Edited at 3:45 but still not complete, of course. Critique still adored!

Synonyms for said, from http://www.thecaveonline.com/

Synonyms for "Said"

GENERAL

SYNONYM	MEANING
added	to embellish or enhance an argument
continued	to further an earlier point
stated	to say, usually confined to quotes or paraphrases from documents, or to official statements
announced	to declare publicly or formally
asserted	to state positively, with great confidence but no objective proof
commented	to make a remark to explain, interpret, or criticize
declared	to make known clearly and openly
observed	to mention casually
remarked	to make a brief, casual statement of opinion
reported	to give an account of; to carry message; to give a formal statement

The following verbs should be limited to the specific circumstances described by the definitions:

ACKNOWLEDGING OR REVEALING

SYNONYM	MEANING
acknowledged	implies reluctant disclosure of something that might have been a secret
admitted	implies reluctance to disclose, grant, or concede, and usually refers to facts rather than their implication
affirmed	implies deep conviction and unlikelihood of contradiction
alleged	to assert or declare, especially without proof
avowed	implies boldly declaring, often in the face of hostility
conceded	similar to acknowledge and admit
confessed	may apply to an admission of a weakness, failure, omission, or guilt
disclosed	to reveal something previously concealed
divulged	to reveal something that should have remained secret or private, which may imply a breach of confidence
revealed	to make something known that had been secret or hidden

INQUISITIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
begged	to ask in a humble or earnest manner
demanded	to ask for boldly or urgently
implored	to ask with great fervor, implying desperation or great distress
insisted	to demand strongly, to declare firmly
pleaded	to answer a legal charge, to offer as an excuse or defense, to implore or beg

EXPLANATORY

SYNONYM	MEANING
answered	to respond to a question
explained	to make an explanation
rejoined	to answer an objection
replied	to answer a question or comment
responded	to reply to a question or comment
retorted	to reply to a charge or criticism in a sharp, witty way
returned	to reply to a charge or criticism in a sharp, witty way; to answer an objection

ARGUMENTATIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
contended	to argue or dispute
countered	to dispute
emphasized	to stress
exclaimed	to speak suddenly or vehemently
maintained	to assert, to support by argument, to affirm
proclaimed	to announce officially
proposed	to set forth a design or plan

SUGGESTIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
hinted	implies slight or remote suggestion
implied	similar to suggest, but may indicate a more definite or logical relation of the unexpressed idea to the expressed
insinuated	refers to conveying a usually unpleasant idea in a sly, underhanded manner
intimated	stresses delicacy of suggestion
suggested	to propose as a possibility, to convey indirectly by putting an idea into the mind by association

TONE

The following words all describe manners of speaking or tones of voice and should be used when necessary and appropriate.

SYNONYM	MEANING
barked	to speak or shout sharply
bellowed	to roar, to cry out loudly in anger or fear
cackled	to laugh cynically or sneer; implies sinister intent
cried	to call for help, to shout, to sob, to weep
croaked	to make a sound like a frog or raven, to talk dismally
declaimed	to speak in a pompous way or deliver a tirade
drawled	to speak in a way that prolongs the vowels
joked	to make a joke
mumbled	to utter inarticulate or almost inaudible sounds
murmured	to speak in a low, indistinct voice
muttered	to speak angry or discontented words in a low, indistinct voice
roared	to utter a loud, deep sound
scolded	to find fault with angrily
shouted	to make a loud cry or call
shrieked	to make a loud, piercing cry or sound
wailed	to express grief or pain through long, loud cries
whispered	to speak softly, especially to avoid being overheard

A Quick Death, Please, a Quick Death

“Hold your fire!” he roared to hold back those who would have. “Don’t fire ‘til you can see the whites of their eyes!”

He’s dug in as far as he can and still see to fire. His mind goes back home to think of the girl who waits for him, who knows that he must help to free this land from King George, that a new flag must fly. As a white bug crawls on hand, he thinks of the day he left to fight. The Brits march near, but not so that he can see their eyes. He shakes, knows he will die, steels self. A hard glint in his eye bright as the dove who calls, its cry stamped ‘neath the pound of his heart. So close now, close he can see their eyes. Their eyes flash white like the harsh sun as it burns his skin.

“Fire!”

He’s pulls, a slight pause, a new sound heard so oft ere this day, pierce the red and white and black coat in front of him. The Brit lies to his heart that he will not fall, but his heart knows the truth. He calls his heart to still it, but his call falls dead on his numb lips. He thinks of the glare of the sun in his brown eyes, still thinks he lives, that his heart still beats. But his heart lies still, will not give ear to his plea, sleeps for all time in the soil’s blood.

“Reload!”

Moves his hand fast to the box at his waist, takes it out, tears it with his teeth. Then, out of naught but peace, the shock in his eyes, a harsh pain in his chest, near his heart. As he dies, his mouth full of blood, he thinks of the girl who waits for him, who knows he won’t come back, won’t be there for him, how he won’t be there for her. He lies there, prays for death to come. His hope heard, saints fly down, see him as he lies there, can’t die, can’t die, wants so much to die. Quick, stop his heart, he shouts to God. A quick death, he prays. Please, a quick death. Please. And so he lies there, cold, in spite of the heat of this blessed day.

This Being the Story of How Morgan Freeman Shot Mayland Thompson

When Mayland Thompson was sitting there at the bar, he shouted that he wanted to be buried with a twelve-year-old girl. Leastways, he said that after he’d drunk three tankards of whiskey and got knifed in the shoulder by the barman, Morgan Freeman. Freeman, who could smoke a pipe for sixteen hours straight and sing like the Virgin Mary, who could shoot his old flintlock farther than Daniel Morgan while dancing a jig, who once drunk a barrel of the Swamp Fox’s “Swamp Elixir” and recited Christmas mass perfect, and who’s hobby was raping three-year-old men (believe me, soldier, he knew how to), Freeman, had knifed Thompson. I thinks it was over the fact that Thompson had just declared that he was dirtier hog that Freeman himself. Drunkards are always doing things like this. Now, soldier, don’t think for a minute that Freeman got away with that; believe me when I says that this was Thompson we’re talkin’ ‘bout. Soldier, when ye knife Mayland Thompson, don’t bother to say, “Sweet Jesus, help me,” ‘cause Thompson can draw a pistol faster than ye can blink.

So’s how does it get to be that Freeman lives? I’ll tell ye for a hard dollar.

Thanks, soldier.

Just so’s ye want to hear about how Freeman got away, soldier? I’ll tell ye, he had the mind to duck ‘cause Thompson could draw his pistol and fire before ye even blinked. Now, Thompson never misses, and he’s so shocked real quick when he does. Freeman had enough time to grab a musket from above the fireplace. Soldier, he ran that bayonet so quick through Thompson’s chest that ye heard his heart stop (and believe me, soldier, ye’ll know soon enough what it sounds like when a man’s heart stops). But, just ‘cause Thompson’s heart’s bleedin’ don’t mean that he ain’t alive. Thompson just pulls it out, wrenches it out o’ Freeman’s hands, and gives him his eternal damnation on Earth.

And that, soldier, is why no one as yet had had the nerve to fire the Thompson-Freeman musket that hangs just over yonder fireplace. No one ain’t ever cleaned it either. They says that if a rifleman ever touches that blood, he’s a cursed man. I ain’t never touched it, soldier, and I never will.

Kayla

Kayla stares
Creepily captured in a lasting pose
Flaking finish behind
betraying.
Her poverty,
the few but memorable nights
where her rumbling stomach
kept her awake.
Her new dress fits itchy,
with the awful formality
of this birthday portrait.

Grownups are more in the habit of lying
(or tacting, if one is so inclined).
There's nothing wrong,
We don't need help,
We're just going through a rough patch.
They teach her to say things like
I left my lunch at home.
I walked into something.
I fell down the stairs.

Her friends and relatives,
mostly relatives,
gathering around
tell her, smile for the camera.
But Kayla won't.
She's tired of lying.

Short Short Story (Please Critique)

Martin leaned over the railing, emptying the contents of his stomach into the teeming waters below. His comrade, Ryan, laughed at the sight of his gawky frame bent over retching seaward. Martin looked up and glared at the boy, wiping his mouth of vomit. "What are you laughing at?" Ryan said nothing, just slipped below deck to his hammock and diary.
April 25th, 39th day at sea.
Smell and the dark oppressive here. Writing sparingly to save candle. Fear for the safety of my order. Can't trust anyone here. Feel so isolated. Must keep on. Have a mission. God, I miss home. I miss
"Meyers!" The captain shouted from the deck, "get your ass back up here!"
Ryan grumbled his way up to where his superior... was not.
"Captain?" He called, "Captain?"
"He's sleeping." Said martin, all in dark: dark hair, dark eyes, dark mood. A farmer, his hands were calloused, and his strong, tall body threatening.
"Oh," Ryan said, squinting. God, his head hurt, "Did you call me?"
"No. You alright?" For Ryan had sat down and was gently rocking himself.
"No." He said, his eyes shut tight, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. What the hell is that noise?"
Martin dropped down beside the troubled boy, his face alarmed and mistrusting. "What noise?" He asked cautiously.
"Hey," said Ryan, his eyes open now, and too bright, "you want to see something?" Bright sparks sprung from his fingertips, and he released them with a careless gesture. They shattered on the floor into miniature beams of light. Ryan cried, and his tears were like honey running down his face.
Martin eyed him. What the hell was he trying to do? Ryan kept opening and closing his fist, waving his hands about like a madman. "I'm going to get the captain."
Ryan didn't notice, lost as he was in his reverie. He didn't notice when the captain came, wiping sleep from his eyes, or when Martin, grunting with effort, carried him downstairs to his hammock. His eyes were too filled with bursts of light.

To Replace the Old

This is a poem I wrote one day; it hasn't been revised at all and I need some critique. It's a fairly cliched topic, so pardon anything that seems so.

I watch her as she steps outside

for the first time in our world

her dress flutters in the wind

bare feet flow in the grass

she has slept for far too long

awakened in a new place.

He watches me, i know he does

a gaze beats into the back of my head

it's like I'm newborn

this world is just that strange to me

a place, a place out of a dream.

Skyscrapers no longer adorn the skyline

cities are frowned upon,

primarily out of fear,

no human desires to repeat the past  

computers are no longer in existence

music players are extinct

entertainment is nothing more than voices

either simply just tales 

or song of beauty.

It is peaceful

there is no hurrying to or fro

stress is nonexistent

working together

creating a new, better world

that is the only solution

for man's destruction has been great.

This world, it has made me see

i shudder at my long-dead friends

and the horror that they caused

how horrid must it have been to survive

that oh-so horrible warring time

civilization has finally caused it's final disaster.

She takes a step and i wonder

what does she think of all this

it is new to her

for she says she is old

her world has been destroyed

but, perhaps, it can be replaced with the new. 

New, fabulous word for the Lexicon

Gaudismal- the state of being happy in the face of a terrible situation. Ex. 1: Stacy was gaudismal even though she had a bad test grade.

Never Forgotten

The grandfathers, the pious water carriers and greasy godfearing butchers,
stayed in their cemeteries across the ocean.
But they are not really separated; they are apart of us.
In every breath we take we remember the ones oh so far away;
Burried underneath the holy dirt they lie until the time comes to return.
They have gone on to a better place while we stay here to continue.
We go on because they have lived and fallen.
"What would they have done?" we ask without a response.
Their faces, carved into our minds, will never fade.

Half-Lie

It wasn't the fact that you lied

lying is a common enough trait among humans

Nor was it the fact that I felt wanted

The fact that it was you and not me is inconsequential

What causes me pain is the fact that I knew

I always knew, from the very start

I saw you with her

Walking, talking

and wanted it to be me

So I tried, hard

and it worked

but she was still there

and the worst part was I wanted her to stay

she made me laugh and talk

and you wouldn't talk to me, only her

so some part of me, the sensible part, knew

knew that it would end

I laughed when it ended

I had been beaten to the punch

But it still hurts

Not because of you

but because I refused to accept

what had been right before me

I wish there was a villain

But c'est la vie

and not a sordid fairy tale

We are human

And soon

when I say 'I'm fine'

It'll be the truth

and not a half-lie

Knots

Knotted hands,
Browned from the sun
Lay on the wood
Indistinguishable, one from the other

Cords, a twisted rope
Bind you to the altar
Bind you to the world

Iron links
Secure you
Cling to you
Coldly

A single chain
Thin and gold and beautiful
Holds you down

You cannot fly
You cannot be free
You suffer in silence
You suffer alone

But knotted hands,
Old, browned, withered,
Untie you,
Let you go,
And then they melt back into the wood
Silent saviors
Unthanked
Unknown
But for you--
Unforgettable

Ziedona idille :: Nonography

If you have seen the BIMA writer's lexicon, you will have seen the definition of the word 'nonographer' as being 'someone who reads languages that they don't understand aloud'. In our class today (July 13th, 2008) we became nonographer's and read some poems in other languages and 'translated' them as we thought them to be. The first one we did was called Ziedona idille.

Ziedona idille 

Man tecina- linu audeklis, 

Uz plavas balinat klats.

Es eju par vinu sapnodams,

Un tu pie rokas man nac.

Spid zale bezeligactinas

Un pienenu ziedu zelts,

Un debess par zemi nolaizas 

Ka  zilgans zida telts.

Ap baltiem namiem abeles zied,

Plaukst varpas tiruma, 

Un smiedamies musos noskatas 

Mazi berni celmala,

Zale iebridusi,

Pirkstinus mute ieliksui.

Our Translation

My wife- light of my life, 

In pleasing ballet flats.

You are the wine of my soul,

And your foot rocks my heart.

Adorned with bedazzling diamonds

And delicate are your very feet.

And your love is like seventy wildebeests

That trample my affection.

I will tie down your name so you can't leave me,

Praised be your voluptuous offering,

And you sing me nostalgic music

Mazes of desire enrapture me.

Iridescent diamonds,

Their glittering is silenced before you.

A Spring idyll 

My trail- a bolt of linen,

Lain out over the meadow to bleach in the sun.

I stroll upon it, dreaming,

And you came and take me by my hand.

The primrose glistens in the grass

And the dandelions' blossoms gold,

And the heavens settle down upon the land

Like a silken azure tent.

About the white houses, apple trees bloom,

The long grasses flower in the clearing,

And giggling as they look upon us

Toddlers by the roadside,

Waded into the grass,

Little fingers in their mouths. 

Ode to the Drunk

The music fills the air

the scene is set

walking into the bar are several pairs

no one realizes who is not there

but the mood is right

and a frequent customer will not return

the drinks are served

the cards are dealt

a glance at the clock

the absence is felt

the room is silent

a finger is raised

to the corpse in the snow

outside the cheery place

the snow is red

and the whites of his eyes are cold.

An ode to the drunk,

who will never grow old. 

Ten to One

10: I told myself that I hated him, but I lied.

9: He was a pain in the ass, but nice.

8: It was snowing when he saved my life.

7: I was locked out of my house.

6: He bought me a warm drink.

5: Then he took me home.

4: And after I realized.

3: It wasn't hate.

2: Something different. 

1: Love. 

"Loved Fiercely"

Danced the sacred rites
Ancient drums doth tremble
On my quest for thine smile
Four lonely wrens cried

Ancient drums doth tremble
Beat ceremony and call
Four lonely wrens cried
To tell all that war was naught

Beat ceremony and call
For the treaty hath been signed
To tell all that war was naught
After tearing flesh from spirit

For the treaty hath been signed
Now we can embrace
After tearing flesh from spirit
But he flees my hands

Now we can embrace
After tears floweth fast
But he flees my hands
Needing time to mend

After tears floweth fast
He walked the forest lone
Needing time to mend
He sought my care and love

He walked the forest lone
Collapsing in mine arms
He sought my care and love
For he'd seen so many dire days

Collapsing in mine arms
Wept that he saw his brother die
For he'd seen so many dire days
Tears flooded mine shoulders

Wept that he saw his brother die
Min tears mingled with his
Tears flooded mine shoulders
Held fast not to part

Mine tears mingled with his
Unhurriedly sobs slow
Held fast not to part
Gazing with eyes aglow

Story Machine prompts

Hi BIMA writers -- if you would like to keep working with the Story Machine prompts, here are some to choose from (one from column A, one from Column B):

Column A
A wedding planner
A US Senator
A pilot
A dairy farmer
A dog groomer
A clown
A flight attendant
A police officer
A proofreader


Column B
eats dog food
auditions for Project Runway
rides a tricycle for work
wears a powdered wig
sends a message in a bottle
buys a $500 beach towel
buries a toothbrush
trades clothes with a toddler
unravels a sweater

Why Censoring is Evil

Once upon a time there was nothing.
Then God created a book called Everything.
Everything contained Earth, the Heavens, Hell, and Emotions,
All things that were.

At first the characters were happy.
Everything had been given to them.
All that was needed was courage,
Courage to take advantage of possibilities.

So the people danced for joy,
Because they had been taught by God how to dance.
Then they held a service for God,
Each man, woman, child, grandchild, and newborn praying.

Even though their prayers were different,
God still heard and smiled, for it was good.
Though they all spoke differently,
It was as one voice that they shouted, voices trembling with joy.

But one day, as a lone figure was walking in the rain,
It suddenly started to hail.
As the ice struck the figure's cheek,
Angry revenge was plotted.

This figure was very important,
For it held to power to take rather than give.

First, the sky was banned because three men were struck by lightening.
Next went the children,
Slaughtered because of their dependence on others.
After that the land was taken away in rusty chains,
And the people dealt the sea a crushing blow
Because sailors drowned, and they were afraid.

Then they dragged Knowledge away from her home,
Screaming and kicking and biting to escape Ignorance and Fear, the police.
The books were empty and sought to weep,
But water was gone because someone lost a sailboat in the pond, didn't they?

And then, because Wisdom had been hanged for preventing a war,
There was no more prayer.
And God was sad, for prayer had been a sign that the people loved,
But there was no love, because they had forgotten how.

Finally they took away the rest,
All that remained, the people.

Then they tried to take away nothing.
But there was nothing left.



Not even God.

Found poetry from “When God is Your Favorite Writer”

These stories
That timeworn anthology
That faint scent
of myths
Truths
Enmeshed with love
And comforting from the grave.

My faith in love
Would begin then
Time would slow
Our worlds fused
Through twisted strands:
The sacred and the profane.

Then
The painful alienation
Her anguished betrayal
Fell in evil:
Kill every living thing
Every newborn love
The last vestiges of belief
Slip away.

These familiar stories
Remain
The sadness, desolation
The old, weathered pages
Finally emerged
Torn into love.

The Game

I didn't fall in love as much as I tripped over my sneakers and then dove into it wholeheartedly, discovering the beauty. I loved the scent of the ball, the sweat creeping down my back, my dirty kneepads like shields, like medieval armor. The kneepads work with the net. The net is stretched out like a fence, protecting. Protecting me and my team, or protecting the other team, it doesn't matter. The net is a challenge; it guards the no-man's-land.
And then I feel it: the exhilaration of the ball coming down before me, the adrenaline pumping my fist into my opposite hand, crouching, rising, making contact, watching the ball continuing on when my arms have stopped. Its stripe pattern swirls dizzily as it gains height and as it drops, hopefully on the other side, hopefully where the net will obscure it from my gaze.
That's when it's beautiful. When the ball drops behind the challenge and the net's strings distort the stripes and the ball is wreathed, hidden, covered in mosaics, tiny off-white slivers of leather looking like they were broken apart and smashed and then glued back together. The ball keeps falling, and the mosaics shift, dancing and swirling.
When it hits the ground, I imagine what should happen. It should break, the shards should fall apart and explode everywhere, showering us all in glittering, glorious, leather mosaics. Except my team; except the people guarded by the net as it sways gently in the breeze of our hard breathing.

Radiant Jews

The words were overpowering
My connection was sacred
Because I ceased
To label God

I have a good reason
To love

Not only the stories
From the grave
And those star-crossed lovers
Fused, timeless electricity
Twisted around me
Rich and alive

I could have understanding
I could have forever

I began to fill in the
Sandals of the ancient people:
Bloodthirsty, promised, new born
Devastated, invaded, free, moral
Awestruck, alienated, angry
Altogether crazy

I wondered if you had to kiss them
I needed to know
Because the ritual was calm
But emptied
And abandoned

I loved, I tried, I read, I found
I thought, I welcomed, I longed

Everyday I rushed
Without divine inspiration
Into the unknown


Found poem from Yael Goldstein's Essay "When God Is Your Favorite Writer."

pantoum (malaysian form of poetry)

I remember being afraid of the loneliness.
But the sky will always be there above us.
Together, yet so far apart, we stand.
We must hold onto each other.
But the sky will always be there above us.
How can we survive in this chaotic world?
We must hold onto each other.
Be there.
How can we survive in this chaotic world?
Don’t let fear overtake you; do not forget who you are.
Never let go of the dream.
There is always someone there.
Don’t let fear overtake you; do not forget who you are.
Can’t waste a second in regret, everything happens for a reason.
There is always someone there.
And he is always watching.

How Schnorrer Hershel Came to Make Us All Meshuganners

Now, child, I want you should understand how Hershel came to be. In the beginning, when Earth was young and didn't get good grades on Chumash tests, because she was so obnoxious, God, praised be he, created Adam and Eve. Now, child, we all know what happened to that. How those two shlemiels be so meshuganneh as to disobey HaShem, praised be He? Well, after Adam and Eve left and Cain was so jealous that he broke his brother's nose, the Garden of Eden was as quiet as your grandfather after he's had too much Manaschevitz. HaShem, praised be he, was thinking of trying again to make babies. But no raw materials he had, child, since everythin gwas swimming with the fishes and it would be rude to talk to Noah's family when they were seasick. So he took some stars, water, and pure rain to make a man called Schnorrer Hershel.
Now, child, that God had his Schnorrer Hershel, he decided to tell him how to make babies. He also wanted he should tell Hershel his future.
"Schnorrer Hershel," God said, "I want you should make babies."
"But I don't want I should make babies," Hershel said. "Too messy. And every time I try, my Gefilte (for he had a wife named Gefilte) wants she should do it in public like those no-good Etruscans."
"Hershel, shut up!" God shouted, for in those days HaShem was allowed to be mean once a day. "Hershel, I want you should make babies on your lonesome."
"How should I do that, God?" Hershel asked, baffled.
"By making a special baby-challah dough that you'll want you should bake at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit after some no-good Americans invent ways to measure how hot it is when you sweat."
"But what happens to to Gefilte?"
"She's going to be prime minister of Ukraine after Karl Marx goes to heaven."
"What happens to me?"
"God (for HaShem liked to hear his name said back then before his Bubbie gave Him a good spanking), must I tell you everything? After you have made a man instead of a baby, and that man dies, you will go into the woods and the Messiah will come to you. No, Schnorrer Hershel, not that long-haired meshugganer from the Holy Land."
"Okay. But one question, HaShem. What if I get it wrong?"
"You're supposed to get it wrong! You're a schnnorer!"

Our people is a fiery sun

based on the poem "Dead Men Don't Praise God" by Jacob Glatstein (Or Yankev Glatshteyn)

Our people is a fiery sun
a giant conflagration
and a source of light.
Through the ages
we've survived,
burning.
an eternal candle (neir tamid)
In the flames of blood liebels;
Blois, Trent.
Never forget
we have been
burned like Nadav
and Avihu in foreign
fire.

The tongues of
Inquisition's flames
waggled at many
hidden brethren.
Women who swept floors
the wrong way.
Men who claimed allergies
to pork as paella
was passed around.
They did not escape
Nimrod's furnace unscathed.

The mouth of God
is full of bad taste
from the ashes and smoke
of crematoriums.
It's a wonder he doesn't choke,
and belch some heaven and
hell onto earth.
(It's a wonder we don't choke.)

The ever-burning people
play like David played in desperation
We write like Ezra, but without divine inspiration
We sing like Deborah, even as the
barbed wire strangles us.
We help, we hold, we create,
We burn, we choke, we die
through the ages, for
our people is a fiery sun.

Sweat

This poem was written after we took a walk to the cemetery and were icky afterward.

Sweat
Glistening on my forehead,
Beading above my lip,
Resting near my shirt collar,
Clinging to my hair,
Trickling along the back of my neck,
Slipping toward the bottom of my back,
Dripping down my legs,
Soaking the seat of my pants,
Pooling in that hollow between my chest and my stomach,
Lining my underarms,

Covering, encompassing, drowning me,
This salty, sticky, sweat.

Fanfiction

I don't care if Jon kills me. This is the link to my fanfiction on Shurtugal.com, a fan site for the Inheritance Cycle (Eragon, Eldest, Brisingr coming in September) by Christopher Paolini. My penname is InkBlot. Most of my stories are actual fanfiction, though they can probably stand alone if they have to. The poems are all original poetry, and most of them are actually from BIMA last year.

http://fanfiction.shurtugal.com/viewuser.php?uid=2078

I Watch Her Everyday

Some critique would be loved as this needs some more work.

I watch her every day on my way to work;

she rarely moves and when she does it’s merely go find a comfortable spot.

In the winter her skins cracks from snow;

after years she has become numb to the conditions of the weather.

She has aged more rapidly than most;

her life is unrelenting with no respites.

I watch her every day on my way to work;

there is little that changes from day to day.

A scarf may be there from a trip to a tenement overnight;
an old hat may be another addition.

The thing that will never change is her small little can;

it has the word ‘Give’ on it a multitude of times, for she cannot speak.

I watch her every day on my way to work;

there are bags in her hand, bags of nothingness.

I have never looked within them;

I imagine rags and more plastic bags.

Nothing and everything;

a life of destitution, sorrow, and pain.

I watch her every day on my way to work;

standing beneath the sign of the East Broadway Cafeteria.

It’s a busy place;

even so, she rarely makes enough to buy more than a cup of soup.

She must have a family somewhere;

I wonder who they are and what they do.

People dismiss her, bustling pass, going on their way.

I try to help when I can;

the world is hard and money is hard to make.

She is the nameless beggar with a hard life;

I watch her every day on my way to work.

NOT SATISFIED AT ALL WITH THIS POEM CRITIQUES GREATLY ENCOURAGED!!

love like a hippy loves
love is to me like a New Yorker is to
obscenities
love like you wish you could
that’s how you love, that’s how you
make it.

I’m god. No really, I’m god.
Seriously!
Oh come on-you pray to
me
every morning
you fear me as the sun sets
you fear me when the earth quakes
and here I am
I’m in front of you
realize me.

What’s that? You refuse.
Well, isn’t that a gas?
What-what’s that-oh.
You need to attend a spiritual
service recognizing god,
but-oh.
you still don’t believe me, eh?
I guess cause it’s
early in the morning
and I
haven’t brushed my teeth
and admittedly, I look
like crap.

And I’m homeless.

No wonder you don’t believe in me.
Believe in god, but not in me.

love.

I love you all.

And I quote, “The sexual act is
The vehicle through which
man displays this aspect of
his partnership
with
God, and this is one reason why its perversion
Is considered among the
worst
of
sins.”

I added the line breaks.

There’s a distortion of my love?
My!
I see people going out and disgracing
my love!
And to think it was…
a present, all this time.

But what is it, my love?

No, I’m asking.
I’m open-minded.

I may be god, but I’m open-minded.
I want to know of this
love
stretched out and guillotined
so much it doesn’t really
resemble what I set it out
to
be-
or it does? Fill me in.
I’m out of the loop. I’m clueless.

All I know is two things.

Damn it, yes, two things, I’m
sorry if I lead you to believe otherwise.

Okay, so two things.
Here they are:
one-
I’m full of love.
I just know this.

two-
all around, people are writing these
books
and poems
about me,
it’s awful flattering,
but I don’t know.

I really don’t.
just these two things

love.

Verbatim (critiques greatly encouraged)

Let me be obvious on paper:

may I display myself across these
seas of white? could I spread myself
out, thick like syrup? I cannot
imagine being truthful toward you in
another way; could you write
me, darling? write me out like
old English prose
turn my legs into letters, my
fingertips into punctuation marks?
I would prefer it this way
my body into poetry,

here:
here I am a question
here an answer
here a statement,
as a book, as a sonnet,
a novel, a note,

let me rephrase myself,
gently lift my arms for two
careful parenthesis
pushing away dust and sun,

careful, clutch my spine when
you hold me, my pages
might fall out.

Thou Shall Obey Ogden Nash

Ogden Nash was a
prophet, his words
sewn in verses like chapters
of the bible,
just as a priest who reads
Genesis, finding God in
illuminated passages
feels more purposeful in his life,
so too does a poet who reads
Ogden Nash feel a new
power in his craft,
in his slant rhymes
his rhymes which were barely
rhymes which were neat
in these, here, Ogden Nash displayed
absolute truths for the disciples
of Literature.

submission.

fine. i'm here. happy everyone? lovely. i'm happy when you're all happy.


very nice. now, a nice thought of the day. CAPITALIZATION. why do we need it? chew on that. another thing i'd like to share with y'all.

"Celery raw
develops the jaw
but celery stewed
is more quietly chewed"

-Ogden Nash

on that note, i think i'm going to post something. CARPE DIEM. it's a beautiful day.


Love,
Lizzie.

Lilies

“There’s nothing like flowers,”
She said, smiling cheerily
and filling yet another cup with
A bouquet of lilies.

She said, smiling cheerily
“These should brighten the room.”
A bouquet of lilies
In a plastic cup.

“These should brighten the room,”
And then she left.
In a plastic cup
Stood the lilies, unwilted.

And then she left.
On the nightstand
Stood the lilies, unwilted
Next to his bed.

On the nightstand
I rested my hands;
Next to his bed
I called his name.

I rested my hands;
Looking into his closed eyes
I called his name
His lips moved lightly.

Looking into his closed eyes
A flash of hope:
His lips moved lightly
It was only his breath.

A flash of hope —
Then gone.
It was only his breath;
No other response.

Then gone
— the end.
No other response;
I wept.

Lexicon of Neologisms

Abilation- Happiness (Ayelet)
Blof- A blog with many typos (Jon)
Bloth- A blog you rarely update (Blog+Sloth) (Shimshon Stu)
Combegends- Two or more words which have similar meanings and can be joined by overlapping letters at the beginning and end of the words ex. stupidiot, paradoxymoron (Malka)
Discarsting- Gross to the point that it scars you (Lizzie) 

Heliotroph- Fire eater (Ayelet)
Hugasm- The warm, fuzzy feeling one gets when hugged (Malka)
Lasm- Spasm during laughter (Rachel)
Nonographers- Someone who reads languages that they don't understand aloud (Tamar)
Obnoxiousity- An extreme amount of obnoxiousness (Lizzie)
Omnicheer- Complete happiness (Michaela)
Pseudomaster- Person who uses disguise (Rachel)
Pseudoneologists- People who invent words for fun, not professionally (Malka)
Quirl- Tangle (Rachel)
Trasses- Tickling grass (Ayelet)

Vanished

The first line of this poem is taken from a poem by Jacob Glatstein.

You vanished with us.
Where we are gone,
You are no longer.

Disappeared, away, forgotten.
We leave nothing behind,
And yet everything.

Where have we gone?
When.
To a past and a future
When we will be safe.

If no one can find you,
No one can hurt you.
Take your time;
They will only follow you if you leave them clues.

But now we are here,
Now we are now.
Forget the future;
You already know how it will end.

But the past?
Hold that,
Or history will kick you
When you least expect it.
Or where you least expect it.

Whom did you leave behind
When you left? When you vanished?
Whom did we leave behind?

Are you here? Are you now?
Existence is questioned,
Released,
Flown from,
Forgotten?
No. Never forgotten--
It is the past.

Vanished.
Gone.
We are all together.
Gone.
I wish I could go home.

Untitled poem (Title: Lilah?)

You, carved against the constellated sky
and crying to the moon
You raise your arms and fly
Wingless
Your eyes starlit sparks
Midnight hair streaming out behind you
and pearly skin glowing
in the night.

By day you are pale
And wear jeans and a gray t-shirt
And press yourself into the far back corner of the classroom;
Your hair is wooden
like the school desks
and the floor
and the walls.

No one mocks you anymore
for your hair or your clothes or your shoes
No one sees you anymore.
You sink into your desk
Disappear
Even your scent
is of paper and pencils and white-out
Indistinguishable from the classroom.

You don’t know
That I have seen you in the dark light
Night air, smelling of fireflies and dew,
swirling around you
Moonbeams painting your skin
Your image outlined in the stars
Your wooden hair
flowing in the night.

One Hundred Percent -- an adaptation

He touches my face, just the lightest brush, as his other hand runs up my thigh. “Roni, please,” he says, “Take it off, for me.” His eyes are perfectly honest, filled with desire, and I know he means what he says. I bite my lip. I can feel where the shirt is rubbing up against my scars, sending occasional shoots of up pain through my body. It’s my penance, my body’s punishment, and I am glad of it. I should take the shirt off and let him see, let him run away in horror, but I cannot bring myself to. So I shake my head slowly and pull him closer, hoping that maybe, maybe if I’m good enough, I can make him forget about the shirt. But even as he’s coming, he still begs me: “Roni, please. Please take it off.”
My shirt is one hundred percent cotton, the tag says, clean and soft and white. I am one hundred percent woman, my body says, breasts and hips and womb. Both are untrue, but the shirt at least comes close. Not one hundred percent, maybe, but it’s nearly pure. Nearly perfect. I’m nothing near it.
I know he’s heard about what I’ve done to my body, how I tried to cut my breasts off, how many times I was sent to the hospital. I know he thinks he doesn’t care. He loves me no matter what, he says. And the scary part is — I love him too. He has saved me. I don’t deserve him, but I want him, I need him, and that is enough to keep my shirt on, no matter how much he begs.
When the test comes back, I call one of my girlfriends to find out about the procedure. I don’t want an abortion, but I can handle it. Just another sin on my list. But he doesn’t want an abortion either, he says. He goes down on one knee.
I don’t believe him at first. It’s only because I’m pregnant. But his eyes are still perfectly honest, perfectly pure. One hundred percent? I wonder. Is it possible that he is one hundred percent in love with me?
“Okay,” I say at last, then, “But if it’s a boy, we have to call him Yotam.” We shake on it. He tries to get up, but his legs have fallen asleep, and we laugh about it together. For a moment, laughing there with him, I can close my eyes and forget my scars.
That night in bed, he pulls me close, kisses me. We undress — everything but the shirt. He moves to kiss me again, but I push him away. I am selfish: I don’t want to do it. But I force myself to undo the top button anyway, and then the next. I move slowly, purposefully, down the shirt, holding it closed at the collar. I can hear his breath coming fast as I undo the last button.
Still holding my shirt closed tight, I look up at him, look deep into his eyes. They are full of anticipation, desire, yet still perfectly honest. I let my shirt fall open.
He turns his head away quickly, but not quickly enough for me to miss the look of revulsion on his face. I close my shirt, but I know it is too late. The purity, perfection — the love — are gone. How could I ever have been so stupid?

Beautiful Things

(a list based on Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book)

Shattered glass that sparkles like starlight, especially green beer bottles in the gutter. Swirling black hair in a pool. Smiling eyes. The spray of water that leaks out the side of my faucet. Running eyeliner. Cats are particularly breathtaking. Crimson. Lace. Azure skies. Thunderstorms and dancing in them. People who decide for themselves. Boys and girls who confuse you with which they are. Elegant dresses and ripped jeans. green apples, especially the smell. Hands clasped. Butterfly kisses. Butterflies. Clumpy purple lipstick that always seems nicer in the tube. Top hats. Snow that glitters depending on the light. Fields of endless grain. The heavens at night. Honesty. The gentle motions of breathing.

Listen to this

Here's an audio link to a very cool story by Paul Bowles. Check it out.