BIMA Writers: Shakespeare Hates Your Emo Poems

Cookie

2009-07-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

If you post, I'll buy you a cookie.

Midnight

2009-07-03T21:00:00.000-07:00

Happy Day-that-the-Continental-Congress-adopted-the-resolution-of-independence Day! (This is my nerdiness kicking in.

Seriously, happy 4rth of July!

Sleep Soundly

2009-07-03T13:17:00.000-07:00

Devils and demons may plague your dreams nightly. Don't be afraid, my child, for I am here to guard you. Nothing will harm you. Nothing will hurt you. Drift off into the land of dreams peacefully, for there you s will go on many grand adventures, or if you wish, you may simply curl up against your mother's breast as you once did three years ago in the middle of June. I love you, my little angel. You are the spirit of love, my sole inspiration. It is for you , and no other, that I labor beneath the sun. Were your spirit to depart this world, there would be nothing left for me. My soul would whither in the absence of your purity. Sleep softly, my little angel, and do not leave me. Sleep softly my little one. I love you.
---
I wrote this for a solo piece for viola that I am writing, called "Sleep Soundly." The piece is supposed to mimic a child sleeping. It begins with a dream which morphs into a nightmare. Then the child is waken up for an extended quarter rest. I wrote the above paragraph because following the rest, there comes a lullaby. After the lullaby, soldiers will come into the house and kill the mother and child.
---
BIMA writers of 2009, where are you.............................?

Wrote a play...if anyone steals this...

2009-06-29T14:49:00.000-07:00

I finished a the rough draft of a play I'm working on called "Dominoes." I plan to bring it to BIMA for critiques.

Hi...

2009-06-26T07:57:00.000-07:00

Still keeping this blog alive...

HI.....

2009-06-22T16:37:00.001-07:00

Hi, um, is anyone there?

Question

2009-06-15T19:50:00.000-07:00

Does anyone still consider the existence of this blog?

Keeping this blog alive...

2009-06-04T14:56:00.000-07:00

posting for the sake of keeping this blog alive

Lexington and Concord

2009-04-19T05:15:00.000-07:00

Today is the anniversaryies of the Battles of Lexington and Concord. The following text (in brackets) I have copied and pasted from http://www.history.com./ because my knowledge of the War is scattered. Feel free to read the following at your leisure.

Facts not mentioned:
- New England winters used to be hell on Earth. Now they're just a bit of hell, nothing too big.
- Major John Pitcairn of the British marines thought that the first shot was a flash in the pan fired by a civilian who was watching the battle.
- The war lasted eight years and a few months- we were still fighting battles into the '80s. The war did not end at Yorktown.

[At about 5 a.m., 700 British troops, on a mission to capture Patriot leaders and seize a Patriot arsenal, march into Lexington to find 77 armed minutemen under Captain John Parker waiting for them on the town's common green. British Major John Pitcairn ordered the outnumbered Patriots to disperse, and after a moment's hesitation the Americans began to drift off the green. Suddenly, the "shot heard around the world" was fired from an undetermined gun, and a cloud of musket smoke soon covered the green. When the brief Battle of Lexington ended, eight Americans lay dead or dying and 10 others were wounded. Only one British soldier was injured, but the American Revolution had begun.

By 1775, tensions between the American colonies and the British government approached the breaking point, especially in Massachusetts, where Patriot leaders formed a shadow revolutionary government and trained militias to prepare for armed conflict with the British troops occupying Boston. In the spring of 1775, General Thomas Gage, the British governor of Massachusetts, received instructions from England to seize all stores of weapons and gunpowder accessible to the American insurgents. On April 18, he ordered British troops to march against the Patriot arsenal at Concord and capture Patriot leaders Samuel Adams and John Hancock, known to be hiding at Lexington.

The Boston Patriots had been preparing for such a military action by the British for some time, and upon learning of the British plan, Patriots Paul Revere and William Dawes were ordered to set out to rouse the militiamen and warn Adams and Hancock. When the British troops arrived at Lexington, Adams, Hancock, and Revere had already fled to Philadelphia, and a group of militiamen were waiting. The Patriots were routed within minutes, but warfare had begun, leading to calls to arms across the Massachusetts countryside.

When the British troops reached Concord at about 7 a.m., they found themselves encircled by hundreds of armed Patriots. They managed to destroy the military supplies the Americans had collected but were soon advanced against by a gang of minutemen, who inflicted numerous casualties. Lieutenant Colonel Frances Smith, the overall commander of the British force, ordered his men to return to Boston without directly engaging the Americans. As the British retraced their 16-mile journey, their lines were constantly beset by Patriot marksmen firing at them Indian-style from behind trees, rocks, and stone walls. At Lexington, Captain Parker's militia had its revenge, killing several British soldiers as the Red Coats hastily marched through his town. By the time the British finally reached the safety of Boston, nearly 300 British soldiers had been killed, wounded, or were missing in action. The Patriots suffered fewer than 100 casualties.

The battles of Lexington and Concord were the first battles of the American Revolution, a conflict that would escalate from a colonial uprising into a world war that, seven years later, would give birth to the independent United States of America.]

Etched

2009-04-06T21:55:00.000-07:00

That day,
You were carved into the sky
blossoming and black
and acrid.

Around, the people milled about
picked flowers
slipped them into their daughters' hair.
They didn't notice you rising heavenward
in great and powerful plumes.
They haggled over bread,
instead, in coarse and native tonge.

But you,
You were tattooed into that sky,
Something the sky would remember forever,
embarrassed,
as if you were a rash decision,
and ex-lover's name imprinted on his arm.
The sky hides you behind his back,
murmuring, "It's nothing."
Rolling up his blue sleeves.

But it's too late.
I've seen.
And to me, your face is always
carved into the sky.

(Jeez, Abbie, we're a cheerful lot.)

Maxim

2009-04-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

Resignation
E
LoSers
Is
G
N
A
T
I
FOR
N

Eyes

2009-04-02T11:13:00.000-07:00

Celine
Never really gave much thought to you, did she now?

Amber
Oh hell yah, that bitch is doing time.

Natalie
Remember her ashen skin? She's doing time in heaven for smoking pot.

Deniese
The outcast. Yah, she committed suicide. What did you ever see in her?

Yah,
I never really thought you were a special guy.

Candy,
You made my life hell
You drove them all away
Now I'm stuck at home typing a God-effing letter to you
To say goodbye
'Cause you love me too much to let me go

Breaking Addictions is Like Puling Teeth

2009-04-02T11:09:00.001-07:00

I give up.
I've given up. addiction
I've given up.

HOLY MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST!

I did it.

I've given up!

Nothing important, of course.

Breaking Addictions is Like Puling Teeth

2009-04-02T11:09:00.000-07:00

I give up.
I've given up. addiction
I've given up.

HOLY MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST!

I did it.

I've given up!

Nothing important, of course.

Righteousness

2009-04-02T11:04:00.000-07:00

Resignation
So often the better, wiser option
All our resistance, crumbling beneath

WAIT!!!!!

Their reason?

What in the name of Jesus fucking Christ said they could-
God.
God, of course, you little twit.

Your God. Their God.

All the same, it is the right God.

Right for you, but not for me, though.

Too late.

It is NEVER too late.

Really, now, but isn't it always?

Nothing Important, Honest!

2009-04-02T10:55:00.000-07:00

Man in wheelchair Guiding them
Is he really a person?
That one, no that one,
His arid, blubbering mouth
Lips shuffling across his face
He must be daft, she says, and flounces off down Poverty Lane,
With a capital "b" for "bitch" sand-blown into her eyes

She saw his skin, his lying flesh
Just long enough to cut a smooth incision
His already damaged soul broken again

She did not see his youth
Lost it to the nuclear mushroom cloud of warfare, that's what 'e did
Didn't see it coming now, didja, missy?
Didn't see it screaming at your lost soul
Least he has 'is- what have you gone and done with yours?

His mouth she saw, but never read
Dancing and swimming his face around to hide
Burning saltwater she has turned her back to,
But it's better his way
She doesn't have a soul; why should she deserve to cry?

Progress

2009-04-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

Ghosts of Chernobyl and Three Mile Island
Slowly snatching the fame
From their material hosts
Tossing it into the recycling bin
In heaven labeled "For Witless Jerks"

Shadows of scrawny, one-armed trees
Stand sentinel
Propped up by plastic sheaths and asphalt soil
Merely for show, of course-
Concrete is more lively these days

Then again, progress was never wrong.

2009-01-31T06:45:00.000-08:00

My whole life has been a collection of half-forgotten endeavors.
A half-dozen stand upright and proud on my bookshelf
Many more in the little box on my desk filled with the beginnings of stories I never wrote
Schoolwork I never finished

Outside the window, he walks by, firm-breasted girl on his arm
Because I only loved half and not all of him.
Behind him, a gaggle of girls living amongst themselves,
Laughing and crying into each others arms,
Myself not a part of them because I was too timid, unopened, unliving

I lie on the floor of my room because I am too lazy to sleep in a bed.
Staring at the ceiling shrouded in darkness,
I wonder how much longer this half will sustain me.

Boredom is easy to relieve so as long as it is done with a book.
There is a book of anonymous poems on my shelf that I never opened.
She is a
wilting flower because she shuns the light of the sun.
Sun-baked earth because she rejected the rains
Unburied because she refused to rest in piece

And yet she laments her suffering,
refusing to acknowledge her own short-comings.
She cannot weep, love, cry, exist, be, anything at all,
She can do nothing because she doesn't want to live though she has everything.

Providence works in clever ways.

The Doubter's Prayer

2009-01-29T20:19:00.000-08:00

This is my prayer and my offering before you.
Not the words oft mumbled by dwindling lips,
Not the scriptures, hallowed by the pens of scribes,
Not the sacrifices made by ancient hands.
No, this is all I can give
My half-believed god,
Somewhere between father
And the monster under my bed.
(To speak the words would be to look you in the eye.)

Now, past the disclaimers,
Tired admissions of my inability,
I pray.
Lord of my semi-belief,
God of my forefathers,
In my improbable and wavering faith,
Grant me clarity.
Give us peace.

Thank you.

(I love you.)

Came up with it during prayers the other day.
It's missing something.

I was reminded a little of Glatstein's "My Brother Refugee":
"The God of my unbelief is magnificent,
how I love my unhappy God,
now that he's human and unjust."
Look, Abbie! A post!

This is the first installment of a novel I'm worrking on

2009-01-28T19:28:00.000-08:00

He curls at the base of a tree, pulling closer into himself, hugging his knees. He wanted to stay like that forever, a bundle of frozen flesh and blood and cloth, immortalized forever in the snow drift mounding all about him. In due course, it dawns on him that he must get up, or he will die, and as much as he hates himself, he does not want to die. Slowly, he manages to rise to his feet, cracked and bleeding as they are, steady himself against the tree. He glances about, trudges towards the frozen road that is partially obscured by the snowdrifts, realizes that he can’t remember which direction he came from.

The snowstorm picks up about him, shrouding his form in curtains of lace. He looks despairingly at the heavens, knowing that he will die. He will die. Providence will bless him at last. The joy of that certainity fills every fiber of his being except his heart, and he wonders why it won’t. It’s want he wants, isn’t it? There is nothing left for him anymore, so why try to live? What is wrong with death?

The wind blows away some light snow and leaves a scarlet patch on the road, barely visible because of the snow, attracts his attention and an unwanted flood of memories rushes at him: his screams when he woke up in the barracks and saw that his closest friend had died in the bunk below him, the lice in his hair, the feel of his flesh stretched tight over his ribs, the endless hunger and fatigue, the heartache that carried him out of Jockey Hollow and into the New Jersey countryside to die while his own blood marked his progress along the country road. Burning tears leak from his eyes and freeze halfway down his cheeks. Memories continue to wrack his heart: the blindness as he stumbled through the storm, his exhausted collapse against the tree, the return to the road where he is now, and the longing to die-

No. He will not die. As hard as it is for him, he will not die. Not while his brothers in arms are still back in camp. He will not sit back and watch while they fight and die for each other and for him. He will not be a coward. A sudden image of the Brits breaking down his door, their bayonets through his sister’s chest as she is pinned to the wall, the release of unholy steal from her bosom, the thud of her body on the floor. No. He cannot let that happen. He will not sit by idly. He will fight.

He kneels down and begins to clear away snow with his hands, some more red. Now he must do this until her reaches Jockey Hollow. He reckons his distance to be half a mile and furiously clears away the snow as he follows his blood. The wind screams in his ears, biting away the warmth of his face and stinging his eyes. He reaches for a scarf at his neck, but he left it in camp, and the wind eats at him there as well. No matter, he will not freeze to death before he reaches the sentries.

It takes him all of the afternoon to reach the American sentries, who spot him crawling toward them through the drifts on his hands and knees. A slight trail of blood behind him.

Immediately they run towards him and lift him up by his arms, half-dragging him past the camp’s fortifications and to the nearest barrack. The door is kicked open and they pull him inside, lift his body and lay it on one of the bunks. He is barely breathing, a small steam issuing forth from his mouth. A sharp pain in his feet and he screams everything he can, all of his pain and misery and shame and love and hate and want and hunger and thirst and anguish, all of it. Again and again, he screams, his body writhing in pain, his emotions carrying him out of the barrack and into the room where his dead friend lies, cold. A rough hand pressed on his mouth, more hands restraining his body. Automatically, he calms, but he is overwhelmed by everything that has happened to him, and so he gladly lets his vision swiftly darken, an empty void where nothing can touch him, not even pain…

Oy

2009-01-16T18:31:00.000-08:00

Blogs tend to become whistles in the dark. Malka's prophetic statement that our blog was becoming a bloth seems to be fulfilling itself, so I am making one final plea that the BIMA writers post on this blog. My offer to match each posts with twenty of my own still stands. Unless anyone responds to this plea, this is to be my final post until July, when a new blog is created.

HA!

2009-01-15T13:51:00.001-08:00

I take it back. Writers never give up. Please, post something, though. Then I won't feel silly when the people who regulate the blog universe come and read my cries for help and laugh themselves silly.

Capitulation

2009-01-12T21:14:00.000-08:00

I give up. I'm not going to spend every day working on this blog.

Renewal of an Earlier Proposition and a poem about anorexia

2009-01-11T15:31:00.000-08:00

I stated before in an earlier call to arms that for every post that was someone else's work, I would match that post with five of my own. I am bringing the number up to twenty.
---------------

Hands alighting on a drop of water
Ashes whipped up by the sand and the rain
Craving the emptiness only for wonder
Reaching something, sustenance a curse

Swallowing what is left inside my hollow
Bringing up meals to please only God
Are not the shallow men looking for starving birds
Bones shatter skin in their effort to stretch in taught

Floating in clouds of gold and silver light
Rock hard remembrances of bounties now past
Choosing to die such a slow death of loving me
Suddenly seeing one flitting away 'fore my eyes

Chasing it, following red and blue strips of paints
Seeing it flicker, a dark, sudden gasp
Reeling over to clutch fatal emptiness
A shooting pain cloaks the basket

PLEAST POST!

2009-01-11T15:26:00.000-08:00

I will not give up! Somehow I will persuade at least one of you to post something original, not just a comment. Somehow, I will not- and I know this is egotistical, but it is how I feel- be the only one keeping this blog alive. This electronic venture [the blog] shall not be in vain! It will be a success! Were those hours spent in the freezing classroom at Brandeis for nothing? Were our recitations at the festival-thing at the end mere trifles? Have the high-caliber poems and stories and thoughts posted on this blog been mere rubbish? No! This blog is the result of the hard work and effort of ten, dedicated writers. If you are willing to sustain the fire of the BIMA 2008 writers and to ensure that their memories shall not be forgotten, then, for the love of whatever gods of literature are out there, post something.