Niteowl's Poetic Attempts

So I want to write again, and NaPoWriMo sounds like a good excuse, so I'm gonna give it a go. I don't mind comments, but please be gentle. I doubt I'll do much with these, even though I should. I managed to turn out some decent stuff last year. Let's see what happens this time.

Tonight's poem is going to be about the Spartans winning tonight, mainly because I go here and ignoring it would be a darn shame.

Understanding

I don't get much about basketball.

I don't know what those words mean,
words like field goals and turnovers and
free throws and fouls and rebounds
and shot-blocking and half-court games.

I don't see how a man
can get penalized when another man
knocked him down.

I don't understand the jargon,
the rules, the stuff the guys on TV
love to analyze and replay.

But tonight, I get it,
because it wasn't about
all that jazz.

It was about millions of broken-down people
clad in green and white, praying for a victory,
one small bit of good news in these
times of layoffs and bankruptcies.

It was about a state that no one
believes in anymore pulling itself together because
it finally had something to cheer for.

It was about the green and white
defying the media's expectations
and pulling through for its people.

I don't get college kids
trying to get a ball into a hoop,
but I get what they played for.

They played for hope.

Okay, I get it, this was cheesy and horrendous, but it's hard not to be, being all caught up in this as I am.
Don't worry, I promise you'll see better stuff (especially since I have plenty of time to think of a good post-championship poem ).

Okay, it's the second day, and I'm sick of studying, so let's write a poem instead.

I thought I knew what I was doing,
that I had all the formulas memorized,
the book read and understood,
everything stuffed into my brain.

Then I saw that one problem,
the one I had no clue how to solve,
the one that was worth 15 points,
of course.

I scribbled something,
knowing damn well it was wrong,
but hey, it was worth a shot.

I saw a number on my test,
too low to be on my grade record.
Surely there was a mistake?

But no, there wasn't.
It was my grade, of course.

Luckily, I have one more test,
one more chance, to prove that
was just a fluke.

This time, I'm going to take it,
and my grade will soar back up.

Grr...creativity can't get past the school crap right now! Well hopefully that'll change. We'll see.

Hope
is like a candle
because it flickers.

When the flame is high,
the darkness shies away
and the world looks
clear and bright.

But when it dies down,
black creeps back in
and the world seems
unclear one more.

Hope, however,
is no ordinary candle,
because no wind or water
or candle-snuffer
can put it out for good.

The flame will always
rise again.

Okay, so I haven't exactly been writing a poem every day like I'm supposed to, but I have done a couple "poem dumps" that I think make up for it. I'm trying, but I actually have a life now, which makes it kind of hard.

April 9th Poem Dump
#1
It seems that I
don't understand these forces
that transform a girl
from princess to pariah.
They whisper because
they don't want the world
to know what they've done
to their former friend
and they are ashamed
as they should be.

#2
I always long
for a spare moment
to document my thoughts.
Oh how they sparkle in my head!

But when they finally
end up on the page,
they look so dull,
not like the lovely words
I wrote once, long ago.

Now I'm left wondering
if those old words were
really ever so beautiful.

April 10th
The Silence

I have grown to loathe silence,
that dark un-sound that interrupts
my conversations, when no one
knows what to say.

Please don't go, I'll say
anything at all if it will
make you stay. Oh please
don't leave me because
I can't be alone with this
silence.

I talk and talk.
I just wish I had something to say.

Attempt at Poetry

Today I tried to write a poem,
but then I thought "What, exactly,
does that mean?"

How does one make the words,
the dumb boring things
people say everyday,
poetic?

Poetic is a word
that's lost so much meaning
like a song played one too many
times on the radio.

The rules that once defined
a poem,
the rhyme and meter and such,
are now shattered, releasing a
Pandora's box of poetry into the world,
leaving the person who would like
to write a poem clueless
as to whether or not the words written
are poetic.

Like this for example:
Is it poetic enough to be a poem?
Or is it as I fear,
just a slop of words on
a piece of paper,
no more meaningful than
refrigerator magnets?


April 13th

#1
How sad am I
that I put off
writing poems
which once brought me
such great joy that
I never had
to tell myself
to write them down?

#2
I am adrift
in a sea of symbols,
of e and t and lambda,
waves of itas and ksis
rush over my head
and I am drowning.

#3
There's so little left here,
I wonder why I waste my time,
watering the last little seed.

But then I remember
that this little seed
could reproduce,
making lots of other little seeds,
and together, they could reclaim
this wasteland.

April 15th

Noise

There's so much noise around me.
The music in my earphones,
the pop pop of Facebook chat,
my roommate talking on the phone,
the wannabe rockstars jamming on the second floor,
people shouting outside and cars zooming past.

All this noise,
it's no wonder that I
can't write a decent poem!

Knock-Knock Letdown

Knock knock at my door.
Oh my goodness, could it be
someone who actually wants
to see me?

I put down my laptop and race
to answer because I don't want
whoever it is to wait too long
and end up walking away.

I look through the peephole
and see that no one's there.
It was someone else's door they were at,
someone much cooler than me.

I sit back down, and pretend I don't care
that I answered a knock but no one was there.

April 16th

"Oh no, we don't want you here."

She said it with a smile,
and we all laughed as he pulled
up a chair so he could join us.

I pretended to laugh along,
but I couldn't help but recall
when I was the one who asked
to join the group,
and they said no with a snarl.

April 17th

#1
I'm sorry if I scared you,
if all you wanted was for me
to go away, but I didn't want
to lose you again, not after I'd
looked for you for so long.

This web that connects us is
tenuous at best, invisible at worst.
Could I really have imagined it
all in my head, the way we created
make-believe worlds so long ago?

I wish I understood what
I was writing about, who I wrote
this for. I write, I guess,
for everything and nothing.

#2
For so long, I have tried to find
pleasure in hollow things, that first
bite of cheesecake, that swig of
diet soda, that ice cream sundae
slathered in chocolate.

This is wrong.

Why do I let myself live like this,
with fake sugars and hydrogenated
oils and little bubbles of carbon dioxide?

They fill you up, for a minute at least,
but then they empty you out.

I need to fill my world again with whole
grains, filling proteins, meat I can sink
my teeth into, and wholesome milk
to wash it all down.

That would keep my stomach full.

April 19th
#1
I know I can't have you and yet
I still can't help but look at you
that way. I wonder if you even
notice, even care. I'm just there,
another person that you know,
slightly funny, smart, interesting
but not enough to hold your attention
for very long.

Why am I even writing this?
You're a dead horse now and I need
to stop beating you to a pulp
with these cheesy stupid poems
about an unrequited crush
who will always be my friend.

I'm not going to say "just friends",
because really, just being your friend
is more than enough for me.

#2
This is a strange feeling,
knowing I can talk and laugh and say
strange things and we can all laugh
together.

I'm still on disply, but here the light
is softer, more flattering, and there
are no glaring judges here, just waiting
for me to slip and fall so they can
keep me down.

It makes me wonder why I let them
beat me up and drag me around,
assuming I was dead.