Friday, November 30, 2012

Study Abroad: Part 25 [Writing and Burning Out]

So, this week/weekend/month has been kind of stressful.  Our deadline for our independent study program is   looming closer and closer, but what makes it even scarier is the general sense of SHNOO-T-F (for the derija-illiterate, it's our program's version of WTF).

I'm worried about my article.  I don't think it's horrible, but I feel that it's so... rough. It's bare-bones and little facts that I've dug up from my interviews, thrown together, and given a heavy shake.  And oh, I love the ideas and hopes and possibilities, but it's not. quite. there.

Anyways, I've been working on my creative writing as well.  I figured, since I am obviously unable to give you gracious readers the brilliant blog post you deserve until I finish this rough draft, I'll let you ruminate over some of my poems for now.

POEM 1:
wahed

the thing about travel
is not what sticks
to your soul and sings
out at night
or in moments 
that you remember.
the thing about travel,
is that wander-
lust
burns through your veins
in every breath
that you exhale
in every word
that you mouth.
the thing about travel
that drives me 
restless with twitchy
fingers
and wondering, wandering
thoughts.
and though i lift my feet,
i somehow think
that i should put down roots 
some
where.

POEM 2:
juge
the rhythm thrums
drums
an incessant beat
that i can't 
and somehow
won't
relate to.
the point of a public square
is to attract
gleaming coins
and faded coins
as if the displays
of art
are irresistable
summons.
still, 
my eyes
track the others
who are as out-
of-
place
as i am.

POEM 3:
tehleta
the road,
they say,
is long and windy.
the road,
they murmur,
is filled with trouble and shadowy things.
the land, 
she said,
was filled with milk 
that glimmered
and honey
that glowed.
the water,
he grinned,
was crystalline 
cold,
a shock to 
the system.
the road,
they say,
is long and windy.
the road, 
they murmur,
is filled with trouble and shadowy things.
the end,
i promise,
solemnly, to myself,
is worth it.

POEM 4:
araba
he is an almost stranger,
and yet, he is someone i could 
acutely
actually
accurately
believe in.
the honest truth is that,
despite time and foolish fancy,
i hold that he is an almost stranger.
he is eccentric,
bizarre,
not like me.
but he is special,
and simple,
and honest.
if illusions were worth more 
than memory and glimpses
into another world
and another time,
i would say,
the waters gave him up to me,
the stars sparked little secrets about us,
and yet,
despite all this,
he is an almost stranger.

POEM 5:
hamsa
there is something
unsettling
about the end.
the end of what,
you stare,
trying to be inconspicuous,
at my eyes,
when you ask
what i mean.
the end of an era?
of us?
of them, of you,
of me,
of who?
the end,
is for all
intents and purposes,
a pause, a break
in a continuance.
the end of this
moment
will give me reason
to move on.
but still,
i wonder
if i should 
put down roots.
after all,
a tumbleweed comes 
from one place,
and must go someplace 
else.

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