Storms rock. There's the sunshine afterward to look forward to.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
A New Discovery
Here are the words of a poet who means a lot to me. I know that poet personally, but as for why I know that poet and why that poet means so much to me, I'll let you figure it out. I selected two of the poet's poems to put up here, which have the greatest hints to finding out the answers to the above two questions. Happy reading!!!
Oh, just so you know, the poet hates rhyming. But the poet's works DO have a certain form (Lit student Lit student...). See if you can figure out what it is.
A Photo, or an Experience?
The tempest ceases.
The wind stops howling.
The storm has obeyed the divine
command, "Peace, be still!"
The clouds thin.
The sun peeks through.
A rainbow shines in the sky
through the natural prism.
Its seven colours
shine so brilliantly through
the fine droplets in the atmosphere
that we can't see.
Oh, how magnificent!
What an awesome sight!
It is breathtaking, oh so breathtaking:
God's wondrously beautiful creation.
I then paused.
I did then ponder
upon the intricacies of the world
we live in, that
after every horror,
there is a sign;
A promise that God knows, and
He's watching our backs.
This sight, I
did excitedly describe to
those who did reply, "Big deal."
"We've seen countless photos."
A camera might
capture the related picture
but nothing can ever possibly beat
experiencing it for yourself.
A photo cannot
capture the full magnificence,
the wonder that fills you as
you witness common miracles.
A picture cannot
stop you in your
tracks, to evoke your awe, and
make you say "Wow!"
Miracles happen everyday.
However, we greatly downplay
the significance of those said miracles
we bear witness to.
It's the same
with people we know.
After all, what are human beings,
but miraculously sentient rainbows?
Emae T. Whyte
A Pencil, or A Computer?
I was writing.
My pencil skated, plied
and pirouetted over the paper sheet
I was writing on.
I had ideas.
I took them all
and threw them in random order
onto my spiral notebook.
I had emotions.
I channeled them all
through the graphite of my pencil-sword
as I was writing.
With my pencil-sword,
my weapon of catharsis,
I cut, slashed and sliced viciously
through my writer's block.
All my ideas
had finally stopped flowing
but my work far from over.
I had to edit.
I took my work.
Perused it, pored endlessly
over it, searching for errors, mistakes
I might have committed.
Like a conductor
flicks his black baton
to correct the symphony's wrong note,
I flicked my pencil.
Use Microsoft Word?
Why even suggest it?
Do you realise how inferior it
is to the pencil?
You can type,
add your ideas faster
to the virtual paper on screen
but at what cost?
You can arrange
the ideas you threw
into an order you find acceptable
but is that good?
You press Backspace,
remove all your errors,
all traces of mistakes are gone.
Why is this bad?
Your random order
has a great purpose,
as you receive insights into your
mind's inner thinking process.
By throwing away
all of your errors,
you forget that your writer's mind
is definitely not omniscient.
Within the maelstrom
of hastily deleted data,
you might remove an idea you
later think was good.
When you realise
this painful, shocking truth
the whirlpool comes crashing on you
like a raging tsunami.
The pencil is
the totem, the medium
through which the joy of writing
can infuse your being.
You may still
believe in Microsoft Word.
I don't mind, but for me,
I want my pencil.
Emae T.Whyte