Beowulf's Vocabulary Lessons

Beowulf, the epic poem, was the last piece of literature we read in English class. By the time I was finished, my copy was peppered in a rainbow of stickie notes, and rather than watch my thoroughly scripted study fall into the trash can, I saved them, with this glimmer of an idea that I'd record these brilliant vocabulary words I had discovered among the translated, Old English jargon.

And so, they've been sitting on my already-cluttered desk for about 3 weeks. But I came through, and now, the world can share in some obscure words to potentially put in some obscure poetry.

reconnoitre: to survey the enemy (not so obscure, but I had to look it up nonetheless)
thole: to endure; to tolerate
suppurate: to produce/discharge pus, as a wound
anathema: a person detested, damned
fen: a marsh; boggy land
damascened: inlaid with ornamental designs, of gold, silver
reave: to plunder
alacrity: liveliness; briskness; willingness
bier: a stand for a corpse or coffin
scud: to dart nimbly from place to place; to move hurriedly
kesh: a plant with a hollow stalk
boon: a favor or request; a thing that is helpful or beneficial
bane: a cause of great distress
spurn: to reject with contempt
bawn: (Irish origin) fortified enclosure around a castle or such building
wassail: a festivity of drinking (to healths, of course!)
pinion: to tie or hold the legs or arms of someone

at the crevice door (today's crane)

here and now, to you
crevice door

I greet with mine

ring my soul for
VOCALISM

dust

The dust on the corner lamp
is a symbol for my

vacancies

Brought out and turned on,
fingers swipe

realizations

Dust gathers on my unmoving soul

I See My Own Soul Tramp

While yet incessantly ask
Day upon day and year
Where you hold me

me up.

Yet giving to make me
      forever faces;

I see what I sought to
I see my own soul tramp

William Carlos Williams inspired

Your copy of Macbeth was on the coffee table, and
I knew you told me your grandpa gave it to you, and
that it was smudged by his ashes, and
I used it to make origami cranes



http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535

Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent

Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me

crane of the day

fullgrown
She speaks to the limber lily's
Come here, she blushingly cries






Leaves of Grass

A way to mark my territory

Street art installations are fantastic. Currently, there are pianos scattered all over urban West Palm Beach. On the website Colossal, one can find infinite more examples of random things artists drop on public places to both discombobulate people and amuse them. For me, it's all a matter of delight. I think it's the best kind of art-- art that isn't cooped up in a gallery, but one that can make our boring concrete lives spontaneous and lovely!
If this could be a job, if I could solve my college-craze by choosing such a major, I will have found the summum bonum. If anyone is aware that this is in fact a possibility, call me. I'm desperate.
But because I have not yet found a suitable "Street Art Installation" or a job description of "Street Art Installation Specialist", I will resort to the channel that spurred my fame!

Well, my cranes' fame. With that said, ladies and gentlemen,

THE CRANES ARE BACK.

{tomorrow, at least. Not today.}


http://www.thisiscolossal.com

Crane-less: spiritual

'Your Glory, God'

I saw your glory today

in all these smiling

people like me

in the tears

and the ocean

I saw it in them and myself

I saw it in the sky

I saw it save

I saw it love

I saw it move mountains inside us

I saw your glory today.

Poetry contest: Kenyon Review

I recently discovered a neat contest-- the Patricia Grodd Poetry Prize for Young Writers. The contest is open to high school sophomores and juniors. The winning poem and the runner-ups' will be published in the Kenyon Review, and the winner will receive a full scholarship to Kenyon's Young Writers Workshop at Kenyon College in Ohio.

I attached the link so that you can enter if you're eligible (the submission deadline is November 30th), but I also attached it because the site contains the work of past winners. The poems are spectacular, and I encourage you to take a gander!

Just at this moment I am pondering which poem I'm going to submit, since, unfortunately, I can only submit one...

Oh, decisions...

http://www.kenyonreview.org/contests/patricia-grodd/

Latest of fears

crane-less poems by Madie Anderson

"College"

I kiss the white

your letter in my clutch

my fingertips read the despair

it’s yet to exist

the black letters my black tears

on your white shirt

one year and we’ll be

wrenched away

literal

physical children

we are told to depart

and we will listen

we will listen

---------------------------------------

page 541 "Leaves"

Yearning for thee

Thee coil'd in evil

with every me

                       my soul

This common

    feeding

     sing

   loathsome grubs, may to

so transposed, so used and bless'd         trills

your fortune be the

                            endless wilds,

spiritual             notes,

{courtesy of Walt Whitman}

Japanese birds from the extra Ordinary

Anyone have a Netflix account and have DVDs mailed to them? I tend to make cranes out of the flap that you tear off to send the DVD back. Why not?

My dad picked one of these up the other day, exclaiming that I was still making these darned-ed "Japanese birds"

"Dad, you mean cranes?"

"...oh yeah. Right."

{Hence todays title.}

Nonetheless, this funny or not-so-funny moment-of-forgetfulness-of-names-of-inanimate-objects is not exactly the point of today's post. I just wanted to share that these Japanese birds don't have to be deep, mystical entities handcrafted from obscure 20th century poetry or Old English manuscripts. Gosh no! In fact, my most recent flocks have been born of magazine leaflets and receipts, because I simply do not have volumes and volumes of Whitman or Shakespeare laying around. But I have plenty of National Geographic magazines, Panera and Starbucks receipts occupying precious desk space. Ah ha! Recycling at its finest!

{Francesca's receipt}

{church bulletin}

{Progressive insurance advertisement}

{Nat. Geo. magazine leaflets}

Join the craze

If anyone else wants something to do during the boring parts or wholes of algebra class, please proceed to the link below

https://vimeo.com/71533921

P.S. I made it myself with my kick-butt-Chuck Norris-iMovie-making abilities. Thanks, Mr. Koch, for the laptop! It's for the good of future origami enthusiasts everywhere!

What's on my desk today...

Anything goes, when it comes to crane-making material...

I happened to have Seventeen magazine on hand.


Totally worthy of ripping up.

Payment Enclosed

teen

$10 

issues + 7 more for a total of

467467

issues

Narration

Black and

Brown hair red lips

Double-you dots

Five legs and an arm

356

(not three-hundred and sixty-five?)

hair and T(ea)

arms lack

I Just Think This One is Pretty

Walt Whitman fragments

As printed in our class literary journal Paper Cuts.

Paper Crane Fragments: Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

By Madie Anderson

eras, dates, generations,

there, like space, inseparable

*****

537

politics of these

sun and moon, but

-self, not for a day

*****

world,

labor and the march,

mountains steep,

the unknown

*****

innocent joys

with joys mid rain and many a

snows and night and the wild winds

patient rugged joys, my soul’s strong

How it all started

The best English class period of my schooling career was when we ripped up Walt Whitman.

Yes, we tore apart books. My English teacher and the English teacher next door tore apart Leaves of Grass, and taught us how to make origami paper cranes.

The key is, don't read the poems before you start folding, or else the magic disintegrates, and the universe decides not to call you, and you lose the opportunity to receive life-shattering wisdom from the celestial bodies.

We folded and folded and creased and folded. And yes we folded. And creased. And folded.

When alas!

A message from the universe.

Now when I say message, I refer to the magic that happened when you were trying not to peek at the words within your fingers. That poem written back in the prehistoric age is transformed by the divine unknown to a message, a message to you. A poem, advice, gibberish enfolded between paper wings, obscure memos that may hold the meaning of life if you are truly committed to translating the universe's gift to you.

To the sentimental and poetically sappy person like me, this seemed an unabashedly beautiful thing! And so I folded and I creased and I tore up Macbeth and more Walt Whitman. And I began to hide these special messages all over campus-- in classrooms, in the cracks between cement pillars, in lockers, on chairs, in plants, in trees...

My peers called me obsessive, but I, I soldiered on doing my universal duty. 

And I'll keep doing it, until I get bored. But I haven't gotten bored yet.