Response to Last Post

Well Tricia's suggestion of Queen Anne's Lace was wonderful! I loved the part about the tiny purple blemish. Here's the poem for anyone who wants to read it:

Queen-Anne’s Lace

By William Carlos Williams
 

Her body is not so white as

anemony petals nor so smooth—nor

so remote a thing. It is a field

of the wild carrot taking

the field by force; the grass

does not raise above it.

Here is no question of whiteness,

white as can be, with a purple mole

at the center of each flower.

Each flower is a hand’s span

of her whiteness. Wherever

his hand has lain there is

a tiny purple blemish. Each part

is a blossom under his touch

to which the fibres of her being

stem one by one, each to its end,

until the whole field is a

white desire, empty, a single stem,

a cluster, flower by flower,

a pious wish to whiteness gone over—

or nothing.

 

 

As for the other stories/books, I will have to check them out!

Hey guys! So I'm always on the lookout for new books, short stories or poems to read, especially short stories. Does anyone have an suggestions of anything they might have read recently, or that they've just always enjoyed?

Perfection

http://disgruntledenglishmajor.tumblr.com/post/33799510969

"Mayakovsky" by Frank O'Hara

1

My heart’s aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I’m turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embrace a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest

oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

Getting to Know Classmates

As an English major, my favorite type of class has always been the workshop. Aside from the fact that you get to work on your writing more than any other type of class, the workshop allows you to connect with your classmates more. In my other classes, there will be a few various classmates throughout the room that I know by the end of the semester, even if it's just because I asked for their pen one day. It's different in a workshop though. In a workshop, I get to look at and read everyone's art. What we're sharing says something about a person on a much more personal level than just an essay we're peer reviewing. By reading people's stories or poems, I can remember them through their writing style, a layer of depth that we don't usually get to with classmates.

A lot of times, English majors get shit because we don't really have tests in our classes. What people don't realize is that instead of tests, we have papers and books we have to read.  I know that I've personally been more overwhelmed by the amount of reading I've had to do this semester than ever before.  No matter what I do or how late I stay up, I literally just can't catch up on my reading.  There isn't enough time in the day.  I understand the importance of reading a lot of different material as writing major, as reading and writing do go hand in hand; however, this has just gotten to the point of overwhelming.  Next time someone tries to tell me I don't have a real major because I don't have tests, I might consider slapping them in the face with one of my 50 million books. Too harsh?

I enjoyed this list quite a bit. You can go to the source by clicking the title.

How to not suck at being an English Major:

1. LOVE POETRY
It’s a vital part of literature, stop hating on it because you think that’s the cool thing to do. Sure, poetry can be hard to understand, but you shouldn’t shut your brain off just because the writer isn’t explicitly telling what he/she is feeling. You should NEVER shut your brain off.
2. DO THE READING
Yes, you have to read a lot, what the fuck did you think it meant when you signed up to be an English Major? Read, interpret, write, and love literature. That’s what you’re supposed to do.
3. THINK THINK THINK
Come to class with actual thoughts, and don’t be afraid to talk. Discussion classes can either be stimulating or boring as fuck, and a lot of it depends on YOU, Mr. or Mrs. English Major.
4. DON’T BE A DICK
Life advice. See also: Be humble, be smart, be cool.

We have one of these in West Chester where I go to school and I think it's simply the most wonderful thing ever. I picked up, "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," by James Joyce from it the other day. Looks like I'll have to drop one off soon.  I think college campuses would benefit greatly from having these around campus.

This has been my favorite short story since I read it my freshman year in a short story workshop. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do.


"No One's a Mystery," by Elizabeth Tallent

Hey guys! Here's a link to a piece of flash fiction that I always found interesting:


http://www.galactanet.com/oneoff/theegg_mod.html

Tonight I can write the saddest lines

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Pablo Neruda

Literary Tattoos

As of late on both the Web and amongst people I know, I've noticed the growing popularity of literary tattoos.  Of my friends, I've noticed that a lot of these tattoos are appearing on people studying English or similar fields of study, although occasionally one peaks out of the grain that is some random science major or what have you. On Tumblr, there's even a whole blog dedicated to these tattoos (http://tattoolit.com/ in case you wanted to check it out. I follow it!).  I myself am even guilty of having a literary tattoo. Above is the typewriter on my ribcage (If you can't tell from these last two posts and the many to come, I have a bit of a typewriter obsession). Underneath it is a line from Ted Kooser's, "Tattoo." That line along with the rest of the poem hit a personal place in my heart when I first read it and the feeling has stayed with me since.

So what is it about these book quotes, images and whatnot that many of us find inspiring enough to permanently etch into our skin? I have to admit that I personally find it beautiful that these tattoos are appearing everywhere. Don't you get it? This means people are reading! It's a wonderful thing to realize your generation is actually appreciating writing and incorporating it into a daily part of their lives. Every time somebody asks me about my tattoo, I'm happy to explain the quote (Well, most of the time. Sometimes I'm tired and don't want to explain it and have to resist telling them to fuck off). I hope that maybe they'll consider looking up the poem later, which will lead them to reading more and more poems as they aimlessly wander the Internet.

I guess I wonder what people's thoughts are on this new tattoo trend and what some of the favorites they've seen are. Here are some that I enjoyed: