Emily Dickinson: the original emo kid

[This was for class. I think teh proffumz liked it.]

I saw a Rabbit—in the Wood
Its Fur was soft—and new—
It Stretched and Hopped so tenderly—
And on a Sprout it chewed—

I saw a Child—by the school—
At Recess—running Free—
The Sun shone bright—upon his Head
Around him sang the Bee—

I saw two Lovers—in a Lane
Passing among the Flow’rs—
I saw—reflected—in their Eyes—
Their gentle Talk—of Hours—

But though the Sun is shining—now—
Though Summer’s Music plays—
I can see—Clouds coming up—
And casting darkest Shade—

You do not see these Shadows black—
So I will counsel Thee—
O Rabbit—Child—Lovers Two—
To remember—you must—Die—

Holy Sonnet-- attempt #3

[GAAAAAAH! Not even close.]

You smiled at me, a divine smile;
Your gentle face seemed lit from within.
All others, who I always understood as traps,
Binding me to them in fascination,
Have very simply
Dimmed.
Their pretty flesh is now like dirt to me.
You'll be the consummation of my dreams.

The Transfiguration-- attempt #2

[I CAN'T GET IT RIGHT!!!]

I don't know you, but I saw heavenly beauty in your face.
Your gentle smile at me was lit from within, and
All others, who I always understood as traps,
Infinite sources of fascination,
Have very simply
dimmed.
Let them come and let them go.
Their pretty flesh is now like dirt to me.
You'll be the consummation of my dreams.

Metaphysics-- attempt #1

[My first attempt to describe a particular event. I'm not overly happy with it. I have the feeling that no matter how long I try, I'll only end up producing more attempts... "He was more beautiful than words can express, and Aschenbach felt, as so often already, the painful awareness that language can only praise sensuous beauty, but not reproduce it." It's also really hard not to go off into a cliche-fest. I stole the 9th line from a medieval Chinese story.]

I have seen divine beauty:
A gentle smile on your good face.
Your face, lit from within.
In this white light, all others,
Who I always took as sources of infinite fascination,
have very simply
dimmed.
Let them come and let them go--
Their pretty flesh will be like dirt to me.
I know that you will drive me on, forever,
Sweeten my dreams, and be their consummation.
I have been transfigured.

Fever, or, When the Heart Guides the Pen

[Apparently this is what happens when I stay up too late/ get dehydrated/ want to avoid philosophy papers. It's not supposed to sound as sexual as it does; I was just writing it in a really hot room. I also lost my iPod shortly after I wrote this... an even trade? Pretty sure this won't make sense to anyone but me.]

Where are you, my blond apparition, my "standoffish" angel? It's a quarter past midnight, and you never came. I'm here, stretched out in a hot primordial haze, barely able to move, wondering where I might hunt salvation. If only you were here, I'd have to look no further than your mild face, your limp. Would you ever guess-- the things I would give you if you were here. My forehead burns and burns but doesn't burn out. Somewhere you sit with your mild face turned dutifully toward a book; in my mind I call you to me. It's happened so fast-- already I want to know every detail, on into infinity, not just your tongue and your mouth but deeper; I want to see the inside of you, every black cavity and every unthinking cell. I want to know what thoughts an angel thinks, why angels are aloof; I want to know everything that's made you, all of it, back and back to your childhood.