Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Good evening! My midsems are over, most of my assignments are in, and I'm feeling goooood! I recently bought a book called "The Best Poems of the English Language" selected and commentary by Harold Bloom. It's a massive book, and I figure that while I'm going through this angsty-poem writing stage of my late teenage years, I really ought to acquaint myself with some famous poetry.

 Last year (I think?) I watched this movie about the life of John Keats. He's famous for his love poems. It was a sad story about his short life, but lovely at the same time. So naturally when I flicked through this book, I wanted to read his poems first. And I found something amazing! The idea behind the title of my blog? Branches of thought? Documented in the literary world! See this extract from "Ode to Psyche" by John Keats. 

In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;

It's so beautiful <3 

It's so awesome to think I have something in common with him, some little strand of similarity in the way our minds work :)

I've added a new verse to my poem "Rain" and changed the last line of the first verse...I never did like it much. I think this new verse brings more of a conclusion to the poem, something I was trying to achieve with the line "her mind begins to stray" but I guess the "begins" rules that outcome out. Anyway here it is! 

Rain

Looking out the window,
At the softness of the rain,
She sees the sky turn dark grey,
And journeys down the lane

An insignificant little drop,
Can signify much more,
A memory of a time, a place
On which life has shut its door

The swishing of the wipers,
Moves the drops away,
And against the pace of modern life,
Her mind begins to stray

The ringing of the bell,
Brings all thoughts to a halt,
She needs to let them go,
And throw the key to their vault

Thanks for reading! 

Sara <3  

Thursday, October 6, 2011

The box of pencils in front of me,
So varying in its shades,
Like the moulting birds of spring,
Basking in their glades 


The breeze does not ruffle their feathers,
For they know the routine,
The seasons come and go,
Wiping the slate clean