crows-in-sevens - Tumblr blog

[crows-in-sevens]

from this writing exercise i found:

This exercise encourages you to write a complete story using very few words, and helps you learn how to avoid overwriting. When undertaking this exercise, it's essential to edit your work carefully. Strip out anything unnecessary and make every word count. Here's how it works: - Take any novel from your bookshelf - Turn to page 9 - Take the 9th word from the 9th line on the page - Use that word to start a story - Write a story that is exactly 81 words long - If you're feeling particularly clever, use 9 sentences that are 9 words long

from 'the book thief': 'surprised'.

Surprised, I was - certainly, mortals hardly ever chose hell. Curiosity overtook me, and I couldn’t help but ask.

“Hell contains only the damned, infernos and searing rock. Tell me, what about this kingdom entices the spirit?”

She looked up; I daresay I paused, reluctantly interested. I rarely met humans with demon eyes, flashing smiles.

“Opportunity,” she breathed, eyes bright, and I smiled downwards.

(Alternatively: "Opportunity,” she breathed, eyes bright; my smile slanted downwards.)

“I daresay,” I murmured, “that we shall meet again.”

I strided away and she, almost disappointingly, stayed behind.

[crows-in-sevens]

related to my previous poem: i was just thinking about the word poetry in math class. like poetry is such a pretty word. right up there with (deep inhale) tranquility and eternity and elegance and regal and crescendo and dappled and luminescence and legacy and incandescence and dusk and starlight and stellar and celestial and charisma and song (esp starsong, birdsong) and ethereal and divinity and morning and mystical and transcending and starburst and valkyrie and wings and feathers and zephyr and apple and lightning and

[crows-in-sevens]

been getting really into songwriting lately, but i'm really bad at composing music, so i just voice record, improv half of it, then transcribe it lol

[crows-in-sevens]

who are you, the world asks

who are you, what are you

why are you

and you

tell them this

you are the rolling of the waves at high-tide, the moon reaching downward

you are the birdsong and the sunrise, the first violins at sunset

you are these green leaves, this grass, soft and curled

these red skies, striped, smoky, bloody, vibrant

the first gold we see; sunlight through leaves

you are the metal reflecting neon lights

you are the sparking of lightning, the wires criss-cross

you are the dancing, the laughing, the world folding inwards on itself

you are humanity; you are nature; you are life breathing life writing life about life

you are a poet; tell them that.

you are a poet.

shriek the word out like the wind in the mountains

wail the word upwards like wolves at the moon

whisper like rustle-leaf trees bound to forests

laugh it like children, the purest of you

poet.

your mouth sings music

your lungs breathe out poetry

your hands curve shapes into letters, letters into language, language into art

you are a poet because you are one

you are a poet because you became one

you are a poet because you have never been anything else

you,

poet,

tell them this.

[crows-in-sevens]

the old man

warns others

but the boy

had wished for —

and

now regrets

his power over it:

mourns

the change in

fate.

listen;

everyone.

(You can read it straight down, but the other way to read it is by reading the first line of the first stanza, then first line of the second stanza, then first of third, then second of fourth, then second of first, then second of second, then so on. Giving you:

The old man had wished for his power over it: fate. Warns others and mourns. Listen; but the boy now regrets the change in everyone.

)

I thought I was so clever haha

[crows-in-sevens]

I arrive at the campsite hopeful, and see

a city built on dirt, rubbish scraps littering the ground.

The street rats scavenge behind dumpsters

to fulfil their dreams of sufficiency,

an endless endeavour.

I swallow disappointment and put up my own home painstakingly,

halfheartedly try to clean up the streets.

I wave at my neighbour, ask how are you .

He walks past hurriedly without glancing up.

Busy , he mutters.

(He doesn’t say see you later .)

There's a campfire beside his residence,

and all his bags are stacked against the entryway.

He’s put down a welcome mat weaved together from plastic bags and coke cans,

and everyone is everything but.

(I never see him again.)

He leaves.

All that remains of his existence are light scuffs on the ground

and a packet of broken matches left next to the blackened fire.

I wonder why he bothered to come at all.

A new person, haggard and worn, arrives.

Three bags slung over their shoulders and a suitcase in each hand,

They turn the hut into a house,

and the ashes are survived as blackened stains against the limp grass.

They leave.

In time, the house becomes an apartment

permanently abandoned yet never empty.

The only thing I see is shadows in the windows against torchlight.

Sometimes I wonder if that light would still flicker onwards if the body became a corpse.

(I know it does, even now.)

(If someone lives and dies and nobody knows, were they ever really alive at all?)

( Paradise , the posters say. Heaven is the home of the dead.)

I take everything and nothing with me when I go.

I pour water on the campfire and leave my house.

I look to the city of grey corners.

No doubt there is someone at my table, now, watching shadows flicker over blank faces.

They tell me to say my goodbyes at the gate

and I wonder if anyone has ever actually had someone to say goodbye to.

Wistfulness curls like smoke in my chest.

But I’ve no campfire any longer.

I leave.

[crows-in-sevens]

Silhouettes golden

in day; snarling their terror.

Prowling like wild things.

The shadows breathe sunset in the darkness of day.

[crows-in-sevens]

Land gives way; freefall; your head tips back; you face away from the sun.

A sound tears from your soul -

Your shadow shrieks voiceless

Ringing in your ears, useless but endless and loud

There is the sharp grating of boot on rock

And a hand wraps around your wrist.

You laugh; the wind changes.

An arrowhead was buried in the earth,

Its feathers bleeding red.

The angels gave you wings.

[crows-in-sevens]

I’ve never experienced love before. I’ve never felt the flutter of butterflies in my stomach, nor the electricity as eyes meet. I’ve never had red cheeks and a stuttering voice and an uncontrollable grin on my face as I wave my hand at someone.

But sometimes, as my mother smiles at me as she makes food, I sit on the bottom step and talk about my day, and she listens to me but doesn’t interrupt. She hands me the food with a soft smile, and I smile back, and there is a soft warmth somewhere in my stomach. There are no butterflies, but I think, perhaps, this is love.

This softness, this warmth. I wonder, fleetingly, if this is what they call love.

If warmth/happiness/praise/attention is a drug, then I am an addict.

You smile at me, laughing like I am the funniest person in the world, and for that half-second, as your eyes crinkle at the sides and your mouth curls upwards, I am.

Imagine your best friend, someone says, and I see a flickering shadow in the corner of my eye, fleetingly. Then I close my eyes, and see nothing at all.

And I soak up the praise like a sunflower basking in the rays of the sun, until I can only feel warm words and warm smiles and warm looks and warm hands. For a moment, I don’t feel cold.

My hands have always been cold. Freezing in winter, still chilly in summer. No heaters nor layers warm me up on those coldest days.

You raise your hand in greeting as you walk past, a smile on your face, and my lips twitch up as I wave back, until you pass me and call out hey! to someone behind. I don’t turn around and my smile does not fall, but my hand falls back to my side. I slip them into my pocket. My hands are cold.

I look at you and wonder if I am nobody to you, just another face in the crowd, just another voice among hundreds. I look at you and think my friend, then take it back immediately. A friendship, after all, has to be mutual.

I look around, and see so many faces but no people, and think where are my friends except they’re not, are they, and maybe I’m nobody and maybe I’m forgettable but I’m here, in this moment, and suddenly I see you, and I am soaking up your praise like the sun and leaning into your touch, and your eyes are glinting and your smile is bright and your hands are warm and this, I think, is love.

[crows-in-sevens]

Why do you sing, child? They are already deaf.

Why do you cry, child? They are already dead.

Why do you laugh, child? They are already frowning.

(Why do you live, child? They are already coming.)

[crows-in-sevens]

I once fancied myself an astronomer.

The universe was my dreamland. When I closed my eyes, I saw constellations etched in the darkness. I looked up, and I traced the stars along my ceiling. My mother stitched me together with silver needles and soft yarn, knitting patterns that would never be replicated again in bursts of colour like patchwork stars. And ever since, I’ve been reaching for those bright colours in the sky, waiting for the day I would extend my hand and touch the stars.

>>> insert thing here >>>

I am still an astronomer.

I still see patterns of stars on the backs of my eyelids. I still imagine hazy orbs of gas and rock, orbiting bright lights. I still close my eyes and dream of the stars.

But now, I plan. I think of resources, affordability, practicality. I do not think of how to use extraordinary things to do extraordinary things. I take the ordinary and a little extra, and do those things anyway.

I plan and budget and review and assess, until the day comes that I can travel the million, billion, trillion, kilometres in my rickety spaceship, woven from my own dreams and the hope of a little girl who wanted to reach the stars. Until the day comes that can I slide open the battered metal door and step out onto land. Until the day comes that, breathing in the static air, looking up at the glittering expanse of the cosmos, I can say that I’ve finally landed among the stars.

[crows-in-sevens]

there once was a baker, who sold cookies and cakes

who made a good profit off the treats that she bakes

and every weekday, without fail, and the weekends as well,

she’d count up the money from the goods that did sell

but one day she realised, horrified, mad,

that one of her cookies she’d sold had gone bad,

three weeks ago and she’d forgotten to bin it

and now some poor customer will have a poor stomach

‘oh no!’, she cried, ‘it’s the rude one, bad luck!’

and she knew that she’d have to call the customer back

so she tightened her jaw, silenced her inner turmoil,

but she didn’t know that her plan would soon be foiled…

the customer was gone! ‘oh, where could they be?

i must find them, apologise for the stale cookie!’

so she hunted around and she looked for some clues,

she asked those in town and learned all that they knew.

‘that man’, they all said, ‘went to go visit his nan,

but she lives ‘cross the woods where a wolf runs the land,

and this greedy old wolf, i think, have a hunch,

he took this poor man and he ate him for lunch!’

‘oh no!’ said the baker. ‘how terrible, how sad!’

but she wasn’t thinking of the now-eaten man,

she was thinking of that wolf who would now feel funny

with that old stale cookie going ‘round in his tummy!

‘i’ve got to go find him!’ she said, ‘understand,

i’ve got to go tell him to spit out that man!’

and so off she went to the forest at night,

in search of the wolf who ate a man in a bite!

she soon did discover where this wolf lived,

but in order to enter she must bring a gift.

she thought and she thought, and in the end she decided,

to bring a fresh pie at which others delighted.

the wolf crept towards her, about to chow her down,

but oh! an aroma from the bag she’d set down.

he opened it up, enticed by the smell,

and ate it all up, asked for seconds, as well!

so pleased at the gift, he was, so he spit

the man and the cookie from his giant stomach

the baker sighed in relief, the man rubbed his head

and the wolf, too, was happy, because he was well-fed.

the man then got up and said sorry to the cook,

‘i know i was rude to you before, but look,

nothing good comes out of holding petty grudges,

i’ll be better now, or my name’s not tim rogers!’

and the wolf said, ‘what is this delicious meal?

humans taste bland when compared to this meal!

the baker smiled and said, ‘that’s my own special secret,

but come to the bakery and you can have more of it!’

and the baker went home to her house ‘bove the shop,

knowing the wolf nearby would soon stop

to buy another pie, and a cupcake or two,

and the man’s now a regular at the bakery too!

and once he gave a slice to his dear old nan,

she, too, fell in love with those cookies and jams,

she hobbles through the dark woods, with no fear or pain

and if she finds the wolf, he joins on the way.

and now they all live on in harmony forever,

the wolf eats no people, he’s found something better.

the man is not rude anymore, leaves big tips,

and the baker? well, she smiles counting up her profits!

[crows-in-sevens]

ocean breathes lonely on the edge of the sand

the fish ride on waves and think, longing, of land

the sun tilts his head and peers down at the sea

and sees his reflection peering back from the green.

[crows-in-sevens]

mary-belle, mary-belle, where are you, mary-belle?

climbed up on the rooftops or fallen down the well?

carried by a vulture-bird or come under a spell?

answer us, answer, where are you, mary-belle?

[crows-in-sevens]

and life goes on with a scowl and a scar

those scars that tell of who you are

a slash ‘cross the chest from protecting a civilian

memories of battles, comrades bleed vermilion

the man smokes his pipe and the man leans back

and the man, that day on, now never attacks

he smiles and is calm and is angry no more,

nothing seems so terrifying, after facing war.

[crows-in-sevens]

in the rows of towers with hands reaching skyward (praying to a god that never was)

the walls close in

on a boy, staring,

still and pale, at the

radio.

america will be joining the war, the president says, calm

as he announces the death of millions

the child remembers his father, white-faced as he traces his scars from the Great War

and thinks that maybe what he’s feeling is hate.

(it is directed towards the germans, after broadcasts and papers and the many posters.

they are at fault, they say

and nobody talks of how his grandfather had once been promised that the future would be glorious,

that the future would be peaceful,

and it hadn’t been by the germans.

he is made to fight during the last year of the war, and he comes home with scars.

they say it was worth it for peace, for justice,

but what justice is there when men return haggard and worn after fighting for a country that never loved them?)

(how terrible it is, to know that you are the reason a family grieves.

how terrible, to understand that you were always replaceable.

how terrible, to realise that the country you loved never loved you back.)

(how terrible, how terrible, Freedom cries from its rusted perch, how terrible it all is)

a woman’s shadow against the window

soft candlelight and soft crying

a letter clutched in her hand

i know what it will say.

we regret to inform you…

(lady, lady, your husband is-)

no, no, she cries, words muffled through the glass

he was safe, he was safe

the great war was over and he was safe forever

he was supposed to be safe forever

nobody going to comfort her

nobody left to comfort her

her son dead, long before hitler opened his mouth and breathed poison into the germans

(he was human, she cries, and so he died)

i know how the story goes, now.

(she will be dead by morning. there will be no mourners. and nobody will know that someone has died.)

(if someone lives and dies and nobody remembers, did they ever really live at all?)

the man returns to a glittering castle where the tower once stood

it does not look skyward for guidance. it does not look skyward in fear.

there are cracks on the glass walls

glued together from the shards of the souls of the broken men

dead

for a promise.

[crows-in-sevens]

red

red, the bright flowers dotting the hillsides

red, the sun, shining bright in morning (glory)

red, your lips, curling into a bright smile

bright, bright, bright.

red.

blue

blue, the calm softness of the sky

blue, the deep oceans, calm at its best and worst (deadly)

blue, the glint of your eyes as you calmly lean against the wall, knowing you’ve won (you always won)

calm, calm, calm.

blue.

yellow

yellow, the soft pastels of the sky at sunset

yellow, the sunflowers waving softly in the breeze but always looking east

yellow, your hair, as i run my fingers through the soft curls

soft, soft, soft.

yellow.

(when i close my eyes, i do not see flowers, or the sky. i see blood and bruises and the sickly sallow colour of death.)