Archive for the ‘poetry’ Tag

The Dubious Coming of Spring and Softball

Sunday, April 14th, 2013

Hello to all dogs running in excited circles, rocks being thrown at windows, and reindeer standing in backyards.
It’s sort of spring now. Sort of. There’s a two foot high pile of snow in the backyard, but you know. Spring.
I haven’t blogged in a while, because I’m embarrassed about my previous post, where I rambled on about God only knows what for five minutes or so. I THINK I was trying to get across some point about green energy but I’m not even sure anymore. Anyway, I’ve finally faced the embarrassment and here I am, bloggeging again. (That’s definitely how you spell it.) Anyways, a lot of stuff has happened in the last few months, which I’ve neglected to write about– less than a week ago there was a SNOWSTORM, because you know, IT’S SPRING AND EVERYTHING, but the good news is that the sun is melting most of it away and winter seems, finally, to be retreating to let spring take over. There are flowers growing in the yard and squirrels running to and fro. I like spring a lot, because it always feels like you’re waking up from a long cold dream.
This year I’m going to be playing softball. Let it be known that I despise softball. But I’m not even sure if there’s a baseball league for girls my age, or if there is it’s probably not in Canada– and I really wanted to play some sort of game involving a ball and a bat and a baseball field. I settled for softball, and I’m excited. And nervous. I keep having these unfortunate softball dreams to reflect my anxiety– in one I was on a team where everyone else was dead, except me. They were still playing and running around and stuff. Just… they were dead. Last night I had a dream where I forgot to bring my glove to a game and couldn’t find one that fit me; I was forced to put on this tiny pink glove and it didn’t end well.
I think I’ll be all right. I’ve played baseball for five years (with the exception of last year) and I am by no means an awful player.
I’m already all out of words. I’m serious. The words just aren’t flowing today. Maybe I’ll write a poem, and call it a day:

An Ode to Softball

Softball, softball,
A ball large and green
Never such an unsightly thing
Have I ever seen.
Thou art far too big for my hand
And also difficult to throw;
I want a regular baseball
You get me? Y’know?
But alas, there’s no league
For a girl to play baseball,
And I don’t know what rhymes well with baseball
Except maybe, “face stall”.
This year as the spring comes,
And to the diamond all us softball players run
There will be no baseball
And definitely no face stalls.
Whatever a face stall is.

There’s my half-hearted poem. Happy spring. This was a terrible blog post. Don’t hurt me. ~Onceabasementdog


Some Old Poetry

Wednesday, January 30th, 2013

The old computer from nineteen thirty something that I still have in my room is filled with a labyrinth of poetry, not to mention endless books and little nothing-stories that I’ve almost completely forgotten about. While wandering through the maze, I came across a poem I wrote about a year ago. Most of that old stuff is pretty terrible, but this one stuck out to me. I present to you…

The Forests

When I was young the village put me in the forest,
Turned their backs and said, “We wish you all the best”
They left me to live with the birds and the bees,
In the company of tall, wise trees
And I learned secrets that
They will never know.
The height of summer came with the whispering of rain,
The trees leaned in and murmured, “The wild beast is slain.”
Up where the river crashed down to the lake,
I went to look under the statues of the snakes
Where the beast was lying, her head on the ground
She was as still as a broken toy and making not a sound
The rushing water told me what they’d seen,
How the villagers came up, like monsters in a dream
And struck her down and left again,
With their torches and their guns.
So the next day at dawn I went down through the forest,
And into the village, I entered like a ghost
And was met with metal guns and killing iron fire
I said I knew what they had done,
And they said “You’re a liar!”
So I went back up and I talked to the trees,
And with groans and creaking moans they came to walk with me
And we went back to the village, as dusk fell swift and black
Under the opening eyes of stars, we went for the attack.
With shots like fireworks dancing in the dark
We brought down the villagers, and their village with them
And in the morning light which seeped red all around
Were the broken bodies lying on the ground
And back into the trees, they went with me
As the glow of our victory was swallowed like a dream.

Just A Poem

Sunday, August 5th, 2012

Hello to all bloggers taking a break from the sardonic and funny.

I found this poem by Emily Dickinson while I was nosing around the internet looking for a fitting poem to put at the start of a book I’m writing:

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne’er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host

Who took the flag to-day

Can tell the definition,

So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,

On whose forbidden ear,

The distant strains of triumph

Break, agonized and clear.

Before I found out that she wrote like, a gazillion poems about stuff and they are all awesome, I just liked that one called In Vain. But it turns out In Vain wasn’t just her only gem– everything she wrote was fantastic. This poem hit me deeper than the others. There’s something simple about it– simply conveying these deep, deep ideas. Isn’t it true that those who haven’t known success find it sweeter when they finally get it than those who know it all their lives? And I feel bad for that guy, defeated, dying, feeling the pangs of being on the other side of success, all too clearly. So I wonder if success means more when someone has never had it before, and means less when someone is used to it. I think so.

Hats off to you, Emily Dickinson! You’re awesome. Yours as ever sincerely, ~Onceabasementdog.

What Is Boredom?

Wednesday, July 18th, 2012

Hello to all never-played mandolins, lamp shades, and cats disappearing from trees.

What is boredom? What is it really? The dictionary defines it as, The state of being bored; tedium, ennui. Well, I don’t know what exactly ‘ennui’ is, but I agree that it’s tedious. For the last, oh, say, six months I’ve been in a state of boredom, which is so boring as to be lingering at the edges of ennui. There’s so little to do around here when you’re more or less afraid of the Outside World and your activity is confined to bike rides and playing guitar and blogging. I could see my friends, but I’ve already tried biking past George Harrison’s house, and last time I went by the car wasn’t there and all the curtains were drawn, so either they’re away somewhere or vampires have invaded. I should’ve went to see the Karate Master on Tuesday but it was so hot and I was so bored that I couldn’t bring myself to.

Anyway. I’m such a pro when it comes to boredom that I could write a book about it. I could write a whole novel in prose.

What am I, but bored?

These tedious feelings, in summer days stored.

I wish I had hobbies,

So… er… I could visit some lobbies…

And in this state of ennui,

I must climb a tree,

Otherwise lose all my sanity,

Which I would like to keep, out of vanity.

Right now I’m having trouble writing stuff. I mean, ‘trouble’ writing stuff for me is like, Oh no, I can’t sit down and spew out thirty pages! but it’s still annoying. I want to get back into a book and stuff, and the fact that I can’t only adds to the enormous tedium that’s going around here in Onceabasementdogville.

Want to hear a joke? Okay. The girl was SO bored that she started writing sentences JUST to write sentences.

Ha ha ha.

Last night I had a three-part dream that I was on a hockey team, then a baseball team, then playing a character in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’m pretty sure I was the fairy queen. Not like I go around wishing I was a fairy queen– I don’t know where that came from.

In other news, at least tomorrow is Thursday, (though unfortunately today it remains Wednesday), and I’ll be packing my bags for the Mother’s house, and there I’ve got my Hunger Games rip-off book to keep writing. I hope the writing dry spell goes away by then. By the way, the last entry had like, a KABILLION likes. Seriously, a kabillion. And I have no idea how! But it’s awesome! Thank you!

Here’s another joke for you: the blogger was SO bored that she was tempted to keep this blog entry going even LONGER, by inserting more prose from the Book of Boredom, but then she decided nobody would want to hear that, so, yours as always very untruly, ~Onceabasementdog

That’s not a joke. What the heck am I saying?


What is fun?

The idea I shun!

I am employed in the art of tedium,

Which begs some sort of bearable medium

Should I  start up a hobby?

That involves visiting lobbies?

Or should I dwell in the art

That has no end and no start,

We crossed the ford-um

And on the other side, found more boredom.

‘O, Dear Computer’ and Other Poetry

Monday, July 16th, 2012

Hello to all fish swimming around in the weedy depths of the river, loons on dollars, mice in mousetraps and gross, sweaty old people riding their bikes with no shirt on.

Today I went for a bike ride. Bad idea, considering it’s practically the temperature of the inside of a well-cooked ham out there? Maybe. But anyway, bike I did besides that. As I was pedaling up by the side of the canal, a lyric for a song popped into my head: Up the hill by the stream is the nicest house I’ve ever seen. I wonder who lives there, and if they even care. I’m going to put that into my next song. I’ve been feeling in a poetic mood lately. Maybe that has something to do with the enormous hunk of English literature sitting next to the computer, which I pick up to flip through as I wait for the internet to load. It’s one of those university edition thingies that have every boring poem in the universe stuffed inside. Anyway it’s a very, very slow computer. Maybe I should install Adobe Flash Player and maybe I should listen to those Please Update windows that keep popping up, but I’m not convinced. I think my dear old computer is getting fed up with me– before the Adobe Flash Player upgrade was just a little box in the corner of the screen with an exclamation mark, and when I turned the computer on today it was a HUGE box that took up the entire screen, telling me this was Urgent! Update your Flash Player! (You piece of crap!)

I haven’t yet. Besides, I refuse to listen to my computer.  My computer can’t tell me what to do.

To expand on my poetic mood: I’ve realized, flipping through that hunk of boring English, that not only are all great writers insane (in most of the bios about different writers it explains how so-and-so spent three years in a lunatic asylum, so-and-so cut his ear off,  so-and-so wrote an entire ballad about his cat and God), and now I’m starting to worry that I’ll end up being insane, too. I mean, I’m not going to say I’m a great writer. (Yes, I am. Who said that?) I just don’t know if I really want to be that person sitting in a small room with a bed without sheets or a pillow so I can’t strangle or suffocate myself, writing poems about cats and God and stuff.

In any case. I’ve just typed up a storm during the weekend, a twenty five page Hunger Games rip-off that I plan to upload to a fan fiction site. I’ve been thinking up song lyrics like nobody’s business. The other day somebody told me I looked like an artist. ‘Do you play music?’ ‘Why, yes,’ I said. ‘Do you play guitar?’ ‘Uh, yes, I do.’ Apparently all the artistic stuff is starting to boil over in me. Soon I’ll be writing poems about dust bunnies and making friends with inanimate objects. Not like that’s a bad thing, I mean, the computer speaker’s got a great sense of humor.

Nah, don’t worry. I’m still sane.

And here’s my poem about the computer:

O, Dear Computer

Mine old friend, of plastic and wire;

Tis a short time, I fear, before he bursts into fire

For ten long years he has stood as a guide,

To my senseless poor poetry,

In him, I confide.

But soon the days will catch up with him,

And the promising glow of life will seem dim

And therefore, I shall be obliged to divide

The files within him to one, and one side

Before all is lost, and I pay the cost

O, dear computer, I fain imagine my loss.


Farewell sincerely, my dear Blog-Reader, ~Onceabasementdog