View allAll Photos Tagged CreativeWriting
I dreamt of you only one time, you know.
It was the dream of dreams, d’you want to hear?
Your face was painted with a stellar glow
And silver moons and stars studded your ear.
And when I kissed you it was scarlet deep:
A deep wild kiss. And after that, your lips
Detached from mine, in an impulsive leap.
And then your voice, releasing from the grip.
“I am the one supposed to do the kissing”.
I don’t remember how the dream went on
In time and space my memories are missing
The dream of dreams, a dream well foregone.
The ancient told us that dreams are what we are
And in the mirror – look – on my lips there’s a star.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Even though their academic interests vary from biological sciences, creative writing and theatre, (l-r) Austin Wong, Andrea Krajisnik, Aly Owen, Josh Gonzalez and Sarah Suits developed new friendships while living in residential housing. They're shown walking beside the Arts and Humanities Residential College at Parkside (left) and Parkside Apartments (background). Photo by: Philip Channing
We had a quarrel: she was watching me
With angry eyes, and furiously I kept
My mouth forcefully closed. No way to agree,
No way for an excuse to be accepted.
We stopped by a bar: the night was high
And all was dark; no persons were around.
We sat on stools, out of the bar, in sight
Of a bleak street, right at the skirts of town.
I peeped inside the bar, through soiled glass:
And by the counter I saw Carlos Santana.
He was there with a mate, maybe the bass
Player: frozen still shot, “Amerikana”.
I pointed him to my friend, as if to say: “You see?”
She snapped back, black with anger: “You know I disagree!”
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
I wrote this non-rhyming poem after a discussion with my sister. We were talking about so many who miss what's going on around them while they are so focused on their own looks, talents, gifts, etc. I wish we could all do better at looking Beyond the Mirror.
You can watch the scrolling words with music in the background on my YouTube channel at youtu.be/BfE-7URL1Nc
While I copyright my writing, I am very free with it just like my images, but I don't automatically list my words with a Creative Commons license like my photos because I want to hear from people who want to use them. Just send me a Flickr mail to let me know you would like to use my lyrics or poetry for your personal project, gift, or card.
Lab technician Sandra Rodriguez Cruz analyzes microorganisms growing on a specialized growth medium and checks for characteristic colony phenotypes. Photo by: Philip Channing
Chatting about what love is, late at night:
You said that love is made of dedication,
Togetherness and confidence. It might
Bring a new source of burning inspiration.
I was in love but twice, and love is hard.
Always a one-way street, on a fast car;
You have no brakes on, often you are off guard:
Looking in a short distance, you see afar.
And it is madness too, waking at dawn
To watch the sunrise, just because you hope
That who you love would see the same; alone
Injecting in your veins the old love dope.
When I think love, I think a silver flytrap plant
Its leaves sweet scented, fetching me - an ant, another ant.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Even though their academic interests vary from biological sciences, creative writing and theatre, (l-r) Austin Wong, Andrea Krajisnik, Aly Owen, Josh Gonzalez and Sarah Suits developed new friendships while living in residential housing. They're shown walking beside the Arts and Humanities Residential College at Parkside (left) and Parkside Apartments (background). Photo by: Philip Channing.
I never liked your hands. Your face is good.
You’re proud to look a bit like Kurt Cobain.
You knew it well: you made it understood.
You used the light to enhance your cheekbones’ plain.
I had to know that you were to be trustless
Feeling your hands, their coldness and their touch
On mine: how could I’ve been so mindless?
I was so sure you would not hurt me much.
I had to trust my hands; they knew the ending.
They saw the hardest bones inside the frame,
Learning the short clean nails, and comprehending
The man within the mask, the hidden shame.
And your best feature? Eyes, the mirror of the soul
A glazed surface, blue: eyes of a porcelain doll.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
I took a creative writing class in college not realizing how it would really challenge me. I was used to the writing praises of teachers ever since elementary school. I was also used to editors’ article critiques in journalism classes and newspaper internships. I thought I had talent and thick skin.
Writing news and feature articles is much different from penning personal poems, short stories, and plays. Everything I wrote in that creative writing class was passed around for all my classmates to edit and critique along with the professor.
I’ve learned to trust my instincts and take creative chances. I’ve learned not to take things too personally. I’ve learned to use the critiques that can help me and to let the others go.
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
theatre / performance art / poetry / installation / readings / documentary / creative writing / music
Πολυχώρος Κέντρο Ελέγχου Τηλεοράσεων / TV Control Center
Κύπρου 91Α & Σικίνου 35Α, 11361, Κυψέλη, Αθήνα / 91Α Kyprou & 35Α Sikinou, 11361, Athens
Τ: (00 30) 213 00 40 496 || Mobile: (00 30) 69.45.34.84.45
Email: info@polychorosket.gr
Site: polychorosket.gr/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/kentron.el
Twitter: twitter.com/TVControlCenter
Flickr: www.flickr.com/photos/79921428@N03
YouTube: www.youtube.com/channel/UC0rOD1_SgjuNrkNmx59_sMg/videos
The College of Liberal Arts at Temple University proudly announces a handful of newly renovated “smart” classrooms for the Fall 2012 semester. These rooms, in addition to being refurbished with fresh carpeting, lighting, blinds, and oversized white boards, have been upgraded with a number of technological advances. Students and faculty assigned to the new classrooms will notice new podiums, projectors, screens and control systems.
www.cla.temple.edu/2012/09/newly-renovated-smart-classroo...
TRANSCRIPT
"You know, I always thought 'the Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question, of Life, the Universe, and Everything,' being equal to '42' was a bit of a copout on Douglas Adams' part. Like, don't you think a smart guy like him would be able to come up with something a little more profound? Oh, I knew it was a joke, but I just didn't really get it. I guess he was pretty well on the right track, if you're able to read between the lines. See, we start with an advanced civilization questioning the very root meaning of existence, looking for an answer that would satisfy the age-old enquiry, 'Why are we here?' And they were smart enough to build a computer that could calculate that answer for them. For all the good it did, they might as well have spent those resources calculating pi = 3.14... to the gajillionth decimal place, when any idiot knows that that's nothing but a circle. Maybe life is a circle, maybe it's a spiral, maybe it's a whole bunch of things, but the point is this: when you're done explaining it to yourself, you can move past the question and just live it like you would have, had the question never occurred to you in the first place. I know that's unfair and not really what I mean, but seriously, maybe the Question actually is the Answer in a different form, like 'What is it? It is what it is.' So life is its own Question and its own Answer, and maybe the point is to just explore everything it has to offer and to one day maybe stop pretending we don't know what this is all about. Where we came from and where we're going... it's the same thing. And if that's so, then everything really is OK and there's nothing in this universe to be afraid of. All those things we think are really scary and bad, what are they but stuff we dreamed up to tell ourselves that it's not what it really was all along, the perfect expression of an eternally loving God?"
Creative Writing Conference 2015 was held at the Conference Center and Elston Inn located on Sweet Briar College's campus. Photo by Meridith De Avila Khan. Copyright Sweet Briar College.
They're here! They're here!
Somehow, my creative writing students and I managed to finish this collection of their short horror stories before the end of the school year. I am so excited with how they turned out, and I can't wait to hand them out today and tomorrow!!!!!
(Want to buy a copy? You'll have to PM me for details...)
Poetry session @Chapel Arts Centre for Creative Writing students (Ross Turner, Molly Burnell). Model release forms signed.
Photography - Harris Stovell.
I am afraid of masks, I’ve always been,
And as a child Carnival was a nightmare.
The blank still faces, their abnormal sheen
Was just enough to throw me in despair.
There is a why: my mother rested lying
On her white bed, her face motionless white.
I asked softly: “Mama, are you crying?”
She told me back: “Go away, I’m dead, be quiet”.
I was a little girl, and this reply
Had no solution. I knew well back then:
When you don’t talk and breathe, that’s when you die.
But mama… mama… will she speak again?
She was back with her mask, her rosy coloured shield.
I’ve seen, on her real face, her sorrow unconcealed.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Celeste Chong-Cerrillo, instructional laboratory manager for the Department of Biological Sciences, and lab technician Sandra Rodriguez Cruz analyze microorganisms growing on a specialized growth medium and check for characteristic colony phenotypes. Photo by: Philip Channing
punish me
lash me with fiercest words
those only can enter my scars
I am a lachrymiform poem
I wander where the letters are
I hang my soul to the trees of metaphores
I need to dwell in this land of absence
Where my self is severed from my shapeshifting body
dead ego crawling creeping behind me
I have special scissors to cut the sighs
in strange cloud shapes
I am so cruel because I do all I can so they can't rain
and I run in the wood denying all pain
dancing with black ribbons in a dirty dress
my cold and aching feet keep all the memory
under the dark blue arches of my feet
I walked on all kind of tenderness till it choke or beg for me to let it go
the shadows behind the old tree murmurs how much she loves feeding me with these waves
of spiders and bitter splatters of thoughts who can stain your spirit for ages
I hate to have to listen to this song
alter sister alter alter these pages of emptiness
fill it feel it
make origami of these void of words
paper hurts
velum aches
alter sister
alter these heavens without a name
fill me feel me feed me need me
again
we'll keep on talking to the ceiling
and the mirrors will show us another story of thorns
that still have to be written(...)
This is a poem I wrote at school when I was 9 or 10 years old. We were given a title, and had to write a poem based on it. I remember the teacher liking it, and the headmistress. Several years later, the headmistress retired. My dad went to her retirement party, as he was on the board of governors at the school. She gave him this to bring home. Apparently she had liked it so much that she had framed it, and kept it in her office. I think I typed this out on the BBC computer we had at school, and it was printed on a dot matrix printer. I like it, although I cringe at my use of the word "surrealism"...must have seemed quite pretentious for a 9 or 10 year old to use a word like that, and I vaguely remember only using it as I had just learned the word and thought it would be impressive to use.
theatre / performance art / poetry / installation / readings / documentary / creative writing / music
Πολυχώρος Κέντρο Ελέγχου Τηλεοράσεων / TV Control Center
Κύπρου 91Α & Σικίνου 35Α, 11361, Κυψέλη, Αθήνα / 91Α Kyprou & 35Α Sikinou, 11361, Athens
Τ: (00 30) 213 00 40 496 || Mobile: (00 30) 69.45.34.84.45
Email: info@polychorosket.gr
Site: polychorosket.gr/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/kentron.el
Twitter: twitter.com/TVControlCenter
Flickr: www.flickr.com/photos/79921428@N03
YouTube: www.youtube.com/channel/UC0rOD1_SgjuNrkNmx59_sMg/videos
Broken and ripped wings, feathers disjointed,
I will not fall, but dip into the blue
All that’s in me the clouds will rain, anointed,
During the spring when all is green anew.
From where I’m kept, I watch up and below
Counting the suns go by and the clouds race
Against the lighting while it falls, aglow;
I feel the spider weave its silver lace.
I cannot run away, I do not need
To move from here, because I see for miles,
Because we Angels do not cry or bleed:
If one is lost, another rises and smiles.
No secrets up above, no fairy stories here:
Our life a new one each day, our span is of a sphere
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
You could not fall into this river twice
For other waters are ever flowing on
To you, over your wrists in water ice
Bending your limbs, the neck of a black swan.
Much learning does not teach good understanding
And so I learn what water has to say
Listening as it falls, while I’m pretending
To know the language used in its wordplay.
Time is a game some children play with skills
On a red checker board, with living pawns
That believing they’re kings, on their treadmills
Are working day by day, in livid dawns.
The roads uphill and downhill are one and are the same:
A detour on a crossroad at last is mine to claim.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
“Have you forgotten me?” this is her song.
A wasp jailed in a room, hitting the panes
Of the clean windows: her spinning wheel of gold
Respinning all the lanes we walked before.
A wasp jailed in a room, hitting the panes
She sings her song, her contralto a hum
Respinning all the lanes we walked before
My hand in hers, balancing the two worlds.
She sings her song, her contralto a hum
Sometimes I sing along, to let her go
- My hand in hers, balancing the two worlds -
But she’s trapped. She sings to be perceptible.
Sometimes I sing along, to let her go
As I know she preferred the open air
But she’s trapped. She sings to be perceptible:
When I open a window her buzz fades.
As I know she preferred the open air
I keep my windows spotless, brush off the cobwebs
When I open a window her buzz fades
And off she goes. She is back the second after.
I keep my windows spotless, brush off the cobwebs
Even in winter I never lock the door
And off she goes. She is back the second after
“Have you forgotten me?” this is her song.
(A pantoum by SiRiChandra)
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/