“So Long Marianne”

Come over to the window, my little darling,
I’d like to try to read your palm.
I used to think I was some kind of Gypsy boy
before I let you take me home.
Now so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began
to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.

Well you know that I love to live with you,
but you make me forget so very much.
I forget to pray for the angels
and then the angels forget to pray for us.

Now so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began …

We met when we were almost young
deep in the green lilac park.
You held on to me like I was a crucifix,
as we went kneeling through the dark.

Oh so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began …

Your letters they all say that you’re beside me now.
Then why do I feel alone?
I’m standing on a ledge and your fine spider web
is fastening my ankle to a stone.

Now so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began …

For now I need your hidden love.
I’m cold as a new razor blade.
You left when I told you I was curious,
I never said that I was brave.

Oh so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began …

Oh, you are really such a pretty one.
I see you’ve gone and changed your name again.
And just when I climbed this whole mountainside,
to wash my eyelids in the rain!

Oh so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began …

Most poems ever written are about love. I feel that this poem shows how much we change and grow throughout each relationship. Especially when we are young and everything is new, and has a greater impact. Even though most people don’t stay with their first boyfriend/girlfriend it doesn’t mean they stop completely caring for that person. We all change with time, even more so when we are young, it is natural to grow apart from someone we used to feel so close to. We might start to feel tied down “I’m standing on a ledge and your fine spider web /is fastening my ankle to a stone.” Resentment is natural after a break up, however with patience there will be a time we can say that “it’s time that we began /to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.”

Oh Me! Oh Life!

Oh me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the
foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish
than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the
struggle ever renew’d
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I
see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me
intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring–What good amid these,
O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here–that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

by Walt Whitman

Ever since I first saw “The Dead Poets Society” this became one of my favourite poems. I find that not much has changed since Whitman wrote this poem. At school, on the bus, one can easily find what would be called wasted potential. It’s sad to see so many “eyes that vainly crave the light”, even if we, ourselves sometimes fall into that, the comfort of being complacent. Whenever I read this poem, I feel a urge to do better, to start contributing.

I wrote this poem for my grandfather, who has alzheimer’s, I used him as an inspiration, how calm he always was and the positive outlook he had on life. As one can see by the title the poem is written as a small story, through which I try to convey the importance of not getting lost on the hardships that are presented to us, but to remember that it is all just part of life. Of not just focusing on the beginning and end, but fully enjoy the in-between. They say the devil is in the details. I disagree, I think happiness is.

I am Portuguese
No I don’t speak with olives in my mouth
I don’t come from a province of Spain
I may speak Spanish but it is not my mother tongue
I don’t think only about soccer,
Which by the way is football, not soccer, football.
I’m quiet and don’t get mad easily
I’m not super Catholic or conservative
But I do believe the Discoveries were our glorious times
For how many countries can say they had half of the world for themselves?
We have the best beaches in Europe,
Yes Spain, be envious.
Fado is the most soulful music there is
We are great lovers and loyal to friends and family
I am Portuguese and I’m proud of it!

I haven’t lived long
Yet I don’t feel young.
I’ve never given myself an age
Never believed it was important to do so,
One should do one’s best regardless.

Do you not recall how proud you were
The first time you spelled your name?
Grasping the pencil tightly in your hands
Each letter a different size,
All the lines shaky and imperfect
But there it was,
Your name, for everyone to see.
Don’t wait until you are grown
For each accomplishment, sit back, close your eyes and enjoy.
Be proud.

Even in such a short life I have lived measureless moments,
Moments that made me grip my heart,
Wobble my legs until they met the ground,
Bite my lip until it bled
Moments like when someone leaves you,
And all you can remember from that person
Is the vibration in your leg, that continuous beeping sound,
The phone call that brought its end.
The apparent vertigo and nausea that followed
The disbelief and unimportance of everything around you.

I am a young person
But I have lived,
I know the lives of so many who have lived before me
And those who live around me
I am young
But I feel old.

We have all lived through a time when we felt ignored, that our voices weren’t heard. Many of us feel that for us to be heard we first have to create a name for ourselves, which sounds funny for how can we do that before people listen to us? I believe one doesn’t have to wait until one has a masters to have something to share, we all have unique experiences, old or young we all have something to share.

Hands clasped together in plea
I looked down to the dry, rough earth
Beneath my feet.
What would be of us now?

Red, scarred skin
Was the back of his head,
Bruised and callous were his hands
Evidence of his way of life.

Dust clanged to his worn-out jeans,
His hands grasped tightly to his hat,
Head bowed, eyes lost in space
He had no answer but much shame.

Hands clasped together in plea
I looked down to the dry, rough earth
Beneath my feet.
What would be of us now?

Bruised and calloused were my hands
Worn and dusty was my dress
A poor maiden I was
A poor maiden and not much else.

“Brother” I had said quietly
“I am not one of many dreams,
This is home, why must we leave?
What will be of us now?”

Hands clasped together in plea
I looked down to the dry, rough earth
Beneath my feet.
What would be of us now?

Lighting can easily influence an atmosphere. In the piece “The Angelus” I could almost feel the heat retained from the long day making the air thick, adding to the clear gloom that fell onto the two people in the painting. Their heads being bowed and the sterile looking soil only comes to strengthen that feeling. The distance between the man and the girl led me to believe that although there is proximity between the two there’s no romance. Which is why in the ballad I depict them as siblings.

The thick thorns cut through her flesh
Nothing new, she had expected them.
Her arms were up, surrounding her face
In a moment of revolt, she put them down
And contemplated the consequence.

“Just a bit longer and the path will clear”
She silently whispered to herself.

Sweat trickled down her face.
“Only horses sweat my love,
You glow under the sun”
Her father used to say.

She held tightly to the wooden shaft he gave her
The path was uneven and her breath cut short
She was glad to be able to lean on it,
To trust it, as she had before.

She wondered how long the path was
But only time would tell.

This poem represents the life of a young girl, focusing mainly in her younger years. All youth goes through hardships, some more than others. The girl in the poem feels them sharply and hopes for an easier future. In the poem I try to hint that she also tries to release herself from some the beliefs that have been born into her. Still she knows she still has the support of those who brought her up, she can count on them. Her life is still at its beginning and there’s no telling on how the future will look.

I am from the torching sun,
The scratching and cutting in my legs,
Arms and face.
From the soothing voice
I relied on for all knowledge saying:
“Walk faster, and it will soon end.”

I am from the countless nights,
Searching for the long gone breeze
The long days, listening to the same voices,
Smiling and nodding
Accepting that this is the way to go
The way to be.

I am from the “good-bye old ways”
And the “hello new continent”
I am from the cardboard boxes
Piled up in the corner
Always hiding the one thing I need.

I am from the questions unanswered
The questions repeated
Wonder, shame and longing
Mistaken once too often.

I am from the hot granite
My home and oldest friend.

As a teenager I still lack experience in many things which others have had years and years of practice. Writing is one of them. I enjoy it, and like most people I am confronted with its use everyday, be it when I get home and answer my e-mails, in the bus as I text my friends and post a new status on Facebook or in my bedroom while doing my homework.

As a child I recall my excitement the first time I wrote a letter. First I made a draft then carefully and slowly, with my best handwriting I copied it to a fresh piece of paper that had soft pencil marks so my lines would be straight, that naturally I erased at the end. I could barely contain my happiness as my mother even allowed me to lick the envelope. Now I can’t even recall the last time I sent a letter. It’s probably a good thing though, because even when I’m careful most people cannot read my handwriting. Nowadays all I send are e-mails. Once in a while I have to e-mail my teachers, maybe because I’m going to be away or I need an extension on a project. I always dread those e-mails. Is my tone right? Are my sentences too long? Was I polite enough? All while fighting my natural urge to put a smiley face at the end.

Sending texts is easier, it’s fun. One can play with the sound of the words, pretend to have an accent, sound tough or cool. My dad once asked me why I liked to text so much. I had never thought of it before. I told him it was because it gave me more time to think of an answer, made it easier to win an argument. I can put as many exclamation marks as I want to get my point across. I love how I my phone suggests words to me as soon as I start typing them, I’ve always hard a hard time remembering the correct spelling of words. Does beginning have one g or two? How many i’s are there in definitely?

In school I’m taking several English courses including Creative Writing. Every week I have to push myself to the limits of my imagination. Everyone I know always says that the most important thing is to get something down. Anything. Then you just work from that.
I can not do it. If I don’t have the perfect idea, a perspective on the assignment I believe no one else has thought of before, I can’t write. Naturally that means that every time I get a new piece of writing I have to do, it starts with me staring at the blank page before me for hours.

Writing can be one of the most wonderful things anyone can do. You can pour all your emotion into it, there is never any limit to what one can say and create. As everything, it also comes with practice. The more you write the better you get. You just have to want to write. Everyone has something to say, writing is just a way to share it.

]]> http://www.marianagorjao.com/archives/my-writing-challenge/feed http://www.marianagorjao.com/archives/days-to-come http://www.marianagorjao.com/archives/days-to-come#comments Mon, 21 Sep 2009 01:08:02 +0000 Mariana Gorjão http://www.marianagorjao.com/?p=185

Days that passed
Days to come
I remember thee
As I go on.

The Summer burned my face
But I smiled to it.
For I knew, it wouldn’t
Burn me for long.
When fall came
I was far away
Preparing for a cold
Like I hadn’t felt before.
Winter was beautiful
A sight I thought
I would never see.
Spring was a relief
For even the beautiful
Was too cold for longing.
Then Summer came again
And brought with it sadness
On my true words
For not even the Summer
Could burn me no more.

Days that passed
Days to come
I remember thee
As I go on.

As I write
And remember
How we laughed
And played
I feel tears
Coming to my eyes,
I try smiling
Thinking how
Happy those times were
But I can’t stop thinking
How sad it is
To not have a
Favorite place
Anymore.

For those who fought
And showed me another way
I thank thee
And fighting I remain.

In this world
A lot I have learned
But as I follow my way
I see many who have lost theirs.
I remember then,
The suffering in crawling
Lost in our own mist.
With thin chances of being found
For no one seems to see us.
As my time is short
And I feel the end coming
I can only hope
To have made some difference.

Tired from fighting
Begging for rest.
Should it be heard?
Or waiting
Should he remain?
For brave he was
And brave he is.
Why should he wait
Still standing tall
Begging to fall
In the eternal rest
That awaits us all.

For what is eternal
And for what is not
For what in life you can find
And in death you will lose.
Can you still stand
Day after day
Striking to obtain
What will never
Be truly yours?

As I walk in the city
Many pass through me
I see them all bumping
At each other.
A few whisper sorry
Others blame the other
Some don’t even seem to notice
But none looks back
All so busy
They never really care
For they all know
They will never see
The other again.

It’s cold,
I can’t breath
My lungs are burning
But I feel none to scared
Or sad.
It had to come anyway
Why not now?
I don’t feel my lungs burning anymore.
I feel light
Almost like floating
I take my first big breath
And realize
I am not drowning anymore.

I start hearing voices
I feel a weight  on my chest.
I wish it would stop
It hurts so much!
And then, I felt that smell
The smell that always made me feel
More sick than I already was.
It was then I realized.
I hadn’t died,
I was back at the hospital.

My hideout
I shall never find
For I once spot it
Then lost it
Without ever coming
Back on track.
For what I have once lost
I may remain hidden.