Archive for writing

06.1.2008

Posted in Music with tags , , , , , , , on June 2, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

How’s It Gonna Be (lyrics to the song by Third Eye Blind)

I’m only pretty sure that I can’t take anymore
Before you take a swing
I wonder what are we fighting for
When I say out loud
I wanna get out of this
I wonder is there anything
I’m gonna miss

I wonder how it’s gonna to be
When you don’t know me
How’s it gonna be
When you’re sure I’m not there
How’s it gonna be
When there’s no one there to talk to
Between you and me
Cause I don’t care
How’s it gonna be
How’s it gonna be

Where we used to laugh
There’s a shouting match
Sharp as a thumbnail scratch
A silence I can’t ignore
Like the hammock by the doorway we spent time in
tha swings empty
Don’t see lightning like last fall
When it was always about to hit me

I wonder how’s it gonna be
When it goes down
How’s it gonna be
When you’re not around
How’s it gonna be
When you found out there was nothing
Between you and me
Cause I don’t care
How’s it gonna be

How’s it gonna be
When you don’t know me anymore
And how’s it gonn be?

Want to get myself back in again
The soft dive of oblivion
I want to taste the salt of your skin
The soft dive of oblivion… oblivion
How’s it going to be
When you don’t know me anymore
How’s it going to be
How’s it going to be

05.31.2008

Posted in Drama with tags , , , , , on June 2, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

No Country For Old Men (opening lines from the film)

[first lines]
Ed Tom Bell: I was sheriff of this county when I was twenty-five years old. Hard to believe. My grandfather was a lawman; father too. Me and him was sheriff’s at the same time; him up in Plano and me out here. I think he’s pretty proud of that. I know I was. Some of the old time sheriffs never even wore a gun. A lotta folks find that hard to believe. Jim Scarborough’d never carry one; that’s the younger Jim. Gaston Borkins wouldn’t wear one up in Camanche County. I always liked to hear about the oldtimers. Never missed a chance to do so. You can’t help but compare yourself gainst the oldtimers. Can’t help but wonder how theyd’ve operated these times. There was this boy I sent to the ‘lectric chair at Huntsville here a while back. My arrest and my testimony. He killt a fourteen-year-old girl. Papers said it was a crime of passion but he told me there wasn’t any passion to it. Told me that he’d been planning to kill somebody for about as long as he could remember. Said that if they turned him out he’d do it again. Said he knew he was going to hell. “Be there in about fifteen minutes”. I don’t know what to make of that. I surely don’t. The crime you see now, it’s hard to even take its measure. It’s not that I’m afraid of it. I always knew you had to be willing to die to even do this job. But, I don’t want to push my chips forward and go out and meet something I don’t understand. A man would have to put his soul at hazard. He’d have to say, “O.K., I’ll be part of this world.”

05.30.2008

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on May 31, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Once I was girls and boys (a poem by Jean Valentine)

Once I was girls and boys—now

Now who I love are the wild-
worn drifters, not of the town—

cooking their supper out by the side of the road, kisses kisses

—And one especially, my mother’s
father, lost, glare blue and shaved,

at his own work—
unknown—

on your behalf        child, window
staring for you.

05.29.2008

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on May 31, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

The Easel of Mantegna (a poem by Kelly Grovier)

Empty-armed, like a soldier
waiting for the deposition
still to happen, watching

as the rough skin is stretched
across the squat square ribs
and stapled, scraped with a palette-

knife before the morbid under-
taking of the gesso and the paint;
or say instead you always were

inclined to play an active role
in this, our cruellest fiction:
empty-angled and pristine save

where you were brushed
with the death and cleansed
with the dizzy stench of spirit.

You are the awkward ladder,
the hallowed steps, the endless
air forever drifting through

the thin rafters of an unroofed
steeple—on or in or out of
whom the wide sound of resurrection

still remains for us a thing
we listen for in silence:
untolled, unrunged.

05.28.2008

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on May 28, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Prepare (a poem by Danielle Grace Warren)

Nilsa cleans the fish
grates the scales with the blunt edge of her knife—
those slim disks of light
flicking the silver—the bloodmarsh—of the bowl

& plating her arms like mail.
With her blade-point she crosses
the throat and the gullet—
fish-back firm in her palm

And like the Harpy she
tears out the gills—
with the crack of tooth extraction—
scoops out the ventral dark

& rinses in a basin of less red water—
the scales, so many coins.

05.27.2008

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on May 28, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

What We Get (a poem by Katie Ford)

I waited for a silence with its boards stripped off,
its sills pried away, all glasswork, all September light
with no latch. And when it came,

sometimes it was easy to think of nothing at all, have no question
at all, to sit and stare at the cracked, orange house next door
where the rodents scurried in and out, storing

green bulbs dropped from our trees—olive nuts, our choked-back eyes—
for the mild southern winter in which nothing dies,
only goes a way a while.

I wanted the far away. I wanted not to feel
caught. Look at the myrtle tree pulling up the yard.
Look at the belief I can’t live by, how it didn’t follow
but was here before me like the fields of tall, planted cane

where anything can be hidden. I think this is
what we get when we ask to be saved:
a land where everything grows, and there are many killings.

05.26.2008

Posted in Poetry, Quotes with tags , , , , on May 26, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Poetry (quotes by Robert Frost)

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.

The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom… in a clarification of life – not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.

05.25.2008

Posted in Music with tags , , , , , , , on May 26, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Hollow Man (lyrics to the song by R.E.M.)

‘ve been lost inside my head
Echoes fall off me
I took the prize last night
for complicated mess
for saying things I didn’t mean
and don’t believe

Believe in me
Believe in nothing
Corner me
And make me something
I’ve become the hollow man
have I become the hollow man I see?

I see this echoing
You had placed your trust in me
I went upside down
I emptied out the room in thirty seconds left
I can’t believe you held your ground

Believe in me
Believe in nothing
Corner me
And make me something
I’ve become the hollow man
have I become the hollow man I see?

I’m overwhelmed
I’m on repeat
I’m emptied out
I’m incomplete
You trusted me
I want to show you
I don’t want to be the hollow man

Believe in me
Believe in nothing
Corner me
And make me something
I’ve become the hollow man
have I become the hollow man I see?

05.24.2008

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 26, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

The Old Fools (an excerpt from the poem by Philip Larkin)

Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms
Inside your head, and people in them, acting.
People you know, yet can’t quite name; each looms
Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning,
Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting
A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only
The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning,
The blown bush at the window, or the sun’s
Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely
Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live:
Not here and now, but where all happened once.
This is why they give

An air of baffled silence, trying to be there
Yet being here.

05.23.2008

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on May 24, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

The Remains (a poem by Mark Strand)

I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.

My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.