CURIOUSLY
Alive Ajna Weaver
This is dedicated to the people who aren’t afraid to ask questions, because it is because of them that this world continues to grow and change, and because of them we all explore the answers.
This book is a reflection of my condition; I have this slight addiction, where I can’t help but attempt at capturing the colors people hide, the art of nature, and the patterns of daily life. The intent behind my poetry is mostly to express what is on my mind. Poetry is therapeutic for me; it allows me to release my emotions. I use the writing process as a way to recall memories, evoke dreams, and redirect my fears. I like to think that each and every moment is divine. Some call it optimism; I consider it sublimation— the act of taking something undesirable and transforming it into the creation of art: poetry. I have been writing poetry sporadically throughout my childhood and my style had always been very abstract, vague and detached from my familiar experiences. Writing habitually the past months to produce this work has made my poetry more personal, and over this course of time I have learned to tie my philosophical thoughts with tangible images. It has felt like a risk to me to talk about pain in my past and present relationships, but this risk has been rewarding for multiple reasons. Firstly, getting these parts of me on paper gives me new perspective into my own life, creating clarity and allowing for deeper introspection. Additionally, sculpting my thoughts into words and images allows me to share them with people, and in doing so I create connections. I have learned that a poem really isn’t poetry until it’s shared; there is this vital energy in the process of exchanging ideas, and I am addicted to it. These past few months of writing have been heavily inspired by my surroundings. Being encircled by the fresh air of the Redwood Tree Mountains and the rich Santa Cruz sea leave me incredibly encouraged to explore nature in much of my poetry. Other poets have also inspired me. I have been very influenced by e e cummings, because he has showed me that the structure of a poem can be such a fun tool for shaping meaning and demonstrating
uniqueness. I have grown up with the awareness and influence of Allen Ginsberg in my life, because he was my cousin and was very connected with a few of my close family members. His fearless individuality and freedom in his lifestyle and his poetry have inspired me to let my poetry openly reflect who I am. Jerome Rothenberg also influenced me. I read his A Book Of Witness: Spells & Gris-Gris during my writing process. His book consists of 100 poems, half written before the millennium and half after. His ability to capture a transition in time inspired me to try to capture the time of my growing up and the present essence of this time in my life: my 17 year old mind, my last year of high school, my eternal questioning of the state of our society and the connotations of our culture. Rothenberg’s poems were so strange and raw, they made me want to shock people and confuse people in a similar way with my own poetry. I am a poet, and I know I will always be. The thought of my very existence perplexes me; I question every breath I take and move I make—how am I affecting the world? How did I get here? What does it all mean? Curiously Alive, I keep my mind open and my hands ready to capture any moment that delights my quest for significance. I think being a poet is being in a certain mentality, engaging with life. Naomi Shihab Nye, another influential poet for me, encourages the belief that poetry is everywhere and it is up to us to live in a way to find it. I believe being a poet is simply going through life creating experiences, seeking beauty, and constantly capturing it all. I plan to always strive to look for meaning and magic in even the most mundane of objects. I plan to express my perspective. I plan to communicate the beauty and mystery I see all around me, whether speaking to crowd in an eccentric café or quietly entertaining a single friend with the casual conversation of my day. I am a poet, and I know I will always be.
STEPS & SILLHOUETTS A record of moments Spins on the floor, Making music under our toes & Tickling us with nostalgia. Let us remember Bare feet against pavement As we walked miles to nowhere For no reason, any time. Recall Sand in our soles And tired, salty bones For the sea, the sun. Shall we reminisce? Heels to the sky Our backs against grass For cloud watching, conversation. Fall has come Ripe from resting, Sleeping in our boots & tempting us with time.
THE LOST Generations’ motivations Fluctuate About half a century & The tides turn. Modest sweaters Greeted collars Convening around Appliances and gin— Everyone’s desire to fit in; They consumed. Shaken, misunderstood A colorful flash of time, Glimpses Of mind-altering mingling Mobs of musical mystics Dancing between wars & wages Technologic teleportation of ideas Pictures, words, ideas to Here, now. Generations’ motivations Fluctuate But what becomes of a society Where fitting in means standing out? Standards of beauty & bounty Still apply But to be bold & defy IS TO COMPLY. It is the modest sweater And sharp eye That lifts concern Into present youthful mind.
COMMUNICATION Tape my mouth shut And tie my hands to my mind. Let them explore these Abstract concrete sculpted Words, ideas I’m able to articulate, But in doing so, I speculate. Prop open my skull. Pull at my ears, So they remember Where we were. Rearrange my organs, So that I no longer perceive Right and wrong. Leave my eyes be, though— My vision is true. My witness, innocence It is in the act of translation, Others are lost. It is for them, I sacrifice. I speak.
AGAINST FEAR Eyes do speak, However far from loud. The heart made weak, From a mind too proud. Too strong to express Something bigger than itself, Accumulating stress, Like books on a shelf— Linguistic learning Shouldn’t shut the body down, Only mentally yearning, In silent words we drown.
CLAIMED BY CURIOSITY Imagining the taste Of exotic foods from smells Of spices in a little shop, You clasp the soft, worn pages Of an ancient book. Eyes racing The world, shrunken & seemingly Imaginary beneath clouds and The wing on an airplane, What has brought you here? The smell of strangers mingling With music With irresistible movement and Indistinguishable origin. Claimed by Curiosity The crunch of easy, cheesy Snacks available even when The mind is occupied. Your fingers against pen against paper Eyes heavy The glow of the computer screen Contrasting the darkness of a late night. Exhausted and distant You still smell the footsteps of dirt On a classroom carpet after the rain. What has brought you here? Words you don’t understand, But somehow know. Claimed by Curiosity A tang and burn in the throat, Because you wanted to try something new A body that isn’t your own, exploring Unfamiliar shapes and a soft texture. Eyes smoky You see words and patterns and Upside-down smiles. But it’s all a blur. The aroma of spilt drinks and body odor As dancing faces circle about you. What has brought you here? Slang you love to hate. Claimed by Curiosity
VIRTUOSITY Don’t forget the truth of the writer’s light: The crafting of intellect’s pure release, Illuminating senses beyond sight, Letters in words and envelopes for peace. What is music but a dreamer’s reply? Swimming in the air, breathing with the tide, A dance of the fingers that cannot lie. . . To willing ears, their secrets do confide. And of the painter, sweet colors set free Upon curved canvas and an open dream, Hands occupied, the mind can simply be Depicting themes far from what they may seem. Art is the cure for a problem unknown. Art is the cure for the love it has shown.
Modern Moments You take pictures of your friends and your surroundings and your possessions and yourself in hopes of seeing yourself the way others do; you think maybe capturing these things will show you what the world sees through you and because of you; you think maybe capturing these things will show you more than the reflection in the mirror or the memories in your mind ever will.
QUESTIONING YOUR SILENCE You said, when I was little, To call your name when my dreams Turned to nightmares And you would guide me back to day. When you told me this, did you know? Did you foresee that dreams Were the only place I would see you, A blurry figure with a face that never ages. Wherever you are, don’t worry. Your absence doesn’t cling to me— It propels me forward, when I think of it. And makes me stronger when I don’t. It’s all perspective; your nonexistence isn’t in my life, It’s within yourself. A misguided mind, Empty eyes, and misplaced memories. All I know is that you wander, but do you wonder… Is the child I was still the image of your dreams? Is the path I’m on one you would ever venture through— Not to pursue the heights I’m reaching towards, But to witness my ascent? Catch me if I fall? Dad, to my eyes you are dead, lost in the sky. But my mind knows there’s life still to be lived. I question why you can’t gather your garbage And burn it to light the way. I can’t promise you understanding, or anything but The fact that if you do think of me— You’re wrong. I am everything you’ve Never imaged possible.
NATURAL SELECTION Sometimes (just sometimes) It becomes quite the challenge, Differentiating between what you love And what loves you. Temporary sacrifice and superficial elevation Will never amount—let alone compare— To the constant bliss of our Unmasked uninhibited unstructured Hard work, and daring adventure. The mist in the morning is illuminated Through the redwood leaves within The parallel rays of light —you too can drift and shine. The hummingbird darts and dashes Collecting sweet, succulent nutrients Radiating with strength and fragility —you too can steer yourself and succeed.
SYNAESTHESIA We bang wooden spoons on pots Steal drums that sound like brown sugar Music muffled in my mouth & Pouring out of your fingers your family feeds your soul I see now, the sense in how quietly you speak How you smell of laundry and tea How you look at me— Silent and loud I suppose I’m a mystery Compared to how I easily picture you growing up In a circle such as this Cadenced ambiance where If you want to say something you have to say it twice but Music is more efficient than Casual conversation— We can taste smiles And sushi rolls & surprises Of the day, Of all these days.
TRYING TO COLLECT I long to taste innocence again It would satisfy me— Mingled in my chap-stick Or baked with eggplant for dinner. I’ve forgotten what it feels like, To delight in the feeling of not knowing, Surrendering to simple possibilities, Touching fear like he was a friend. A child I was, folding the corner of this page. I’m surrounded by open books and frayed ends, Trying to collect the words all at once. Is it too late? My eyes are yet soon tainted.
ODE TO PASSING CLOUDS A morning without the sun, Is a morning that lasts all day. A bit of a dream, An abandonment of time, While the sky laughs at our Routines and wristwatches. Young eyes wander upwards, Painting palaces in the air. Shade cradles the lonesome And loved alike. If forever this cumulus life Were to last, The rolling white hills And plush spiraling staircases, A stagnant breath, Would signify our demise.
FAITH IN SHADOWS I believe more In a wavering whisper Than an unshakeable voice, If it is different Than anything spoken before. I believe in the roots That no one notices, Deep beneath dry soil Balancing the branches above. I’ll believe without hesitation In the millions of moments That make up a day— Flipping pennies heads up The seed planted purposefully Every dedication page The speech writer’s late night & one ant’s journey to the sea See? Seeing isn’t believing. The surface breaks beneath our feet.
LOST, SHEETLESS They Lay entwined, their bodies Clasped fingers, chests rising and falling Gently forgetting ends and beginnings The window rested wide, open fell Moon light, stars simply reflecting Playfully pulling at her wandering eyes “What are we?” She drew slightly away eruptions of cosmic dust danced beneath her skin and falling glass made music between her dreams; she pictured galaxies of dying candles and fresh colors unfamiliar to her bones; tea cups of sun drenched dirt and seeds of cobalt cloth wrapped her feet and tied her to her thoughts; everything faded away and nothing soon emerged “What are we?” she repeated, more slowly running, her fingers down his arm He buried his response into her side, One word escaped—“falling”
I AM RECOGNIZED I am a celebrity, And I am this celebrity’s Biggest fan and worst critic. I wasn’t born a star, The limelight developed In the most subtle of waves. The piano keys on early mornings Made my fingers well-liked By the crowds in my mind. The burnt cookies, an unsalvageable black, Caused an uproar for the media That writes journal reviews in my dreams. The mirror on the wall, The grades being sent away, Poems, outfits, friendships, hardships, Every rented house I’ve said goodbye to And every journal piled on my shelf Have showed me who I am. I am famous. I am famous not to the sun That greets me every day, Or even to the people that know my name my story. I am famous to the forgotten details And to the observer behind my eyes.
WAITING AT THE GATE Everyone is a traveler Within the walls of an airport Whether they seem it, or not. The man sitting alone At the over-priced “restaurant” Drinking a glass of over-priced wine The worldly woman Whose ethnicity is unknown But the brand names on her, well known The old folks With neat, crisp socks And tired eyes and messy hair The children Consumed by their hunger For the sugar of electronic escape The young businessman Whose hopeful face is reflected On the screen of his overused laptop Why is it that these strangers, companions, Won’t look each other in the eyes? Their bodies travel—but what of their minds?