English and the beginning of Semester

Haven't had much time to write since exams began last year, but whats really cool is that I know got my first Creative Writing Course.

Scrivener!

Theres this great writing program called Scrivener, which is quite handy for aspiring writers out there.
http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.php?platform=win its a sort of organizer with templates to getyou started.

last 2011 north york writers meeting

Me and a couple members of the North York Writers meeting all went out and had dinner, at Boston's Pizza to commemerate the great time we had throughout the year. Nice conversaiton and the later coming together to share a page of our work. I think I did the best.

I learnt a new poetry: Ghazal

Had a stop over to the Doris McCarthy Gallery at my university after class. And lo and behold, its amazing. Everytime I go there I see something new, and half the time its Tysdal. Sadly I came just as the whole thing was ending. A poet named Sheniz Janmohamed, was doing a poetry slam of her book "Bleeding Lights". It was comprised of poetry called Ghazal which I hear is a quite prominent middle-eastern form of poetry.


http://www.tsarbooks.com/TSAR_BleedingLight.htm
If you're interested.

New change of plans

For those rare chaps who stumble upon this blog on any fancy whim, listen up. From now on due to literary reasons, and by literary reasons for my own writer career, nothing that I am planning to give to writer contests or journals are going to be put on this blog. its just going to be my dream posts, or just whimsical things in my head. On a better note for this I am going to write down something cool. There is this girl I met called Danielle, and I saw her, and had she been made up of ink and words I would have fell in love with her on the spot. So i tried to recreate her as much as possible.

She had walked out of the noir genre and right into my sights. It wasn’t the black coat which hung on her, in a way only a boyfriend or her brother could have shouldered her with. She could have nothing but pale bare skin underneath that coat and I wouldn’t have cared. It was her face, the way it made so gorgeously on that fair damsel face that made her such a literary character. It was good standard, that made her up. From the blue blue eyes, the full flat curvature of her forehead made rectangle by the cut of her blondish hair, which hung like fishing lines, drawing drapery on her.  Yet she wasn’t the femme fatale with the red dress, a flowery dalliance and needy. Her face put out her best she could offer, her hands offered what was sacrificed. Spindly knuckles, that stretched the skin, white, dirtied by each nick and blotch like the opposite of ebony. Yet she wasn’t that Spade assistant, who did things that women were good for, perky and pert with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on the balancing act. She was the character child between the distilled perspective of dame and doll that was that woman. She was the good woman, not adequate, nor gorgeous, nor simple. She did not have that beguiling detail, that little flash of her eyes of infinite colours or the way she smiled, making such details greater than others. No what she had was an independence away from all inherited traits. She was character independent of her own, that common goodness which brought stability for nothing of her was lacking. She was the last women that men married the widower of the too eager first. Not of her control just the characteristics of her persona. The kind of character I love.

The Best Canadian Poetry: A happy happenstance.

It was just after class, that I remembered we had a awesome gallery at our school called the Doris McCarthy Gallery. Having this weird thing with boundaries and playing with them, there by happening some poetry reading, which included a great prof I had Professor Tysdal. A great study on Canadian Poetry, though a quick question. What does Canadian Poetry made up of?
Answer: Bears, Guns, and Fruit.

Check out their blog at http://www.bestcanadianpoetry.com/

A rare bit of poetry I scrapped off my head

I don't write poetry often, I never liked writing it in highschool and mainly lived off of short haikus. However walking in the electrical fields near my house after dark was inspirational and it was too good an idea to be stopped by my don't-like-writing-poetry filter.

Do you feel unelectric when twilight doesn’t wave goodbye?

The Black Maple

It’s a feeling to feel unelectric when

The twilight has left the sky, without goodbye

But maybe memory will still be there to console

With nostalgia spooling over the escaping heat

And then maybe wish for what you once saw, to

Shuffling sickly through grey fields of flak noticing

Steel giants holding wires aloft are now

Wire held puppets, greatness gone for the night

Do you feel sad? To be late, for what was never

Promised, except for you, walking among once titans

But everything to be said in your solitude is quiet now

In the fading afterglows, waiting for the stars which  

Is barely heard from what is maybe

The whistling in your head