Emma+Hohenstein

Relief
Smooth and slowly it washed over me Like soap over dirty skin, it scrubbed painlessly. The anger peeled away from my body And slithered, discarded, to the floor.

Air, sweet and fresh, tasting like ice water, Cold and fresh, slipped down my throat. Waves of newness washed out The taste of dirt and blood. The taste of fear.

With scents of cleanliness and revival gusts of wind burst forth; Winds that had trudged for Years, pulling over ponds, Careening through canyons, Moving from malice.

My hands ached as they unclenched And my fingers extended towards the ground. An audible creak in my joints And the floor boards As I rock back on my heels. I release my spine, guilelessly Ridding my head Of Pain.

An orb of energy seemed to rise from my chest Leaving me light, released, clean, Relieved.

Ode to Letters
Shades of off-grey, smeared with oily finger prints, little squares pray for their chance at dropping hints.

Awaiting to do their part in words in sentences, in paragraphs, in books, in libraries, in cities, in countries.

They sit untouched for time and time again as aching fingers bypass them.

Even when thought escapes the mind the letters slave on, Finishing papers at 2 am, Confessing truths in wordy emails, Sitting stoically in declaration, Running smoothly in poetic muse.

Tiny blots of pixels Poised perfectly in pencil, Engraved in indigo ink, Scratched softly in sand.

They are Waiting to become Important.

Sonnet? --
I stand knee deep, a stream pulls past my feet. The chill envelopes sensory bare toes. The water bends around a curve to meet Legs standing firm, unshifting as it flows.

In darkness seeing only reflections Of distant lights unmoved but by the pool. How like a string of ice, small collections Of dancing stars and swimming, frozen cool.

The skin goes numb as rocks slide beneath The little toes on little feet, again. Cold soaks there into bones, chattering teeth And aching flesh. The legs escape the pain.

With towels drying shivers, there is sun On rocks, warmth in air, summer has begun.

~Emma Hohenstein.

I am very attracted to the description of sense as things that wouldn't typically be considered, such as something smelling sticky, or something tasting angry. I also often use fragments to make single moments or ideas more definite. In //Ode to Letters// I use this to create a growth, " in sentences, in paragraphs, in books, in libraries, in cities, in countries." Another common tool I use is to highlight small motions or moments, such as in //Sonnet? --// where I continuously talk about toes to express the cold. A problem I encountered with this set or writing is my distaste for editing. I found it hard to make changes to a lot of what I had written and opted, instead, to leave it as it was.

=LEWIS CARROLL =

THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER HE sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might; He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky; No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand-- "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A Pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach; We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said; The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat; Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low-- And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing-wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need; Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but, "Cut us another slice. I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick. After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but, "The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said; "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one.

LIFE IS BUT A DREAM BOAT, beneath a sunny sky Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July--

Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear--

Long has paled that sunny sky; Echoes fade and memories die; Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear, Eager eye and willing ear, Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die;

Ever drifting down the stream-- Lingering in the golden gleam-- Life, what is it but a dream?

BESSIE'S SONG TO HER DOLL ATILDA JANE, you never look At any toy or picture-book. I show you pretty things in vain-- You must be blind, Matilda Jane!

I ask you riddles, tell you tales, But //all// our conversation fails. You //never// answer me again-- I fear you're dumb, Matilda Jane!

Matilda darling, when I call, You never seem to hear at all. I shout with all my might and main-- But you're //so// deaf, Matilda Jane!

Matilda Jane, you needn't mind, For, though you're deaf and dumb and blind, There's //some one// loves you, it is plain-- And that is //me//, Matilda Jane!

Lewis Carroll, born Charles Dodgson, was a Victorian writer in the early 19th century. His famous story of //Alice in Wonderland//, and the sequel //Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There// were popularized by the whimsical, child-like story with almost frightening events and characters. Carroll had a sort of link to childhood throughout all of his work as displayed in his poem In the poem //Bessie's Song To Her Doll.// He writes from the perspective of a little girl talking her toy doll. //"//There's //some one// loves you, it is plain-- And that is //me//, Matilda Jane!" Carroll's 'obsession' with childhood was eminent by the work he did. Many of his poems were aimed towards or about children and in his early years he was a photographer. His main focus had been capturing children and childhood.

One particular girl, Alice Liddell, was a large focus of his photographs and later went on to be the protagonist of his most famous book. //Life Is But A Dream// Carroll writes about his process of writing //Alice in Wonderland// and how "She still haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies never seen by waking eyes". His love for everything juvinielle and fantastical is displayed in his writing, the content of which is focus greatly on children and dream-like concepts.

Along with this he had a very rhythmic and jovial way of writing. He gives a character to each poem he writes. The best display of both his whimsical style and schematic meter is in //The Walrus and the Carpenter//. "'The time has come,' the Walrus said, 'To talk of many things: Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing-wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings.'" The silliness he portrays and the rhythm present is typical of Carroll's works.