Old Stories, New Adventures

As you grow older you realise how important these articles are because we live in a culture that tell us repeatedly that success comes early.

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

By Colby J. BarakPhoto_ColbyJBarak

Most have heard the story of Grandma Moses, a painter who found success in her 70s. Likewise, Laura Ingalls Wilder was in her 70s when her daughter Rose convinced her to write down her stories of growing up in a Little House on the Prairie. In fact, you can Google “late bloomer artists,” and get almost eight million hits, although some sites think success in your 30s is “late.” These anecdotes and statistics are little comfort, however, when you are the one sitting in a classroom full of people the same age as your children, trying to learn something new.

This is how I still feel sometimes in graduate writing classes, which I began taking a few years ago for fun. Sometimes there were other “older” students, but when I found out some were there as part of an outreach program to senior citizens, I went…

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Happy 10 years to me =D

10 years in WordPress =D Thank Allah Almighty! Not everyone can write this long =)

I am happy whatever I have written here. Writing has been there for me during VERY troubled times. And, I am happy to have had it. It makes me so happy to know I can still write and that it has the same meaning to me as it did then as it does now =)

I wanna continue on writing for hopefully another 10 years! =D

everyday sighs

Why am I sad? Because I wish to exist
in the microcosms of ordinary pleasures
where the everyday is not passaged by
the parties of food and wine. Where I know
a quite labour of reading your fine mouth
over a cup of coffee and the satin taste of tea

I do not belong but I am no imposter
I am no fugitive but I refuge behind clouds
no venegeful storm but I carry water

I do not profess to know anything other
than the incomplete dictionary of me
will you meet me behind the sphyx layered
of time and travel?—

beauty in you

I will bridge you with the birch
between our tongues; cloister
my speech as though it was
a language you know and I toast
yours as my own.

lexicon our saliva and nodes
and finger my spine with yours
do you see the wetting of my eyes
do you know how to rotate yourself?
The slickness of appetite
rouses up in my belly
and throat

which offers itself as cups to drink
do not mistake this as obedience
and I will not mistake yours
as entropy.

Tied to the larynx
met with the hungry mouth
of dialogues as the sexes unite
an acrhway cathedrals its way up
towers its way down and the minarets
lay the tone.

coupled in between our lashes
we kiss uncontrollably.—

Perseverent

I haven’t written
And, I haven’t chosen to be written;
though I am written in leaves and blood
and the mud — snapping with teeth
like the branches of the woods

Oh, youth, you made me feel fresh

And immortal

Not a serving of flesh cased behind a bone
and all the bone is chewing to break out
to now what it cannot know, now

I wanted so much to know what it was like to write
to have known if I had written anything of any value

I am writing as I will always write
clutch my blood next to the quilled ink
sparrow along the ridges and dominant the
lull of the breath; stay passive at the apex of the muscle

I will knead into me a belonging in poetry
as the bread knows the yeast and the sky knows the sun.—