Biography of Ayn Timmerman
If you read this you will judge me. That is pretty sad, but reality.
I'm a painter by trade, but when I started flunking chemistry at college last year, I started writing poems to stay awake. Its a good way to capture the feeling in a moment, and to record what happens in life. I am addicted to reading, and my best friend (a real live writer/poet) re-introduced me to poetry at some point during last year. Until I met him, I thought poets were extinct. Now I know better, and enjoy reading and writing poetry. I'm leaving this shithole State University and heading off to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago to study painting and writing, so hopefully I can keep the poety going. Wish me luck.
My favorite poets are Gary Snyder, Jim Morrison, Arthur Rimbaud, Jim Carroll, William Butler Yeats, Nick Flynn, Allen Ginsberg, Gergory Corso, Jack Kerouac, and Henry D. Thoreau (Who wrote poetry before Walden) .
I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I do writing them. I've got a notebook full, so I try to cull it down to what other people might like also. Most are themed either about human nature, real nature, college, the creative process, or random things that actually happen to me.
Ayn Timmerman's Works:
Ayn Timmerman Poems
A Quiet Mind
Lift up the cover and look at the things scattering, hidden, secret things; the way insects
Poem On Anger
I shake a fist in defiance of anything stood for anything false,
A Park In Paris
Grey skies, grey water in canals. Bare branches turning the barest of green
To The Reader
To the reader of this poem- a face in the mass, with stony gaze, or hollow eyes, or blessed with a far-away look;
With a flick of a switch I discovered the entire world had jumped without me.
Broken soul glass works the shards in deep a guarded heart forgets how to beat in the
Japanese beetle lace hangs as delecately as moth-eaten curtains shrouding the field
The Death Of A Small Town
They're putting up a Wal-mart at the edge of town, adding to the sprawl and softening the town limits with a slab of asphalt- this is no one person's fault, this is progress,
Push your hand in, to feel the soft spot white at the edges, mold in the damp
One hundred years from now, we will probably all be ash drifting across the landscape.
On that day, the trees will lean gladly into the axe, birds will have the
I. Pick up on the thread, follow it from end to end, leading in to a wild place
Yeah, I Still See It.
Why do we dream if our thoughts mean nothing? Why do we cling if
I am stuck in a daily circle, a routine that limits my energy since I am a part of a cycle conforming to
Push your hand in,
to feel the soft spot
white at the edges,
mold in the damp
fending off tears,
and something else.
Push too hard
and break the barriers,
feel the rank internal mush
and clench it in your palm-