"bookish" poems
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Out of the Palace, into the Queen's
Garden. *'One that could rival King
Paul's Luciuscemian Gardens,'* she
thinks as she walks under the high
cream arches and Grecian columns
with ivy vines coiling around them.
She stands on the white marble
steps. *'Truly, this is the Queen
Mother's finest work yet...'*
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The young Queen Lyn spares no
expense in expanding her library,
filling it with leather-bound books
and scrolls, new and old. She spares
no expense when it comes to her
love for herbal teas, near and far...
But her mother?
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The Queen Mother is known for
her keen eye, fast wits, bladed
tongue and for her love for fashion,
gardening and a frugal nature.
*'Like frugal mother, like bookish
daughter!'* Ainhara can not help
but to chuckle.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She watches as the gardeners trim
the mint-green grass, beech hedges
and shrubby. But what Ainhara
marvels most are the flowers.
Pots of lavender and roses,
rosemary and mint are placed
around carefully, by the white
lilies, orange lilies, yellow lilies,
flushing lilies.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She notices that green lilies and
blue lilies; the gifts from Queen Yidna;
plants native to her Puhan Kingdom,
are in full bloom. They remind her of the
colours of the Seas that she, Esshi and Lyn
had sailed when they visited Queen Yidna.
*'Puhan has the calmest seas of the brightest
colours,'* She recalls how her Queen was
happy and relaxed then...
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
Secret wish
stands hidden
in
cliché riddled
green patch
this neon bird
mocks
red capped
garden dwellers
serenely seated
bookish girl
half-dead fern
leans towards
hot pink beacon
salvation bent
crescent moon
casts
feathery palm shadows
with curved arms
against the
bamboo fence
lifting
earthbound desires
skyward.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Life and its shade
canvased by god
God made it beautiful
But we are
adding shades of greys and black
enveloping the sky
turning fog into smog
Putting solute
in water bodies
that are not dispersible
making it turbid
mislaying its transparency
water is not pure anymore
Deforestation
converting the forest
into the barren land
beautiful landscapes are mechanized
by man
buildings and more building
watching stars sounds bookish
nature is losing its charm
Emotions are blowing over
relationships changing
accepting changes
changing our own self
mirrors are showing
someone else image
and asking you
who you are?
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 12:50 AM UTC
square-up marys,
It’s junior year, in the ivie,
we’re gambling for big-chips.
so gambate, do-it-big!
It's time, buck-up or labron.
if you bunny rouble
homeskillets will hook-it-up
lovems juju
.
.
*slang…
girlogue = conversation between girls that guys can’t understand
square-up = get ready
marys = bookish and lovable girls of wit and looks
ivie = ivy league
big-chips = high stakes, high risk
gambate = Japanese word: 'Try your best!!'
do-it-big = take things to the next level
buck-up = rise to a challenge, to do something others are unable to
labron = fail miserably at the last second
bunny rouble = have trouble
homeskillets = friends
hook-it-up = help you out
lovems = sending you love
juju = good luck*
.
.
(*Get ready, you bookish and lovable girls of wit and looks,
it’s junior year, in the ivy league,
and we’re gambling for high stakes.
So try your best, take things to the next level!
It's time, to rise to a challenge and do something others are unable to
or fail miserably at the last second.
If you have trouble
your friends will help you out
I'm sending you love, good luck.*)
Jan 4, 2024
Jan 4, 2024 at 1:52 PM UTC
A body and soul stretched to extremes
Yin and yang
The most and least of both worlds
Opposite sides of the coin
Cleansing and pure
Tainting and pitch
Light and dark
Of the purest white
And the most tainted black
Earth and air and fire and water and aether
Sun and rain
The brightest and hottest fires of sun
Beating and firing heat from the bottomless flames of hell
Breaking into a cold sweat without cease
The flaming evil of health
Rain and sun
The darkest and iciest rain of clouds
Pouring and drenching from the endless pools of heaven
Chilling into a cleansing soak never long enough
The freezing good of pain
The contradictions, the back and forth
The intelligent confusion
The stupid direction
The leather and biker tough guy
The shy and bookish sweet girl
The false realities and true lies
Love in strangers and indifference in close friends
Hope in troubled times and loss in peaceful
Banding together the unlikelies
Separating the probabilities
Pain in love and happiness
Contentment in fear and despair
The sound of one hand clapping.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
It's a shame how you must have aspired me to become the child you always wanted
in the months and days before I was born,
before reality had its chance to construct the person I would become.
when the happy news was first heard of a new child in a new world,
who would be brave and cheerful and kind
and above all sporty,
the kind that would make an impression,a born leader and dutiful follower
a proud patron of the family name.
We would have much in common and I would remind you of yourselves
at such an impressionable age
and I would achieve all you had hoped for.
But perhaps this is the great tragedy that parents stumble upon in this constant letdown of a life.
You were lucky that I was an easy child,never keeping you up at night and never causing trouble,
but the fact that I was lazy,introspective,morbid,
cowardly,unattentive,unhelpful,bookish,obsessive,
uninvolving and unsatisfied
made me realise how much I must have let you down.
I sigh too much,I read too much,I'm so full full of sarcasm that I cannot take anything seriously,
I never want to be the focus of attention,I never eat enough,I dont care about trends,
I dont care if people comprehend me.
I must be impossible to love.
Thats why I have decided to never have children.
They could never be what I would expect of them.
I could never love someone who I was ultimately responsible for,
someone who I could indoctrinate into my own idea of happiness.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
What is the thing in us who love to pluck the strings of our imaginations
and try to create resonance with the words that float to the page. To create something from the
nothingness .
We paint our pictures in tortured hues or opaque clutters of expression. At times the palate will surprise even we who mix and stir and strive to find a unique shade or texture. We trawl and dredge and send up pretty balloons in hopes they will return with answers. Well I do
I am odd in that regard. I think all who strive to express , to be heard, to hear to see to grasp and
be ambushed by sudden revaluation. To make sense of it all. to look deep within and waft on the wind at once are kin.
What is it for you?
To wash away pain.
To turn your face to the pelting rain and feel the value of your existence.
What is it for you?
To say the things your mouth cannot express, untie your fettered tongue.
Do you dream in color.
Does your poets voice speak to you in hushed tranquil tones
or rumble and stutter or whisper softly from dank and dusty places.
What is it for You.
A way out of your suppression if not expression.
The rubbing of a soothing salve over the aches and pains endured.
The betrayal acknowledged. The Key finding purchase in the rusted lock. The key falling from your hands in the pitch dark once again as you wake up and find yet another door to open.
What is it for you. For me it is validation that my mind is unique as the neurons fire and
speak a language spoken not by many. We are seekers. You and I.
I do not fit the profile. I am rough and hard my facade has bonded with my skin. But look within. I am bookish and brutal.Loving and glacial. Witty but slow. Volatile but pensive . A walking talking conundrum. I do it just to **** withum.
Why do you love poetry.
What leaks out of you mind.
What goes in.
What is it ?
.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
“The nerdish image”
They say I am a nerd, they say I am a geek,
I shouldn’t care, I shouldn’t bother but I am done being meek…
I am sure that the nerds do not really bunk,
And in case they do, they most definitely don’t flunk.
I am wearing large specs,I am holding a fat book,
But it still doesn’t call for you to throw that look,
Don’t be judgmental, please don’t assume,
To me it’s so unfair, every time you presume.
I might look bookish, I can’t cat-walk,
I am reserved, I am shy, I do not really talk,
I am no fashionista, but my deepest concerns aren’t books,
brands, clothes, shoes, yes, I care about my looks,
okay,Call me a nerd, call me a geek,
I do not really care, won’t complain, won’t speak,
But behind my back, everything that you talk,
It still hurts sometimes, coz it sounds like a mock,
Good marks, good grades, oh! I want them always,
But they aren’t always mine, if you haven’t noticed, just in case,
“Calling me a nerd isn’t the real concern,
It’s the fact that I am not, and I wish I had been one.”
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
Not going to lie and say I love you
because I don't, probably
but I want you,
oh do I want you
and deserve you
yes, deserve
I deserve you.
A girl so soft
so sweet
sweet loving tender
beautiful
Librarian girl
like you.
Yes, I deserve
deserve a night, a chance, a moment
with those long
long legs
writhing wrapping smoothly
luscious lip *******
gasping
moving moving kissing
pulling clasping sticky sweet honey
coated candid book girl
oh do I want
me my skin to yours
bones and nerves tingling
tongue holding tasting
maybe
just needing a chance
a moment
a night
a lurid ***** fantasy
with precious lovely
bookish you.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
If I were the principle of my school
I would bring some changes to the rules
A school where every child can dare
To think freely and be their true selves
I would give the a problem to solve
By themselves.A chance to evolve
To grow., with all the senses involved
I don't want parrots belching memorized words
Students aren't sheep, teachers aren't shepherds
I would want them to live in an open world
Where they can question everything under the Sun
Bookish knowledge is not all
There's more to life than Newton's laws
We are artists, us human not robots
Scientist, philosophers, why should we be restricted to some selected thoughts
I would want basic life skills
To be taught to every pupil
So that when they leave these gates
They aren't left confused and dazed
We must teach them empathy
Theory gives way to practicality
So that when they got no help
They can think for themselves
Don't sacrifice the individual
At the altar of peer-pressure
These would be my principles
If I were my school's principal.
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 12:19 AM UTC
I want that
Gorgeous bookish moment
With you
I want to sit on the roof
Of a cozy important house
Under the stars
Having... god knows what
Kind of deep discussion
(Though it may have been had a million times before,
this time it's ours)
I want to see you
Silhouetted by the light
Of the moon
While your expressions contort
As you share a heartfelt story
With me
(That you think I don't know)
I want to be comforted
By you
Even if it uncomfortable
On the rough rooftop
When you think,
Wow she needs a hug
(Because I do
If it's from you)
I want to see
Your eyes glow
Brilliant in the darkness
When you emphasize a point
Staring at me
Feeling the strength of our
Connection
(Even if it's guided by
The general ambiance)
I want to hear
The breeze sing
With your words
Their importance far from lost
Sending shivers down my spine
As you lean intently
Into or toward me
Just kiss me
Please
Under that night sky
Knowing well
That just one kiss
Changed everything for us
Please
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 1:31 AM UTC
Have you ever milked a goat?
well, I have not
But I've read about it in books
Before this bookish knowledge was bestowed upon me
I had mistaken goat udders for faucets
Imagine my surprise upon opening a book,
to see that the milk must be extracted by hand, by machine
but not once was the handy faucet turned
so I ventured to a goat farm
and there I was mistook
for the most crooked of humans
apparently I had that look
in my humble opinion
I was merely forsook
for the look of a nooked crook
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
Walking a lonely road, stepping over the dry leaves;
Waiting for the sunset, to leave me alone with my thoughts;
Observing the reality is not simple, but feeling it is even harder;
This always follow a change, when u feel theory in real;
For every stand u took, for every right u did;
For every step you took back, for every voice that was suppressed;
A laughing comment may be the reason, or a smile or a ignorance;
Good’s became good joke, deeds became dramas;
Prophets preach love everyone, reality ends in loving ourselves;
No sorry no thanks, rude a person becomes without acknowledgements;
Follow your heart, stop taking free advices, ironical part we do;
Edison said 'value in disaster, start all over again', how hard it is to do;
Ideal is a word that has no practical example;
Even Mahatma Gandhi was only close to ideal;
Resistor to transistor, ideal behaviour has bookish domains;
And what a irony, even great of greatest are running towards this misconception;
Fooling someone is an upcoming talent;
Your last laugh, was it on a ***** act or someone loss??;
Listening advice is a harder job than firing suggestions;
Selfish is a attribute necessary to adopt;
Opening book on a regular day sometimes become crime;
Everyone pretends to be last day hero;
Hardly one dares to take a stand, for someone unknown, for public benefit;
Forgetting, one could be in same place;
Here conscience becomes a vital part;
Doing what it allows, or changing it accordingly;
Does varying conscience have a value? Choice enters in play;
Choice to be what you should be or what you are accepted to be;
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.
I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.
Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.
This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between
The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age
And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.
too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
"who taught you to look so good?!"
says a thought [shot] in the dark.
--- this to no woman in particular but to
all womankind i suppose.
outside there is a dog haranguing me,
saying WOOF (that is, "where d'you get those old clothes?")
i tell him the sally ann but good luck
getting in there, dog . . . he takes off, complaining ---
but i pay no attention to the bellyaching of an old mutt...
"nay," says i there's not a ******
thing of any real importance in this
universal dustbin/save the dharma.
yea i could live in a woodsy cabin
deep down a valley-ay shoutin' "HOOO-EE!!" out the open door
to anyone who comes by and
be thought a crazy young ('ventually old) ******
off his rocker in the trees.
--- and why not!!
chop logs/cook bread 'n brew potsa tea
'n otherwise lead a silent but meaningful old existence
out there with weekend friends/girls/wine/talk.
--- tell all that to a bookish pal
who scoffs:
*"some dharmy of yours, boy. all that work.
where are the café sittings & sunny youthy days of
readin' sutras on a lawn somewhere?"*
"bah," i says. "bah..."
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Ainhara, Esshi..." she says weakly.
"We...we have brought you some meals,
My Lady-" Ainhara says.
"I'm not hungry," Lyn shakes her head.
"Share it amongst yourselves. I... I
really don't have the strength to eat."
"If you do not eat, how will you have the
strength to write?" Esshi counters, earning
a weak laugh and a deep sigh.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"My Lady, we know you are worried
Aurelinaea and about the morrow," Ainhara
takes a step towards her, " but I assure you,
all will be well."
"More and more people are coming in,
I'm struggling to find good homes for them.
And tomorrow, marks the beginning of my
10-week studies." Lyn murmurs. "I'd be
lying if I said I wasn't terrified. I don't
want to be a failure. I want to believe that
I am good enough, but..."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn covers her face with her hands and
begins to whimper, her body shaking
slightly in fear. They hear tears hit the
papers below her.
Ainhara and Esshi frown and place hands
on her back.
"My Lady, please don't cry. You are a
wonderful ruler," Esshi cooes, "you will
find homes for the newcomers. Aurelinaea
blossoms more with under your rule!"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"And with your bookish nature, you
will surely do well in your studies."
Ainhara adds. "You did say you wanted
to challenge yourself and this is a sure
way to do it. It's normal to be afraid but
once you settle in, it will all be well.
Just remember to enjoy the ride."
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
I swore I would not write a poem for my father,
who hated poetry
and poets
and most things,
as though it would dishonor him—
his bookish daughter
who cried too easily;
who sat silently through dinner;
who slipped quietly from rooms
as he entered,
still thinking she was better than him.
Fifteen years later,
I find myself in Boston,
rattling through cool tunnels
below the city of my birth.
I think I see him—
younger than he could have ever been;
but still, the white t-shirt,
the thin mouth,
the blue eyes that I did not inherit—
and what disturbs me the most
is not that I have just seen my dead father
step out of a train into
the cool white,
the great big;
it's that my first thought is
I hope he doesn't see me.
So I am trying to love him.
I am writing a poem for my father
who smelled like
cigarettes
and soap
and sawdust
and raised five girls on a quarryman's pay,
and I am crying,
but it feels different this time.
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 12:17 PM UTC
*The hottest lines - one after the other I devour
Salty - sultry - tasty - juicy sweet like a toasted flower.
The ink runs from the corners of my brain,
Oh God, have I been eating poetry again?
I made the mistake of swallowing one set of rhymes when
The librarian appeared, putting on her necklace chained
Reading glasses while looking down her nose.
Her eyeballs rolled, her head shook out her woes.
Tearing off another page with her walking toward me,
She was about to release the dogs - I had nowhere to flee.
She stomped her feet and began to weep
As I crumple the next page into a heap.
She backed away as I snarl and I bark,
Crunch, crunch, crunch - swallowing all the way to the question mark.
Finding her nerve she approaches me with a moan,
Then I watch in amazement as she tears off a page of her own.
Folding it up in the palm of her hand, she smiles
And growls and shoves the whole page in while
Pulling out another book from a hidden pocket in her dress.
We sneak off together into a hidden recess.
The hottest lines - one after the other we devour
Salty - sultry - tasty - juicy sweet like toasted flowers.
The ink runs from the corners of our brains,
Oh God, have we been eating poetry again?
With baited eyes we snarl and bark
Chomping with joy in our bookish dark.*
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 9:41 PM UTC
Picked from a high shelf; me,
no stranger to quiet and dust.
Examine my spine
before you crack it.
Part my pages to
finger my words.
Messages and meanings
ravenously devoured—
syllables and syntax,
contentedly noshed.
Happy to have something
to hold; me,
just happy to be held.
Yet, no place was marked
when you snapped me shut
without warning or regard.
Back to the shelf I went,
unfinished and untold—
into the familiar dust; me,
never knowing just
how I end.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
She dreams with her eyes open,
Of imaginary worlds and tales unspoken.
Page after page, of castles and storms,
She reads until the waking dawn.
Late night as the world falls asleep,
She curls with her cup, another page to read.
A yawn muffled by bookish thoughts
And the scent of imaginary forget me nots .
She places her book on a nearby counter,
With the caress of a gentle lover.
Glancing at her bookshelf she goes to sleep,
Dreaming of the thousand lives she once lived.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
notes,
when we walk easily and lowly
on an avenue, with a camera, with two hearts
we see and we have seen it
we breaststroke through a night so
dark and slovenly as to turn a sunrise purple
to red, ashamed
books,
when we love properly
when we speak slowly to better hear
the dripping of a warm and raining noon
there was nowhere left to go for us
coolly dryly, bookish we sat
and to a boyish morning, hurtled
will we sit again, as we walk
will we again open those books and laugh
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
When I was spongy
soft and daisy yellow, my father poured
forth with piety his cleansing love
for god and country, and he poured
it into poor little porous me.
It was a sop I tried to hold
but just as gold wings go
and clay feet come,
so my faith in blindness was replaced
by a bookish seeking.
The small wrings and smaller
squeezes of his uneven hands
told me god wasn’t 'man enough,
and any bounded place was too cramped
a space for my odd inklings.
Then I found this upon the further
side of knowing: Nature lives and dies not
in our world alone,
but there’s a universe to breed
and spoil with my loving’s expansion.
It’s always cycling...
cycling before me...
cycling through me...
cycling past me...
cycling in spite of me.
Ever never blinks
and no quill’s ink tallies
those woes and wants
played out on the twinkling
stage of our weakling moments.
Outside the familiar
rhythms of my childish loves,
I’m left
pledging to do no heavenly harm
as I spread wide these arms
so inadequate for embracing the vast
elliptical clouds of intermingling
light and dust,
and in flying I’ll fall toward
but not reach
the core of my sunny belief.
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 7:29 AM UTC
Walking out the door her husband says,
I’ll be back in an hour. He said that last time
After threatening her with violence, she retaliated
With a garden hose, the only ****** weapon within reach.
She turns over the memory of her wedding day looking for red flags,
Remarks to herself how methodical it all was,
Vetting her prospects— a bookish disposition and a stable desk job—
And thinks to herself
It’s a wonder anything came of it at all.
There’s a list of Odds and Ends on the kitchen table.
She closes her eyes to imagine
Ticking boxes on that List of Odds and Ends with a number two pencil,
Three children conducting a bank heist,
On the table a corner reserved for beeswax,
Raspberry jam,
And a bucket of mud.
She laughs to herself.
Some sort of commotion has seized control of the air outside.
Perhaps the children are arguing over
Who holds open the sack, the door, waits outside
Or perhaps they’re coming to collect
The woman wrapped up
In a garden hose, a necklace
Of her own design.
Loaded up on the stretcher, they carry her out, she says
I’ll be back in an hour. The woman next door stands on her stoop,
Clearly she could not have seen this coming.
She forgets her own birthday.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 5:18 AM UTC
the woman wore goggles and held a fork.
I was pushed
up a hill
in a stroller
by a lover
of snow.
in her books of bookish loss
her knees
are a nightmare
had
by the fork.
her man
shovels
his madhouse
meal.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
Belgrano
Can you hear the curses? I hear them still
dead in the air rolling on the grey high seas,
fluttering, stuttering, up in the cold stony clouds,
frozen like kites in the middle of nowhere.
I hear the silence too, of the boys, the young young boy's
pressed against the bulwarks and the dead eyed iron,
sense their gun metal faces hidden inside the masks
of home spun green wool - skittering eyes peeping
through knitted balaclavas worn as cold comforters
dripping in Atlantic spume.
I can hear the whispers, the trembling pampas whispers
of near men, close men, light shaven, cropped near-to skull men,
some with dark, bull herding eyes , hearts full of Spanish guitar
and pampas whistles and beside them the rich city blond men,
quiet and bookish, alone with their poets and pebble black rosaries
running like the southern tides through their cold chapped fingers.
All hugger-mugger equaled by forced conscription, circling in silence
within their sea shrouded fears - crammed like live fish quivering in their ancient tin of old victories.
Yes I hear them still, calling out for a distant mother's arms, ripping
loose their little boy screams that are clear as over head seagulls
yet eight thousand miles away. I can hear their raw primitive panic,
ancient as the whelps of beaten camp fire dogs echoing back
from the steely grey clouds; I see them tearing at the
sea born mist, slicing the strings of their pampas kite curses
with broken bones and shattered skulls, loosing curses that rise to run
above the waves to our shores carrying the lost, little boy simpers
of clamour and death that found roost in our forgetful hearts.
Yes I still hear the screams, the sea drowned, salt soaked screams,
a cold southern ocean full of drowning young Argentine boy dreams
(pronounced men before their time), those fire soaked screams and I remember how we the civilized danced on their sad lonely deaths in our distant dry victory soaked streets of triumphant,disregard and screamed ;
"Gotcha".
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC