Revelations

I enjoyed today's Poetry Slam in English 495. I am thoroughly impressed by my classmates' skills with words. We found out that many of us regularly practice the craft of writing poetry, and even those who proclaimed to be amateur showed the most raw talent.

I am glad that the class as a whole took the assignment very seriously and found places within themselves to produce something more than shallow rhyme and rhythm. Jedi Jordan even brought a guitar to sing his lyrical parody poem as a song.

Lauren Bristol's "She Was There" poignantly struck my heart. The poem itself almost reads like a short story, were it not for the breaking off of phrases and the rhythmic meter. In her reading, I felt the most emotion as she read these lines:

          Tick.

          Tock.

          It was almost as if death was tapping his toe, saying

          I

          Am

          Wai-

          Ting.

          If you’re going to be here, hovering over her every breath,

          Don’t be a tool about it.

Maybe it's because this was literally me two months ago in the weeks before my father passed away. Ms. Bristol's choice to break syllables into their own lines to reflect the ticking of a clock was a very strong choice; it emphasizes the helpless battle to stop time, stop Death itself.

And, Lauren, girl, I feel you. Death's a douche.

I made the choice to not give commentary during the reading on the two poems I wrote. I feel like a well-written poem needs no explanation or should leave room enough for the reader to make the poem their own. I really hope that my words spoke for themselves.

I have No Words

I have no words for grief

I have some words for happy:
          Joyous
               Gay
                   Exuberant

But I have no words for...

I have some words for sing:
          Chant
               Trill
                    Croon

But I have no words...

I have some words for hunger
          Starved
               Empty
                     Cavernous

But I have none...
         I have nothing...
                     I am empty without you.

Sea and Shore

The breaker caresses the curve of the sandy shore
He swallows her whole then recedes, only to consume her again
Peaceful, they are together
Two shapes that fit the other
But he wears her away, gutting into her hollows
The oncoming storm

Creative Writing Class Exercise

I. Alliteration and Assonance - 10 words close in sound relation

1. Modest Mouse

2. Cool Cat

3. Dumb Dog

4. Insistent Inquiry

5. Aggravated Assault

6. Quirky work

7. Tacky Jacket

8. Lovely Lace

9. Oncoming Storm

10. Holy Roller

II. Metaphors/similes for life - List of 10 real-life events, but said in a different way
1. Conception - You are the result of the joining of stardust.

2. Birth - The slimy emergence from the dark cave.

3. First word - Her cry for momma was more like a monkey’s screech.

4. First Step - She made her panda’s wobble across the floor.

5. First Day of School - Abandoned for a journey into the big unknown.

6. Driving Lessons - Free as an awkward, fledgling newly kicked from the nest...

7. First Job - indentured servitude

8. Being in Love - head over heels

9. Breaking friendship - I lost my arm or a chunk of my heart.

10. Loss of parent/mentor - I am an empty shell, washed, worn and left on the beach.

III. Lyrics and Musicality - Find a song, a catchy song; re-write the lyrics but stick to the rhythm and meter. Off-topic from the original idea.

Re Write of Ellie Goulding’s “Burn”

“Cake”

When, when I’ve got a sweet tooth craving

I start the oven, and I bring out some sugar for icing

They, they gonna see us from outer space, outer space

Light it up, because we’re going to bake a cake, cake

You get the eggs and the flour and get ready to stir

Milk, salt, and vanilla and some chocolate powder
And it’s easiest with an electric mixer

'Cause we’re baking cake, cake, cake

Yeah we’re baking cake, cake, cake

Don’tcha let it burn, burn, burn, burn

We gonna let it burn, burn, burn, burn

Don’tcha let it burn, burn, burn, burn

We gonna let it burn, burn, burn, burn

Selected Poem for Poetry Analysis

"On His Deceased Wife"
     By John Milton

Methought I saw my late espousèd saint
     Brought to my like Alcestic from the grave,
     Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
     Rescued from Death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom washed from spot of childbed taint
     Purification in the Old Law did save,
     And such as yet once more I trust to have
     Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind.
     Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight
     Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined
So clear as in no face with more delight.
     But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined,
     I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

The Classics are Classics for a Reason

During the poetry seminar on Wednesday, I scoffed that those who make up the Great Western Canon of literature are "old white dudes." I really deserved the fact that my clownish, crass witticism garnered only a giggle from my peers.

However, my words did not spring from falsehood: the classics are nearly all written by men. Only in the recent century have anthropologists and literary experts begun to construct the canon of female writers through the ages. The more stubborn side of my feminism resists wanting to begin to relate to the men of the canon. None of them seem to be young, fabulous women.

Despite opposing genitalia and societal roles, I often find that the same stuff that makes me is often expressed in their poetry, songs, and stories. These honorable gentlemen are part of the classic canon for a reason: they know the stardust that makes the human soul, and they bind it in words and make it visible.

The words that personally rang true for me were from William Wordsworth’s “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud…”

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Wordsworth is explaining the benefit of escapism. The moment spoken of is the discovery of a field of daffodils - according to the Daffodil Society, to find one daffodil spells misfortune, but to have several means joy and happiness. "[W]ealth", says Wordsworth of the field, "continuous as the stars that shine / And twinkle on the milky way." The sight of dancing daffodils is a joy to be treasured. Which is why, "when on my couch I lie / In vacant or in pensive mood," Wordsworth escapes to that day with the daffodils. The stresses of every day life can fade away for one moment as the speaker returns to that moment in his own contemplation. 

In the days since my dad passed away, I find myself in that vacant and pensive mood. I'm numbed to feeling and weighed down with urgency and obligation. It's harder and harder to go back to a field of daffodils, a place to recharge and find peace. 

Though over a century and a half, and different life experiences separate me and Mr. Wordsworth, he found the words I want to say - nothing is more precious than a moment to breath and find peace and spend a some time enjoying the daffodils.