Welcome to Monday morning poetry class.
I knew I never loved Dean Rader
ASSIGNMENT #1, MAY 3, 2021 I NEVER KNEW I LOVED DEAN RADER ……… …..by Dean Rader ,,,,,,after Hikmet/O’Hara, Reeves/Young Someday, I’ll love Dean Rader the way the blue jay loves the sparrow egg, or perhaps the way the waves love the curve they give themselves to when giving is no longer an option like falling or dreaming or even being on this earth, in this body. Someday I’ll love my body, itself a form of silence, which is not the same as being quiet, even though we are sentenced to this language with its strange letters, their shapes like bowls, small sticks, the bellies of pregnant women, as though everything spelled must also be bi
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDeleteHi Sandy, so everyone knows it's Eric.
ReplyDeleteSince we haven’t been able to meet for quite a while now—I thought it would be nice to say to each other things we’ve wanted to say to each other, how being shut in by the Coronavirus makes us feel, anxieties and anger we feel. Go to it—just free-write whatever you wish for a few minutes, then share it.
ReplyDeleteUSING IMAGERY TO RESHAPE CAUSE AND EFFECT
Choose 2 images that seem illogical if they were to be put into a cause-and-effect relationship, one that requires explanation to show how they do reflect (show) cause and effect.
• Start the first line with the word and letting the 2nd line explain some effect.
• Write a few more lines that fill the gap between the cause and effect (use images).
• End with a more direct answer (of effect) of the first line
Example:
GRAVE
Catherine Olivier
Because our graves are exactly the same size,
Loose pocket change loses meaning.
Nothing more than a child, a household with
Gritty carburetors and rough mechanic hands.
Yellow yachts with platinum bottoms and tigery thrones
Contain no dirty jeans or loose plaid t-shirts.
While golden grocery bags get stuffed with wheat,
Our tombs alal have the same letters.
The first 2 lines seem to ave an illogical cause and effect—how could graves make pocket change lose meaning? But the imagery that follows explains that death is the great equalizer, and that, rich or poor, we are all headed to the same place!
SUGGESTION: We could all use Because Coronavirus in our 1st line—it would be fun to see how many different poems could come from this.
Hi Sandy, it's April.
ReplyDeleteThis Howard
ReplyDeleteHere's mine (April's)
ReplyDeleteBecause Corvid-19 is here.
Some people are idiots.
What was once a normal life,
now everyone is quarantined.
The internet needs to speed up,
or everything will crash.
We've had this before, but to this extent.
I agree totally. I like the subtlety of how you end not spelling out what is to this extent (the virus or the internet). Good job
DeleteThat is what I agree.
DeleteI forgot to put a line in. here's the actual one..
ReplyDeleteBecause Corvid-19 is here.
Some people are idiots.
What was once a normal life,
now everyone is quarantined.
Social media needs to be tamed.
The internet needs to speed up,
or everything will crash.
We've had this before, but not to this extent.
My internet is so slow, and my laptop keeps disconnecting from it..
ReplyDeleteThats why I put the internet line in my poem.
-April
I can't help but wonder.. How many people are on here..?
ReplyDeleteGrass fires push across alkali fields
ReplyDeleteand waters with brown reeds.
It is the grasshopper and dragonflies
that call out their panic
I am stuck, I can't seem to breath.
ReplyDeleteMy walls are caving in little by little, why me?
it is like I am in a place that I am sinking and no way out.
To me I want to be able to climb, I want to see the light at the top where I first came from.
I am going deeper and deeper the light is getting darker.
Darkness, somewhere I am stuck at. somewhere I can't breath.
I am alone, I have no one, no one around me, no one to help me.
I am left here, left in this corner to try and just breath.
This is Tiffany's BTW
DeleteAnyone mind if I leave this group?
ReplyDelete-April
blessing the boats
ReplyDeleteLucille Clifton - 1936-2010
(at St. Mary’s)
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
I just wanted to post Clifton's poem as a thought to everyone in these hard times.
ReplyDeleteApril--on the corrected version of your poem--I really like having the new line (that you left out before)--the parallel structure of the social media and internet lines adds to the flow of the poem.
ReplyDeleteNow that you've added that line. I'm not sure if you need to that extent--just ending with "We've had this before" seems to be enough, and a stronger statement.
As to signing out--I hope that everyone will look things over from 10:30 to 12:30 (regular class times) to react to others work. Hopefully more will sign in next Monday.
Howard--I love your 4 line poem. Love that "it is the grasshopper...", not the grasses that call out their panic.
ReplyDeleteUnknown (starting with "I am stuck"), what a powerful expression of your emotions. The ending (I am left in this corner to try and just breathe) seems a bit more hopeful than the rest of the poem, I hope writing this out helped.
ReplyDeleteHere's my poem:
ReplyDeletePANDEMIC
Because the green pollen falls from the sky
we lock ourselves inside.
Because the green dust turns invisible
when it falls on skin,
we stay away from all people.
In our nightmares we cough green pollen;
in our fairytales roads are made of gold pollen
and we swim in clear blue harbors.
Yet we stand, hands pressed against windows
and try to see through the falling green.
BLOG CLASS 2, April 29, 2020
ReplyDeleteTHE IMAGERY OF BODY LANGUAGE
Using the imagery of body language connects the essence of a poem back to something primal in humans. The movements and sounds of the body were the first language, evolving to more complex forms of expression as spoken then written language were developed. We use our hands to speak. We sit, stand, or walk differently according to our emotions.
INSTRUCTIONS:
Write a poem in which body language or a gesture reveals something about a deep emotional or psychological state of a person. To keep the poem specific and fresh, think about how gestures might connect to the 5 senses, and about the difference between conscious and unconscious gestures.
EXAMPLE:
In this poem, a simile comparing a person’s sigh to the atmosphere of a restaurant booth helps keep the poem fresh. The author goes on to sugest a series of images and gestures that might represent a reversal of sigh.
YOU SIGH
Giovanna Diaz
You sigh
like an
empty
restaurant booth
once occupied by
a family of mice
a sleeping child
an ancient widow and her driver
but now
now you are pita crumbs and ice chips.
Stand up for yourself!
Comb the scraps from your hair!
Let the amethyst topple
out of your chest!
Your arms are wire ropes,
ReplyDeletetaut on your eyes
unable to stop the
canoe drifting in the current
WOW!!! This is great!!!
ReplyDeleteHERE IS THE 2ND EXERCISE FOR BLOG CLASS 2, April 29, 2020
ReplyDeleteIMAGERY OF SOUND (I heard inside)
The imagery in poetry often connects 2 worlds—the seen and unseen, the inner and outer, the upper and lower.
INSTRUCTIONS:
Write a poem beginning with the words I heard inside.
• First, create the image of what it is that you are hearing inside of
• Next list images of what those sounds are and represent.
EXAMPLE:
NATURE
Katie Wall
I heard inside
a soft thunderstorm raging from the dirt
the call of a dark fox
tackling the
eclipse screeching above.
They whispered to each other through my silk veins
crying along the pavement of glimmering sorrows.
Here is for the first assignment.
ReplyDeleteI hear nothing.
My eyes are blurry but can see some.
My hands can hear around them but not feel what is being given to them.
My nose can smell it but my mouth cannot taste it.
My eyes are blurry, but can see some.
I like this--especially the hands not feeling what is given to them. I might move the 1st line (I hear nothing) to the 2nd line to make it start and end where it begins. But I like it a lot just as it is.
Deleteand my poem for the second one.
ReplyDeleteI hear inside, the rattle of the rocks.
I hear the water passing by, the breeze from the wind.
I hear the voices far yet close.
I hear the silence when others are around.
I hear the sound of the music in my head when I don't want to be where I am.
I hear me over thinking, me wanting my wheels to stop, me wanting to not want what what life is now. I just hear it all.
Again, I like this poem. I love the image of "I hear the silence when others are around."
DeleteI might make a line break after " what life is now." so the last line is the full sentence "I just hear it all." so the last line starts with "I" as do the rest of the lines.
Here is my poem for the 1st assignment:
ReplyDeleteYou pause
like the light
during an eclipse
while others
look through special
lenses at where
the sun should be.
After, you walk on
slowly, but I hope
you have found your
bearings.
Here is my poem for the 2nd assignment:
ReplyDeleteI hear
inside
light
refracting
from my
nostrils into
my lungs.
I hear
the cell
that fell
like a chick
from a nest
chirping.
I hear
the walls
of my heart
closing,
opening.
I hear
ReplyDeleteinside
light
refracting
from my
nostrils into
my lungs.
I hear
the cell
that fell
like a chick
from a nest
chirping.
I hear
the walls
of my heart
closing,
opening.
Assignment 1, May 4, 2020
ReplyDeleteWe Real Cool
Gwendolyn Brooks
The Pool Players
Seven at the Golden Shovel
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
Based on your reading of this Brooks poem, write your own poem in couplets (2-line stanzas). Try writing it as a representing a group (perhaps those with disabilities), or as a particular person as the example below. Feel free to try rhyming it, or not rhyming it.
Father is Mad at Me
Oliver Ruiz
Father is mad. Father
feels bad. Father
yells loud. Father
is proud. Father
was mean. Father
makes scene. Father
throws dart. Father
cold heart.
Here's mine..
ReplyDeleteI am black..
Mistreat me and I'll attack..
I am adorable..
Absolutely lovable..
I am magical..
Sometimes problematical..
I am lucky..
But mostly considered unlucky..
Mysterious is what I am..
Do you know what I am?..
-April
Wow--the wonderful rhymes you came up with! The 2nd line I'd leave out "and" (Mistreat me, I'll attack) for rhythm's sake (it's easier to say without the "and"). I'm guessing this is a black cat.
DeleteI like the symmetry of words such as lucky and unlucky, adorable and lovable. Very effective and provides good sounds
DeleteAssignment 2, May 4, 2020
ReplyDeleteWHAT’S IN A FILING CABINET?
Write a poem that reveals what might be hidden in a filing cabinet.
• It might describe a legal brief, tax returns, old photographs, a bottle of whiskey.
• List things these items might represent or show.
EXAMPLE:
FILED AFTER Z
Audrey Baker
Engraved in this manila folder
are your whispers:
the perforations of picture shows
and the creases of your poetry slumbers.
And I have filed them all amongst
the metallic oblivion of
phone bills and rejection letters
to be sought in the
pauses between
contentments.
I'm sorry, but I'm not feeling very creative or poetic today. Do you mind if I leave the website?
ReplyDelete-April
Of course you can leave the website--although I disagree that you're not creative from the poem you entered--sure hope you feel better soon.
ReplyDeleteThanks
ReplyDelete-April
First assignment
ReplyDeleteHow can I feel
Do I need this Peel?
My life is at a stand still
Please help me with my kill
I can’t help but to be
Life is so, not me
Closed in, sucked up
Nothing in me worth a cup
This is fun, Perhaps add or delete a couple words for the sake of rhythm.
DeleteSecond assignment
ReplyDeleteLocked away, deep inside..
Locked away, because I don’t want to know.
Locked away, because I didn’t want to see.
Locked away, I didn’t want to reveal the past, the secrets.
Locked away, where it belongs, where it should never come out.
Locked away, no time to deal with it, no time to live with the pain.
FINE
ReplyDeleteWe tend to drool,
but we’re still cool.
Our brain trauma
is not your drama.
We’re in wheelchairs,
no need to sneak stares.
We’re on oxygen,
not a toxin.
We are deaf,
not bereft.
You call us mad
which makes us sad.
We limp, but we’re
not simple.
You call us slow,
yet we glow.
We are blind, yet
we’re fine.
BLOG CLASS, MAY 11
ReplyDeleteLIST POEM
Many poems are list poems. They could include a list of instructions, a list of recipe ingredients and what to do with them, a list of scenes, a list of images that stand for an abstract idea (hope, truth, justice). You could start with a title as in the example below (Come Home With,,,) Other titles could be titled Please Leave With…, Things I Wanted that didn’t Pan Out. Things I Wish I Could Leave Behind…, etc. Create your own list poem with one of these ideas, or come up with your own list poem title.
EXAMPLE:
COME HOME WITH…
Antonia Buban
I
All the letters I sent you
II
The freckle above your right brow
III
Wrinkled newspaper clippings from your jeans pocket
IV
Calloused palms
V
A half-empty carton of cigarettes
VI
Your ukulele, my harmonica
VII
Time
High Plains
ReplyDeleteflats of mud
meadowlark buried in silt
whiskers of short grass
weeds crackled by wind
I can't believe how quickly you come up with such a great poem to exercises. This is so visual--I see the Great Plains as I read it.
Delete2ND ASSIGNMENT, MAY 11
ReplyDeleteWrite a poem that that shows what “I Am Not”.
• Start by creating a list of 15-20 things that you are not..
• Use specific imagery (I am not a politician).
• Think metaphorically.
• You might have a statement somewhere within the poem that states what you are.
• Choose your favorites from your list of 15-20 things that you are not, and arrange them into a poem
EXAMPLE:
ANY OTHER PEANUT
Alexia Garcia-Tyler
I am not like any other peanut forever smeared on the floor of Yankee Stadium.
I do not beat in Einstein’s right brain lobe as millions of cells unanimously did.
I am not just ordinary bamboo that bends inside avant-garde banisters.
I am Alive, a smile that disassembles frowns,
not another position white pin on your white wall,
not the tightly closed bud of a morning glory,
instead, a resonance of golden hornet stings that each glisten as the world revolves.
I am not the person I said I was
ReplyDeleteNot the garden wall
the sentences of English Ivy
and wedgewood teacups.
You came back to gravel roads
and thistle
Sandy, I am sorry I was busy yesterday. I will do my poems and get them up sometime today.
ReplyDeleteThings I wanted that
ReplyDeleteI
Never came from you
II
That I never thought of
III
I thought of but didn’t want to tell you just in case
IV
I hoped that you would of thought of it on your own
V
I didn’t want to be that bug
VI
I am just not that person. I guess I should’ve been
I liked symmetry of each list.
DeleteI also liked the word "bug" - it adds an expected surprise
I am not the normal.
ReplyDeleteI am honest.
I am not me.
I am down to tell you real life.
I am not the usual get up and go.
I am charged.
I am not the average person.
I am satisfied.
I am not ready.
I am bold.
I am not weak or strong.
I am independent
I am not broken.
I am in pieces
I am not fake.
I am real
I am not thin.
I am curved
I am not ready.
I am timed.
I will be out next week but I will log on to write.
ReplyDeleteBLOG CLASS, MAY 18
ReplyDeleteIn this that so many of us are confined to our homes and starting to go stir-crazy, it would be good to think of something:
• out there in the world that we can just be happy to think about.
• Or even something we are glad for in our home that makes us wait without despairing.
• Or even something we are glad we are not out in society right now we might have to face.
Write a poem (like the following example) about one of these. It can be short like the following example, or as long as you want to make it.
EXAMPLE:
NEARING 100 DEGREES
Robert Trammell
I do not need
to be in an air-conditioned
room in the afternoon.
I just need to know
that it exists.
Sycamore trees are bones,
ReplyDeleteknuckle white,
Unwanted DNA drowns under the roots.
I love the poem--it fits the pandemic. Although--it is not is definitely not a positive reaction.
Delete2ND ASSIGNMENT, MAY 18
ReplyDeleteWe have all wished we were something we are not. In the following example, the poet (as a child) wished she could be a boy.
1. Start your poem with something you could do, feel good about doing.
2. Add another detail about something you were or did.
3. Write a detail of something you dreamed of doing (in the example: building a ladder to the attic and making it your own place).
4. Say something about someone of something you wish to be can do.
5. Write an insult applied who people think you are.
6. End with something you did learn that helped you (example poem: to dance).
7. End with a wishful line about what you wished for (if the author had been a boy she could have chosen her own partner).
EXAMPLE:
WHY I ENVIED BOYS
Naomi Stroud Simmons
Simple enough:
I climbed trees,
found a comfortable niche,
looked through sparse limbs,
to a Panhandle sky
and tried to think boy thoughts.
My eleventh Christmas brought
a Depression-style toolkit,
the basics: a hammer and a saw,
I sawed scrap wood and
dreamed of a latter to the attic.
Maybe I could make it a room of my own.
Couldn’t deliver groceries
for Mr. Balbo
because I was a girl.
The insult was attending
a girls’ school. I was in trouble
often for my good ideas,
nuns could not conceive a boxing team.
All of this changed when I learned
to dance. Well, almost.
If I had been a boy,
I could have chosen my partner.
You pole the flat-bottomed boat,
ReplyDeletelight the lake with a bow lantern,
drag the grappling hook on the bottom,
raise branches, rocks, skeletons,
that which once was.
Here is my poem for the first assignment.
ReplyDeleteI don’t need a fancy place to go.
I just want to be here in my little box.
I don’t need anyone to associate with.
I just need me to talk to,
I don’t need anything big to do.
I just need my yarn, my coloring books, and my colored crayons.
I don’t need anyone.
I just need the people I have.
Here is my second poem
ReplyDeleteI could help someone that needs help the most.
I was in a hole that I couldn’t find my way through.
I dreamed of that house that I have never had.
The one with the little fence and the garden that I can care for and grow the things that I want, the rose bushes in the front yard and the flowers that I always dreamed about.
It is him that helps me with all the things that I wasn’t able to do that I thought I could, him that shows me that anything is possible even if I think it isn’t, him that makes me see things differently.
People think I am bitter, think that I am just for myself, that I am mean and don’t care for anyone but myself.
I can stand on my own two feet, I can spin in circles for hours if I want to, I can do summer salts in the rain down the biggest hill that I come across.
I wished I had someone to show me a better way to do things, a way to do them easier instead of the hard way I do them.
Remember that next Monday is a Holiday.
ReplyDeleteSince Tiffany reminded us that there is no class today--just thought I'd say anyone who wants class can do one of the assignments from the last few weeks they haven't done before (or even repeat one they have done), and I'll stay checked in throughout class time and comment on your posts. Have a great Memorial Day.
ReplyDeleteBLOG CLASS, JUNE 1, 2020
ReplyDeleteASSIGNMENT #1
SO MUCH DEPENDS
Edward E. Wilson
How like an alchemist’s chant the red wheelbarrow poem
seemed in tenth grad. Mrs. Morgan, with her new novels
had already been taken by Debbie Jackson’s mother before
the school board for those nasty books little Debbie
had been forced to read. I remember Stuart Tackitt saying
he didn’t understand the mother’s fury. “Hell, Debbie
would have been the girl on the elevator with Holden.”
But the school board did not know Debbie did tricks
after ballgames and did not want our impressionable minds
reading about sin. So Mrs. Morgan did not return
the next yeary, but it did not matter. She had already
taught us about the red wheelbarrow. We were the white
chickens, and all that depending got into our thinking.
We were unreliable things, moving in and out of the school yard.
Even chickens are different after a storm.
This poem is based on the poem below by W.C. Williams. (Holden
in the 3rd line is from another novel commonly taught in 10th grade, “Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger.)
The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
Start your own poem with “So Much Depends.” You do not need to reference either poem. You can base your poem on an object (like the red wheelbarrow), a world event (like the coronavirus), a memory, or whatever you come up with.
So Much Depends Upon
ReplyDeletedrive, getting on that
freight train,
straight-lining across
the high plains,
past barbed wire,
meadow larks on the post,
combines en echelon,
standing upon containerized freight,
breathing diesal smoke.
I like this! I love the images--especially the detail of the meadow larks on the post, and the metaphor of standing upon containerized freight.
DeleteI actually wanted to do the 2nd assignment for May 18th, because I didn't get on here that day at all; so I didn't see it. -April
ReplyDeleteHere it is:
Waking up at sunset,
never felt so nice.
Flying high in the night sky,
up where the moon shines.
Being bonded with my one true love,
to cherish and hold for eternity.
I'm sure he would feel the same.
When other's shall judge us,
we would ignore them.
For they should've learned to accept others,
as we are not much different.
Though becoming a vampire was always my favorite wish,
I must remain human.
Wow! I love the opening! I love the lines "flying high in the night sky, up where the moon shines. The ending is great.
DeleteI love dark romance with a hint of tragedy. Generally speaking, though. -April
DeleteI know you do. And you can write it.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI had to delete the 2nd assignment because somehow it merged the two poems. So I am reposting it here.
ReplyDelete2ND ASSIGNMENT, JUNE 2, 2020
TURNING
Lucille Clifton
turning into my own
turning on in
to my own self
at last
turning out of the
white cage, turning out of the
lady cage
turning at last
on a stem like a black fruit
in my own season
at last
IT WAS A DREAM
Lucille Clifton
in which my greater self
rose up before me
accusing me of my life
with her extra finger
whirling in a gyre of rage
at which my days had come to,
what,
I pleaded with her, could I do,
oh what could I have done?
and she twisted her wild hair
and sparked her wild eyes
and screamed as long as
I could hear her
This. This. This.
These 2 poems both are based on self-realizations that Clifton has about herself. In “Turning” she looks into her own self, in “It Was a Dream” she has her own life rise before her and makes judgments about it. Write your own poem about a self-realization.
• Use at least one or two repetitions of words or phrases (as in the Turning Poem Clifton repeats the phrase at last 3 times, or in the Dream poem she repeats the word “this” 3 times at the end).
• include one or more images (the white cage, a black fruit, with her extra finger, her wild hair and her wild eyes).
• Your poem can be very abstract as both of these are, or more specific.
The first assignment.
ReplyDeleteSo much depends on this outrage.
So much depends on the pain people are feeling.
So much depends on the feeling of hate vs. love.
So much depends on me, how can I make it better?
So much depends on support of others.
So much depends on courage of others.
So much depends on faith of each other.
So much depends on us!
I love starting this with the outrage, and ending with "so much depends on us."
DeleteIt would be nice to put at least one image in this poem to make us visualize something and make it work its way deeper inside us. But good job!
Second assignment
ReplyDeleteAccusing them of things they aren’t.
Showing us sometimes life is hard.
Knowing people are not who they say they are.
Why is this white cage closing in on us?
The loud screams of help.
The loud cries bleeding for attention.
Our city turned upside down.
We suffer from others that don’t understand what it is like to really have real pain.
Why destroy something that didn’t need to be destroyed?
Why damage things and make them ugly in anger when they didn’t need to be damaged?
We live here, We want others to visit, we want it to be amazing for them most of all we want it beautiful for us.
Accusing them of things they aren’t.
Remembering we are all the same, we all breath the same air. We all are one.
This gets to me--the image of the white cage made me visualize something, which engaged one more of my senses making it bit more personal. I think perhaps you could add a title--anyone reading it right now would tie it to the Pandemic or the Black Lives Matter movement--but a few years down the road it might not be so obvious.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, JUNE 8, 2020
ReplyDeleteChildhood Memories
William Saphier
Those years are foliage of trees
their trunks hidden by bushes;
behind them a gray haze topped with silver
hides the swinging steps of my first love
the Danube.
On its face
grave steel palaces with smoking torches,
parading monasteries moved slowly to the Black Sea
till the bared branches scratched the north wind.
On its bed
a great Leviathan waited
for the ceremonies on the arrival of Messiah
and bobbing small fishes snapped sun splinters
for the pleasure of the monster.
Along its shores
red capped little hours danced
with rainbow colored kites,
messengers to heaven.
My memory is a sigh
of swallows swinging
through a slow dormant summer
to a timid line on the horizon.
Choose something to represent your past or childhood (a rock, a mountain, a valley, a cloud, a house, a street, a caution sign, etc.). Develop this image as Saphier does in the poem above (on its face, on its bed, along its shores). End with a line what you think your memory (or past) is to you now.
Assignment #1
ReplyDeleteThe fossil in limestone
western Maryland Appalachians
sings in perfect pitch
crumbles on the shelf.
I love this! It fulfills the assignment--yet I'm not sure I'd get it if I didn't know the assignment. The right title might orient it towards deeper understanding by the reader.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #2, JUNE 8, 2020
ReplyDeleteTHE SKY IS BLUE
David Ignatow
Put things in their place,
my mother shouts. I am looking
out the window, my plastic soldier
at my feet. The sky is blue
and empty. In it floats
the roof across the street.
What place, I ask her.
• Choose a familiar saying often repeated to you (by a mentor, a parent, a sibling).
• Start with this saying.
• Who says this to you?
• Come up with an image that occurs to you beyond this saying.
• End with a question or line that extends or questions the limits of this saying.
The draft, 1968
ReplyDeleteNobody in my high school
died in Viet Nam,
as if that justified duty to country.
Before Bill died in a helicopter crash
he was my church leader, holding hands
dancing in circles on the church lawn,
in the storm of fear
the first I held hands with a man,
his palm crisp and dry.
Love this. I might add time to the first (time) I held hands--it works without, but since the rest of the sentences are complete, this skipping of a word is rather jarring--although it works.
DeleteSorry I'm late..
ReplyDeleteI really like the 2nd assignment.
I'll do that one first.. -April
What’s up?...
Is said by everyone.
This would usually be replied with
how the other’s day went.
The sun, the blue sky, the clouds, or the moon
is my typical response.
But, honestly, What really is up there?
Wow!!! This is one of your great poems. I love your typical response, and your last line--how it makes the poem go on in (my) mind with wondering.
DeleteThanx
DeleteI will do mine today. I am sorry I was really busy yesterday.....
ReplyDeleteThe mountains are so green and at times colorful.
ReplyDeleteWater falling from the top stumbling down many rocks to hit the river at the bottom.
Semi busy roads weaving around leading to nowhere.
Animals roaming through the trees to find food for themselves or for their young.
Tornado hits, leaves blowing everywhere, small debris flying barely missing cars that are stuck in it.
Clouds moving fast, the waterfall shifted almost to the upward position.
Chaos for three minutes yet seemed like a lifetime for trees to blow over and rocks to uplift.
Sliding down mountains seeming like no end in sight to dark tunnels barley a peep hole of light at the end of a tunnel to see myself in the reflection at the end.
This was the first assignment.
DeleteWow! Great! One suggestion--you don't need "at times colorful" on the first line, "The mountains are so green " already says this. One typo (next to last line), you have barley for barely. Love this poem!!
Deletethe second assignment
ReplyDeleteYou snooze, you lose.
I hear my mom say from the kitchen.
Curious as to what she is talking about, I go in to find her talking to herself about a recipe she is wanting to make and not having all the ingredients for.
The spatula flying around the kitchen and back and forth in the front room and other places that it is used as she thinks it needs to be used.
Why so hard, I asked her as I felt another one hit in a place that I wasn’t expecting.
Again--a great one. All the words work, but perhaps you could work on the line breaks. Or this poem would work great as a prose poem.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, JUNE 15, 2020
ReplyDeleteAt this time of crisis in our country (and worldwide) I thought we should write something in answer or reaction to the nonacceptance by so many white people to black lives, brown lives, LGBTQ lives, and to the lives of those with disabilities (which are often the first to be discounted when there isa shortage of ventilators). Below are two poems by Palestinians and things that have been done to them (showing the same disregard for their lives).
RICE HAIKUS
Suheir Hammad
we are women simple
sugar our morning tea
eat rice at all meals
we of simple land
kept the sugar in one sack
rice in another
lived off the brown earth
gave figs to fidayeen (fidayeen: popular name for freedom fighters)
olives and almonds
when they raided homes
they poured sugar into rice
to ruin them both
with eyelashes and
teeth we tried to sort it out
small grain from small grain
now we eat sweet rice
with our morning tea eat
meals of resistance
FROM THE DIARY OF AN ALMOST-FOUR-YEAR-OLD
Hanan Mikha’il ‘Ashrawi
Tomorrow, the bandages
will come off. I wonder
will I see half an orange,
half an apple, half my
mother’s face
with my one remaining eye?
I did not see the bullet
but felt its
pain
exploding in my head.
His image did not
vanish, the soldier
with a big gun, unsteady
hands, and a look in
his eyes
I could not understand.
If I can see him so clearly
with my eyes closed,
it could be that inside our heads
we have one spare set
of eyes
to make up for the ones we lose.
Nest month, on my birthday,
I’ll have a brand new glass eye,
maybe things will look round
and fat in the middle—
I’ve gazed through all my marbles,
they made the world look strange.
I hear a nine-month old
has also lost an eye,
I wonder if my soldier
shot her too—a soldier
looking for little girls who
look him in the eye—
I’m old enough almost four,
I’ve seen enough of life,
but she’s just a baby
who didn’t know any better.
Hammad is the daughter of Palestinian refugee parents who moved to Brooklyn (New York) and is devoted to “giving voice to those who have been silenced for so long.” Her books include “Drops of This Story” and “Born Palestinian, Born Black.”
‘Ashrawi became known worldwide for her efforts in the cause of the Palestinian-Israeli negotiations toward peace.
• Using some narrative or image details (such as “with eyelashes and teeth,” “I’ve gazed through all my marbles to place your poem in time and place
• You can make up a story that shows how you or someone in your story has been disrespected, or recount a story from your own past
In 1965 we take our positions on sodden fields of grass,
ReplyDeletethe wind is a harbinger of rain never forecast,
we are bulls in football practice in gym class,
brute force blocking, passing, running.
In 1965 the first marines wade ashore
to the Da Nang airfield in Viet Nam,
bulls who failed to get traction
in the rains and mud.
I like this--it works. I might take "we are bulls in football practice" and shorten it to we are football bulls in gym class." i might also change the order of blocking, passing, running. to running, passing, blocking ( putting the strongest verb at the end of the line). I might also put a stanza break after the 1st four lines.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, JUNE 15, 2020
ReplyDeleteBelow are three short poems of escape from the ordinary world.
A DREAM
Mahuammad Al-Ghuzzi, trans. by May Jayyusi & John Heath-Stubbs
When he surrendered his eyes to the dream, this lad,
The evening star turned into a ship for him,
The cosmos turned to an oyster in his hands.
Salah Fa’iq, trans. by Patricia Alanah Byrne, & Salma Khadra Yayyusi
As I traveled from the city
toward the country
old age fell off my shoulders.
THE BRIDGE
Kaissar Afif, trans. by Mansour Ajami
Poetry is a river
And solitude a bridge.
Through writing,
We cross it.
Through reading
We return.
• The first poem shows the poet escaping through a dream or imagination. Write your own imaginary escape.
• The 2nd poem shows how the poet changes traveling from one country to another (this could be to an imaginary country, or even crossing beyond the country of life). Write how you escape or what you escape through a real or imaginary journey.
• This poem shows how we cross out of our lives and back into them through writing a reading. Write your own poem about crossing your own river(s) through reading or writing.
First assignment. I was a little confused because now they both say first assignment but here is the top assignment.
ReplyDeleteThe eyelashes have swept away everything that don’t belong here everything that once was and that don’t need to be anymore.
The eyelashes have become more and more of the future and not the past, more of what is and not what could have been.
The eyelashes are what people look forward to instead of what they don’t see any more of.
The eyelashes are standing proud above the rest.
Great!! I love the "eyelashes" as the image, a bit surrealistic. Again--I might try this as a prose poem--it has the surprise and flow to make a great prose poem.
DeleteMy second poem
ReplyDeleteA little house on a island that no one can get to but me.
A little place surrounded by bluish green water.
The water is perfect for soaking in all the sun rays.
A little place big enough for me to get around in, a place that has everything I need.
The water is perfect always for swimming.
A place I can manage on my own, maybe a couple of visitors are okay but no one knows how to get there but me.
A place that is my enjoyment.
A place that is my secret.
Love the ending. This works well. (Might make the 6th and 7th line into 2 lines, or even 3 lines (making "but me" the 3rd line.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, JUNE 22, 2020
ReplyDeleteWe are lonely…
until we find ourselves.
Proverb
Use this Proverb as an epigram (a quote in italics after the title of a poem and before the body of the poem) or as your first 2 lines of a poem.
• You can either agree with or disagree with this Proverb in your poem.
• If you agree (or partly agree) with this Proverb, list some things that you commune with (a seashore, a ballerina on a stage, a football player, etc.)
• If you disagree with this proverb—list some things that you turn to in hopes they’ll make you less lonely, but don’t work, that after trying to relate to them you still feel just as lonely
• If you partly agree with this Proverb, you can list some things that make you feel less lonely, or and end by disagreeing with this Proverb, or vice versa
Found…
ReplyDeleteUntil we find ourselves.
The idea of lost is something we all feel these days.
The idea of lost is what I am feeling always.
The idea of lost is where I like to be always.
The idea of lost is the seashore at sea trying to find its first fish.
The idea of lost is the cave trying to find the light bulb to turn on.
The idea of lost is the treasure chest opened up to find no treasure inside.
The idea of lost is the empty room that really isn’t empty.
The idea of lost is me, trying to find me again with enthusiasm and spunk that I once had.
I love the parallel structure, and the shifting of nuance in the 3rd line where "I like to be always." The "idea of lost is the seashore at sea trying to find it's first fish" is a great great line, and I love the "idea of lost is the cave trying to find the light bulb to turn on." The last line--I might leave out enthusiasm, as spunk says this--and fits more the rhythm of the poem. I might also move the the line with the seashore or the line with the cave to either the last line or the next to last line, as they are such unforgettable lines that it ends the poem with indelible lines that really punch the reader with so much meaning.
DeleteBus stop, Toledo, 1968
ReplyDeleteThe rotting asphalt, pottery shards
of sun-cracked glass, lost bricks,
you wash your face in gutter water.
Out here there is no self.
Wow!! This is great. I might leave off "the" at the beginning, and put a period or semicolon
Deleteafter bricks. The last line is great, I love it.
ASSIGNMENT #2, JUNE 22, 2020
ReplyDeleteTHE ONE-ARMED BOY
Joseph Hutchison
has taught himself to play catch
with the walls of his house.
With great effort has learned
to open jars, trap grasshoppers,
write in straight lines. Has,
over time, discovered how
not to hear his mother weeping,
or his father roaring drunk.
Has carefully trained himself
to deflect the cutting
comments of his schoolmates.
If only a saw had chewed it off!
Or some gigantic shark, as in
his recurring fantasies. If only
he hadn’t been born like this.
And yet, near sleep, the arm
that never was reaches out,
touches something even the boy
can’t name. Like rain at midnight
falling into a field of poppies, it
gently quickens his non-existent hand.
EVERYONE has some qualities they feel self-conscious about and try to compensate for (being blind being fat, too tall, too short, having a stutter, or some mental states you sometimes think people are making fun of you for (anxiety, shyness, schizophrenia), Write a poem about how you worked to make yourself more acceptable, fantasies of how you could be more accepted (wishing his arm had been snapped off by a shark, which probably in his mind made him enviable because he had survived a shark attack), things you learned not to notice, and at the end how you finally gain some acceptance of your (perceived) disability (his non –existent hand touching a poppies like rain at midnight).
Why do I have to be this way?
ReplyDeleteI wish I could be like the rest of my friends.
Why do I have to have these genes?
I wish my skin could be tight and I could be thin.
Why do people have to be all shapes and sizes?
I wish for once I could fit in with them, who is them?
Why can’t people understand that we all aren’t the same?
I wish it didn’t matter what others looked like to some.
Why can’t everyone’s eyes be the same?
ASSIGNMENT #1, JUNE 29, 2020
ReplyDeleteELEGY
Linda Pastan
Somewhere a poem
is waiting for me
to write it: in the jewelry box,
coiled into an old ring
or stopping the hands
of a watch;
in the vanishing barn, risen
to the top of the pail
to be skimmed off;
or in the tree outside
engraved in green ink
on the underside of a leaf.
In my old room the white curtains blow
like ghosts of themselves
over the sill;
under the bed misplaced words gather
to grab my helpless ankle.
It is a poem
the child I was hides
in the ear of the woman
I have become: a poem
whose lines were the lines
of my father’s face.
WRITE A POEM LIKE THIS ONE FOLLOWING THESE STEPS:
1. Where is a poem (a change, an idea, a forgiveness) waiting for you?
2. What is it waiting for you to do?
3. Where else is this poem waiting for you?
4. To do what else?
5. Describe a scene from your past (or your future)?
6. What is this (poem) waiting to do to your when you come to this place?
7. How does coming to this place with this new poem (idea, etc.) affect you, your thinking?
Headlights parked in a dying grass fire,
ReplyDeleteunkempt hair gray in the mist.
The liquor goes down well.
Through the open car door
a poem snags your bare left foot,
you say your vows
Love this--I love "a poem snags your left bare foot," and how it leads to the last line.
ReplyDeleteThis poem says so much so succinctly! Love the headlights parked in a dying grass fire. One suggestion I'm not even sure about--perhaps move the line "unkempt hair gray in the mist" to after the line "through the open car door."
ASSIGNMENT #2, JUNE 29, 2020
ReplyDeleteFANNIE LOU HAMER
Sam Cornish
fannie
lou
hamer
never
heard
of
in chicago
was known for
her
big
black
mouth
in the south
fannie lou
ate
her greens watched
her land
and wanted
bo
vote
men went
to the bottom
of the river
for wanting less
but fannie
got up
went to the courthouse
big as a fist
black as the ground
underfoot
This poem is a narrative—it tells a story in verse. So many people are protesting in the streets across our country right now fighting for human rights they have been denied. Write the narrative (tale) of one of these people, or a tale for a right you have stood up for in your own life. Give the character a name—this makes it easier for us to identify with the character.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteFirst assignment
ReplyDeleteWhere is my poem?
It’s lost in the middle of waiting for my answer and wanting forgiveness.
Where should it go? What do I need to do to respond for it to get the answers its need.
My poem is lost in transition, lost in the wrong hands of someone that might take offense to it.
My poem is discreet, hiding where it should be, it’s in its own place where it needs to be.
My poem is waiting for the attention it deserve, waiting for someone to come along and add on to it, waiting for someone to pick it up and just read it and give it the attention it wants.
My poem shut in the book for years, just like a corner, no one has touched it, not a single soul has read it, and no one even knows it exists.
WOW!!! I love this!!! Howard also mentioned to me how much he liked it--don't know why he didn't comment on the blog.
DeleteThank you!
DeleteMy Second Poem
ReplyDeleteNo one
Knows
Where to
Begin
No one
Knows
Where to
End.
But everyone
Knows
How to start
Rage,
Riot,
Out bursts,
Why live
This way,
Why do we
Have to ALL
Be involved?
Why can’t
ALL lives
Matter
I am
Sick of
Listening
I am
Sick
Of hate
I am sick of
No love
For ALL
People
I am sick of
My family
Being targeted
I am just
Sick in general
Sick of
This pandemic
Sick of all the
Hate
Sick of all
The bullshit
Once
We all
Got a long
Once it wasn’t
A big deal
Once it was
Little
Now it is
Big
Why can’t
It all
Go back
To normal
Again, Why
Can’t we just
Be as one.
Why?
I love the 1st 8 lines. Then it kind of continues as a rant--it needs some images to make the reader feel it. It isn't a narrative--it doesn't tell a story, or have a character (such as Fanny in the example). Try making a character (Tiffany doesn't know where to begin...) or a made up character (Mary doesn't know where to begin...).
DeleteI will fix it..
DeleteHere is the edited version.
DeleteSue doesn’t know
Where to begin
Just like anyone
Else
No one
Knows
Where to
End.
But Sue
Knows
How to start
Rage,
Riot,
Out bursts,
Why live
This way,
Why do we
Have to ALL
Be involved?
Why can’t
ALL lives
Matter
Sue is
Sick of
Listening
Sue is
Sick
Of hate
Sue is
sick of
No love
For ALL
People
Sue is
sick of
her family
Being targeted
Sue is
Just Sick
in general
Sick of
This pandemic
Sick of all the
Hate
Sick of all
The bullshit
Once
We all
Got a long
Once it wasn’t
A big deal
Once it was
Little
Now it is
Big
Why can’t
It all
Go back
To normal
Again, Why
Can’t we just
Be as one.
Why?
Adding a protagonist (character) did greatly focus this poem. I identified more with Sue than with "all."
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, JULY 6, 2020
ReplyDeleteWhy I don’t write about George Floyd
Toi Derricotte
Because there is too much to say
Because I have nothing to say
Because I don’t know what to say
Because everything has been said
Because it hurts too much to say
What can I say what can I say
Something is stuck in my throat
Something is stuck like an apple
Something is stuck like a knife
Something is stuffed like a foot
Something is stuffed like a body
Write your own poem, “Why I don’t write about George Floyd, or “Why I do write about George Floyd. This poem is fairly straight forward, until the 7th line. Try to come up with your own metaphors for why or why not you can’t write about him.
I write about
ReplyDeleteMahatma Ghandi,
Henry David Thoreau,
Sermon on the Mount,
Greeks and the sense of excellence,
the early pre-christians writing the Golden Rule,
now face down in city street grit.
Wow, the last line really punched me in the gut. I like it. I might add a title including the name George Floyd, just to put it into the present time--but then again a title not mentioning George Floyd could do the same thing since the last line brings it home so strongly.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteOkay I had to write a different poem.... it was just weird... so here it is.
ReplyDeleteI don’t write about it because I don’t want to cry about it.
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to hate about it.
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to voice about it.
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to feel about it.
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to feel about it.
I don’t write about it because I am lost about it.
But I feel the hurt that some feel and the pain that others are feeling.
I especially like that you are "lost about it," but then follow up with you feel the hurt about it. Again, an image or metaphor would strengthen this, it's all abstracts (hate, feel, lost). An image would make us picture it. (Look at your deleted poem--there is not anything wrong with weird.)
DeleteHere is the two combine.
DeleteWhy I don’t write about George Floyd.
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to cry about it.
Why should I write about anyone?
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to hate about it.
Why does my opinion matter?
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to voice about it.
Why does anyone care what I think?
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to feel about it.
I only seem to matter to certain people
Just like George did. My opinion doesn’t count.
I don’t write about it because I don’t want to feel about it.
I don’t write about it because I am lost about it.
But I feel the hurt that some feel and the pain that others are feeling.
ASSIGNMENT #2, JULY 6, 2020
ReplyDeleteTHE HEALING TIME
Pesha Gertler
Finally on my way to yes
I bump into
all the places
where I said no
to my life
all the untended wounds
the red and purple scars
those hieroglyphs of pain
carved into my skin, my bones,
those coded messages
that send me down
the wrong street
again and again
where I find them
the old wounds
the old misdirections
and I lift them
one by one
close to my heart
and I say holy
holy.
Write about your own Healing Time, or perhaps a plan for your healing time if you are still struggling with healing from your past. Perhaps you were the person who always said “yes,” in which case you could reverse the theme to “Finally on my way to no.” I love the ending to this poem, the poet in finally coming to terms with all her wounds and scars deem them “holy holy.” Try to have an ending that really shows how you’ve come to respect and appreciate what you’ve been through.
As I sit there looking at my book and ready to write my thoughts down because that is what I needed to do, they went blank, I have nothing, just a stare in space, a black screen in front of me, nothing.
ReplyDeleteAs I sit here ready to write my thoughts down, I look at my book and see nothing, I see my pen almost hit the paper and then back up because I don’t know where my mind is going or where it wanted to go, I don’t know what I was thinking in the first place.
As I sit there looking at my notebook I realize I wanted to start a page full of my thoughts but then they went away, I got distracted and now I have nothing for anyone to read, I have nothing good to look at, I have nothing for even me to read or look at.
As I sit here looking at my notebook I realize, I don’t have a clue as to what I am doing, I have no idea what I wanted to even start to do, but here I am now, somewhere that I am clear minded and healed a little from what I was going through at the time.
I very much like the parallel structure (As I sit here). I love the positive ending. I wonder if this is the format you wrote your lines in--I have found when I post on this blog indents or spacing of lines often shift. (The last line of the example poem--"holy"--was supposed to be indented--but I couldn't make it happen).
DeleteFor the most part it was written that way. I used "As I sit here or there" as a first for every new paragraph. Thank you!
DeleteIt is the great plains that heals,
ReplyDeletewater towers with town names,
grain bins are monuments,
unshaven fields with whiskers of wheat.
Love this. I wonder if (in the first line) heals should be heal to match the plural plains (I am unsure about this as great plains may be considered singular as a unit. I might switch the 2nd and 3rd lines, just because it seems to flow better this way (to me).
DeleteHoward, I must say that I love how all your poems are short and to the point! you always have great image. Nice!!!! and I do agree about switching the 2nd and 3rd lines.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, JULY 13 2020
ReplyDeleteJOGGING AT 6 A.M.
Frances Mayes
The houses are stone bodies
their eyes dark or closed
Often I lose track
of heart pumps ice
my lungs are hard dry pears
Inside they still sleep
I run through their dreams
they become parts of my body
always at my heels
At the corner a light will go on
A face will appear
locked in the window
The bread will rise from the toaster
to meet her hand
Her dream is passing
through the street
She pours a glass of cold milk
I run through her body
I am a needle
I slip through my own eye
EXERCISE: 4 stanza poem
TITLE: a daily ritual
STANZA 1: What do you see—use a metaphor to describe it
STANZA 2: What part of your body do you feel? Make a metaphor for this part (organ, limb).
STANZA 3: More imagery of what you see, will see.
STANZA 4: What are you—use a metaphor.
Appalachian Trail
ReplyDeleteRocks are cracking ice,
ice age wind in Balsam Fir,
face is deadwood.
will the Trillium ever return?
Under your poncho is the darkness
A good poem, as usual. I want a bit more from this one--after reading it a few times--it just seems it needs another line or two. Perhaps something that leads to the Trillium a bit more?
DeleteApparently I don't do well with online classes.. I'll keep trying though. -April
ReplyDeleteJust glad to hear from you--and you have written some great poems on this blog--so you do well online.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #2, JULY 13, 2020
ReplyDeleteFIRST PSALM
Anne Sexton
Let there be a God as large as a sunlamp to laugh his heat at you.
Let there be an earth with a form like a jigsaw and let it fit for all of ye.
Let there be the darkness of a darkroom out of the deep. A worm room.
Let there be a God who sees light at the end of a long thin pipe and lets it in.
Let God divide them in half.
Let God share his Hoodsie.
Let the waters divide so that God may wash his face in first light.
Let there be pin holes in the sky in which God puts his little finger.
Let the stars be a heaven of jelly rolls and babies laughing.
Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
Let there be on the second day dry land so that all men may dry their toes
with Cannon towels.
Let God call this earth and feel the grasses rise up like angel hair.
Let there be bananas, cucumbers, prunes, mangoes, beans, rice and candy
canes.
Let them seed and reseed.
Let there be seasons so that we may learn the architecture of the sky with
eagles, finches, flickers, seagulls.
Let there be seasons so that we may put on twelve coats and sovel snow or
take off our skins and bathe in the Caribbean.
Let there be seasons so the sky dogs will jump across the sun in December.
Let there be seasons so that the eel may come out of her green cave.
Let there be seasons so that the raccoon may raise his blood level.
Let there be seasons so that the wind may be hoisted for an orange leaf.
Let there be seasons so that the rain will bury many ships.
Let there be seasons so that the miracles will fill our drinking glass with
sunny gold.
Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
Let there be seasons so that our fires will not forsake us and turn to metal.
Let there be seasons so that a man may close his palm on a woman’s breast
and bring forth a sweet nipple, a starberry.
Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
• Write our own Psalm.
• Try starting your lines with Let There Be…
• Look up Psalms in the Bible (a psalm means a song) and let your psalm patter n itself after one of the Biblical Psalms
Here's mine. -April
ReplyDeleteLet there be a darkness that shadows over all the land...
Let there be beautiful natural gardens that have no need for sun...
Let there be serenity in the wilderness...
Let there be clear skies...
Let the sun fade away...
Let there be us...
Let the moon guide our way...
Let there be history...
Let there be mystery...
Let there be love...
Let there be life...
Let there be... Paradise!..
Wow!! I wasn't sure what to think when I read the first line--but when I read the second the poem opened up for me. What an original thought (line)!!! Again when I hit the fourth line I had to think a minute--but the clear dark skies seeped into my brain. I might skip a line after "Let there be us..." and give the reader a minute for this beautiful line to resonate. Then "Let the moon guide our way..." starting a new stanza resonates more as well. I love the progression of history, mystery, love. I might leave out the line "Let there be life.." as it's more predictable. and I love the making the last line stand along (Let there be... Paradise!" I also love putting the ellipses in the middle of the last line before Paradise! Great job.
DeleteI like this poem. Repeating the phrase "Let there" is very effective.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteSorry i missed the title... Here is the first assignment.
ReplyDeleteDone Cooking
The barbecue started but the flames are invisible.
The chicken is the eggs to the steak I wanted yesterday but having today.
The hash browns that I tasted in my mouth but was not there now.
The Avocados that I long await for season but seems that they pass me by.
I feel my veins pumping through my skin.
My heart flowing through my chest my feet are my hands but move like my feet.
My hands are just…… There doing what they want when they want. I have no control..
I am seeing through my mouth and hearing through my eyes. I can’t seem to eat anything unless I put it through my ears.
What is going on with me?
I see the slow cook.
I see the brown turn to black.
I see the inside cooking to the outside.
I see the gray smoke rising slowly and turning into a bigger black cloud.
I see fire coming from nowhere.
I am easy potatoes.
I am a difficult salad.
I am mild salsa.
I am hard cheesecake dessert.
What a tangled web we weave we practice to deceive. Donald Trump.
DeleteCorwin it is good to see you here... I hope you are well!
DeleteYou are welcome to go back and see the instructions on any of the poems and write to catch up if you would like.
Tiffany--you've again written a poem with a lot of magic. I love it starting with invisible flames. I love the parallel structure of the 1st and last stanzas--how they frame the poem. In the second stanza--I might work on the line breaks a bit. For example: try breaking the 4th line after eat, and moving the "anything unless I put it through my ears. Again, I love the surrealness of this poem, the going back to the fire (gray smoke) in the last stanza, the difficult salad, the adjectives you've used in the last stanza.
DeleteCorwin--so glad you finally made it back into the "class." And with a one line poem!
DeleteI like the sound of it, (the rhymes), and of course--attributing it to Donald Trump.
Here is my second poem.
ReplyDeleteLet there be trees blowing in the hard wind.
Let there be butterflies holding on tight.
Let there be rain pouring down the streets to jump in.
Let there be life when life has given up.
Let there be me again.
Let there be a place I can feel the way I use to.
Let there be my space I go to when I need.
Let there be my thunderstorm.
Let there be a path that isn’t broken.
Let there be someone who wants to be my everything.
Let there be my light.
Let there be me again.
I like this poem too. On first reading I wondered about starting with wind--but the "hard wind" made it fresh, (again--great use of an adjective), and the butterflies holding on tight gave me a strong image of this hard wind.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, JULY 20 2020
ReplyDelete"What Do Women Want?"
Kim Addonizio - 1954-
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
……From Tell Me by Kim Addonizi
WHAT WE WANT
Linda Pastan
What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names—
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,
holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don’t remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stares are there
even in full sun.
INSTRUCTIONS: Write a poem patterned after one of these two poems. Use the same pattern for the title (What We Want, What Women Want, What Children Want, What the Blind Want, What Trees Want, What Rocks Want, Etc….)
I make a garden wall for you
ReplyDeleteof stone and logs
and with each spring
I mend the wall
while you watch from the window.
In winter the stones
are stacked in tidy piles,
I take one,
store it in the steamer trunk.
Good poem. What is the title?--seems perhaps it is "What we want." Maybe try strophing it by couplets (making the last stanza a one-liner). I don't know if you intended it--but nice reference to Frost's "Mending Wall," it makes the poem and the metaphor deeper.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #2, JULY 20, 2020
ReplyDeleteBIRDS
Maxine Hong Kingston
I’m living in one place so long,
the birds enlace their nests
with my white hair.
I’d like their recognizing me in return.
I pay a game with hummingbirds.
I play the hose in jets and spouts,
and the hummer follow the water,
loops and soars, turns and hovers, leaps.
I shorten the arc toward myself,
and the hummer comes to my hands.
It enters the fine spray, it flies in the spray.
It alights on the tomato cage, and waits,
raises a wing, gets a squirt in one armpit,
and the other armpit. It shows its but
and wiggles its tail. What’s that gold thread?
The hummer is spraying me back.
There’s a yellow bird that is barely anything
but a reed, a tube of song.
Its beak opens as wide as its throat, its body,
which trembles through and through.
It’s a yellow-feathered skinbag of song,
and it sings all day.
INSTRUCTIONS: What do you see from where you live every day that nourishes you. If you don’t have a window to see it through—paint a window in your mind and describe what you see there. An animal. a mountain, an anthill, etc. Describe how it relates to you (nests with my white hair).
First poem
ReplyDeleteI guess I seem to take forever to write... I am sorry...
What Women Want
The simplest of simple.
The fullest of full.
The funest of fun.
The easiest of easy.
The most exciting.
The most adventurist.
The most relaxes.
The most caring.
The bravest.
The one who puts us first.
The one who sticks up for us.
The one who fights for us.
The one who don’t give up on us.
The one who isn’t silent.
The one who is themselves around you.
The one that wants you.
I like this--but think you could make it stronger with a couple of images. (The purplest of purple). When everything is abstract--it makes it hard for the reader to connect emotionally.
DeleteSecond assignment.
ReplyDeleteThe Tree
That wind.
It seems to blow wildly.
It seems to be extreme.
It is a bit too much at times.
The tree is getting weak.
The tree is getting tired.
The tree is looking sad.
Like it can’t handle anymore.
Like it has had enough.
Like it needs a break.
Like it wants to be done.
Like it has been past hell.
The tree.
It looks hurt.
It looks in pain.
It looks exhausted.
The tree, looks pained.
I like this poem too. By personifying the tree--you draw us into the tree's feelings, and at the same time the narrator's feelings.
DeleteSANDY ANDERSON
ReplyDeleteASSIGNMENT #1, JULY 27 2020
EVENING
,Ozdemir Asaf, Trans. by Yusuf Eradam
They are breaking walnuts, I look;
They are breading the wall of the nut.
The nut comes out…
Then the children get busy with their games.
I too pick a walnut
Amongst the many walnuts.
The sea comes out of my walnut.
I set sail.
I am sailing in the wall of that nut,
Away from the gameless games of my childhood.
One evening in that child game
Away from the sea of sadness written on my forhead.
INSTRUCTIONS: Pattern a poem after this poem by
1. Describe what they (or the children are doing). Possibly this could be a game from your childhood (hopscotch, soccer, picking 4-leaf clovers)
2. What do they do next:
3. Take an object from what they are doing (a piece of chalk to draw a hopscotch), and tell what comes out of it, what you do with it.
4. How does what you do take you away from your childhood.
A bonfire of muscular logs
ReplyDeleteon the Chesapeake and Ohio canal
camping in the nightly rain.
I scrub the baseboards and walls
with burning brillo pads.
Wow! I love this. I love the ambiguity of having no pronoun in the 1st stanza so it is the bonfire camping and how the burning brillo pads amplify this. I love that you put "I" into the second stanza--especially since you seldom write in the first person. I also love that the bonfire (if you read literally) is on the canal. This seems to me a finished poem.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #2, JULY 27, 2020
ReplyDeleteSAND
.Salih Bolat, trans. by Asalet Erten
the handful of sand that I’m holding means
I’m holding in my hand
the bottom storms,
the tossed seaweed
a big fish descending deeper silently
INSTRUCTIONS: What are you holding in your hands and what does it mean?
A couple of twists to the left with a punch to the right.
ReplyDeleteAm I different than this game?
A twist to the right, and a punch to the left.
I find myself much like being this pole.
Around and back and forth the ball goes until
I find being a ball at times as well.
A couple more swings at the ball to hope that I am the winner.
I find me not knowing what direction I am going or in.
The ball finds it’s self all tied up to the pole.
I find that I am being tossed around.
my assignment that I posted is for the first one... sorry.. thought I made it in time before you posted the second assignment.
DeleteHi Tiffany. Sorry to be so late responding--somehow this didn't show up on my blog last Monday. Great poem. I love the start--so active. I love that you didn't tell us what you were playing right off the bat--that you manage to keep the reader engaged enough to read on and figure it out. In line 6, did you leave out myself (I find myself being a ball...)? I love the ending,
DeleteI will look at the original... probably... Opps...
DeleteHere is my second poem.
ReplyDeleteI am hold the and only nothing.
The treasure that means the most to me.
The one that I can relate to the most.
I try and make sense of most everything.
This is what makes sense to me the most.
Rocks are nothing special to me.
I hold a pen and not think of anything that will allow me to relate.
I hold a charm and think that it will remind me of someone I miss or don’t.
I want to put something in my hand but I just can’t
I want to see what will happen to me if I blow in it.
Poof, gone nothing is gone nothing can never come back to me.
Just nothing.
This poem isn't quite as engaging as your first--but it works. Did you leave a word out in the first line? I think if you added a detail or two it would bring it alive (what does the charm look like, what do the rocks look like?).
DeleteMy palms are soft chamois,
ReplyDeletespill the vacuum onto sagebrush
overlying layers of old lava.
This land was once on fire.
I love the first line, and the idea of this poem, but I not quite registering spilling vacuum onto sagebrush.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, AUGUST 3, 2020
ReplyDeleteBURLAP SACK
.Jane Hirshfield
A person is full of sorrow,
the way a burlap sack is full of stones or sand.
We say, “Hand me the sack,”
but we get the weight.
Heavier if left out in the rain.
To think that the stones or sand are the self is an error.
To think that grief is the self is an error.
Self carries grief as a pack mule carries the side bags,
being careful between the trees to leave extra room.
The mule is not the load of ropes and nails and axes.
The self is not the miner nor builder nor driver.
What would it be to take the bride
and leave behind the heavy dowry?
To let the thin-ribbed mule browse in tall grasses,
its long ears waggling like the tails of tow happy dogs?
INSTRUCTIONS: One of the concepts of the disability movement is that a disability is not the person, that someone with a disability is so much more than a cripple, a wheelchair, a mental illness. There is even a strong movement that calls itself “CRIP,”
in the same way to express that those with disabilities are proud of themselves, and should not be taken as objects. or be ridiculed. Especially in these pandemic times when so many of us are so isolated from each other—it is important not to let depression define us.
• Start you poem with a person full of something, or perhaps a person with a disability.
• Use an image like the burlap sack is used to hold (metaphorically) sorrow.
• Develop the image with perhaps a quote (“Hand me the sack”), and add other images to develop the poem (the mule, the miner).
• Think of a way to not carry the weight of the sorrow (the bride without the dowry).
• End with another image that progresses beyond sorrow, (“to the tall grasses”).
This comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteI can’t imagine all this stuff I have inside of me.
DeleteI can’t imagine anyone else having to deal with what I have to deal with.
I can’t imagine my brain wanting to let someone else into it.
I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be inside me and having to explode like I do.
I can’t think of what my life would be like to not be the way I am.
I can’t think anymore, I don’t like my spinning head.
I can’t help but to wonder what it would be like to have the weight lifted.
I can’t explain it all anymore. I don’t want to burden anyone.
Wow--it sounds like you're having a hard time right now (or am I just trying to react as a friend rather than a reader assuming this is a narrator speaking--not yourself). If I'm right--and you are having a super hard time--can I help--you can call anytime.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #2, AUGUST 3, 2020
ReplyDeleteIn yesterday’s “New Yorker”, Naomi chose a poem by Tracy K. Smith, and comments:
“Attention to the stranger crossing any road in any town or city; patience with the awkward encounter, the unknown intention; respect for the other whom you do not know. but with a slightest stretch of mind, imagine you do. Tracy K. Smith’s unforgettable poem from “Wade in the Water” feels so potent right now. The pedestrian sees himself one way—hears his own music in those engines idling for him—but who doesn’t? Take it easy. I am thunderstruck by the human care of her last lines.
BEATIFIC
Tracy K. Smith
I watch him bob across the intersection,
Squat legs bowed in black sweatpants.
I watch him smile at nobody, at our traffic
Stopped to accommodate his slow going.
His arms churn the air. His comic jog
Carries him nowhere. But it is as if he hears
A voice in our idling engines, calling him
Lithe, Swift, Prince of Creation. Every least leaf
Shivers in the sun, while we sit, bothered,
Late, captive to this thing commanding
Wait for this man. Wait for him.
INSTRUCTIONS:
• Watch or imagine a stranger (or even an ant, or other animal.
• Describe he/she/it looks like, what they are doing.
• What are your reactions to this stranger, others reactions.
• Imagine the stranger’s reaction to you, to others.
• End with an empathetic reaction from nature (the leaves).
Assignment #1
ReplyDeleteFlats of mud
puddled by rain
bury expired lives.
There is a stone
in my chest.
Wow--love this. You might make it 2 stanzas, putting a break after the 3rd line. But either way, I think it's a finished poem.
DeleteIt’s been hours and I am still just sitting here watching this ant carry food back and forth from the original place it was back to its hole to feed its family.
ReplyDeleteI can’t say it is the queen it is not big enough so I am sure it is the slave. Maybe even top slave.
I don’t see another in sight just one, maybe there isn’t another may it’s just looking out for itself, maybe it don’t care about anyone else.
It has no ant hill, no sand pile nothing.
I can’t imagine that it isn’t sharing with anyone with them mass amount of food it is taking to the hole.
This ant finally I think it is finished as it is just wondering around as though it is lost and has lost its hole, it can’t seem to figure out where to go and how to get its way back to where it came from.
Love this. A couple grammar items--line 5--don't should be doesn't, line 7--you don't need with them--with anyone says the same thing, and with them is confusing as you don't specify a them separate from anybody.
DeleteASSIGNMENT #1, AUGUST 10, 2020
ReplyDeleteSUNDAY NIGHT
..Raymond Carver
Make use of the things around you.
This light rain
Outside the window, for one.
This cigarette between my fingers,
These feet on the couch.
The faint sound of rock-and-roll,
The red Ferrari in my head.
The woman bumping
Drunkenly around in the kitchen…
Put it all in,
Make use.
INSTRUCTIONS: Write a poem using this Carver poem as inspiration. Perhaps use the same first line (“make use of the things around you”). Perhaps you could write an anti-make-use of things-around-you poem. (List things it is better to ignore).
Tools of the night:
ReplyDeletethe cry of the common loon on lakes
in the Canadian Rockies,
booming of the Berg Glacier on Mount Robson,
the coyote yips on the Wyoming plains,
pre-dawn robin singing outside the bedroom window,
hymn of the Tao.
Love this! I might put "in the Canadian Rockies at the end of the 2nd line--thus making it parallel structure all the way through, and the 2nd line echoing the next to last line in length, as well as the first line echoing the last line (as already happens). I love how it encompasses the broad word (from Canada to Wyoming), and how it goes down to the specific (the bedroom window), and how it uses consistently sounds to create images. And I love the "hymn of the Tao".
DeleteMake use of the light around you.
ReplyDeleteMake life easy with baby steps.
Make sure the thorn isn’t on the sidewalk.
Make sure the sharp edge of the rock isn’t sticking up.
Make sure there are no bumps in the concrete.
Make sure there are no circles in your path.
Make sure the end is really an end.
This comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteSorry, it kept coming up error. Howard finally got it fixed. (I posted an answer 4 times). Love this poem. I love how the 1st, 2nd, and last lines use a positive sentence structure, while the rest of the lines use a negative (isn't, no). I love starting with the "light," I love how "the sharp edge of the rock isn't sticking up, no bumps in the concrete, no circles....
DeleteMy favorite lines are the 1st line, and the 3rd, (the thorn isn't on the sidewalk.) Great writing.
1
ASSIGNMENT #2, AUGUST 10, 2020
ReplyDeleteBEER BOTTLE
..Ted Kooser
In the burned-
out highway
ditch the throw-
away beer
bottle lands
standing up,
unbroken,
like a cat
thrown off
of a roof
to kill it,
landing hard
and dazzled
in the sun,
right side up;
sort of a
miracle.
INSTRUCTIONS: This poem is written in syllabic verse (lines that contain the same number of syllables. Kooser’s poem uses 3 syllables a line.
• Following Kooser’s example, describe something that seems like it shouldn’t be (a beer bottle landing standing up, a boulder that looks like it should fall off a cliff but stays there).
• Compare it with something unusual in something living (a person, a cat, a cactus).
• Perhaps you could reverse the order of these two steps and describe something living then compare it to something that seems like it shouldn’t be.
• Try writing this poem in syllabics. You can repeat Kooser’s 3 syllables a line, or try a different number of syllables a line, or even vary the lines (like the 5-7-5 syllables in a haiku.
The bottles
ReplyDeleteAll stacked in
A place they
Shouldn’t be
Once they have
Been put in
A place that
I want them
In they get
Moved to a place
They don’t belong
To a unknown
Place
To somewhere dark
Somewhere they
Don’t even know
Where they are
They don’t know
How to get out
Of the holder
The bottle didn’t
Find its spot
The spot found
The bottle
The bottle had
Its place that
It wanted but
The place was
Picked by something
Else that needed it more
I enjoyed reading this poem--my favorite stanza was the next to last. Maybe you could add a couple places the bottles shouldn't be put, whether they are empty and if so, what they used to hold, what color are the bottles, are they plastic or glass. A couple more details might make the poem work into the reader's imagination a bit more.
ReplyDeleteASSIGNMENT #1, AUGUST 17, 2020
ReplyDeleteON A PINK MOON
,,,,,Ada Limon
I take out my anger
And lay its shadow
On the stone I rolled
Over what broke me.
I plant three seeds
As a spell. One
For what will grow
Like air around us,
One for what will
Nourish and feed,
One for what will
Cling and remind me—
We are the weeds.
INSTRUCTIONS:
• What do you take out (preferably an emotion, or something abstract)?
• Where do you put it (on the stone)?
• Why do you put it here? (on the stone that broke me)?
• What 3 things do you plant, or what 3 things do you choose as symbols to break whatever it is this emotion (or abstract idea) did to you?
• Tell what each of these 3 things do for you.
• Use a line with a surprise realization to sum up the poem (we are the weeds).
Add a title.
HURT
ReplyDeleteLost, how do I find my lost? How do I get back what was take from me?
What do I do next? I can’t seem to have my me.
I would like for someone to understand what it is like to go through what I have.
I would like for them to live what I have just lived.
I would like for once them to feel what it was all like.
The breaking seed, the seed that lets me finally get back what I have lost.
The seed that will not let me go back to what I missed.
The sickness, the one that I never had.
The one that I never experienced, the one I don’t want.
The one that I watched someone else go through, the one that I hated every day.
The one that took so much out of them and I couldn’t help them at all, not even an ounce.
The healing seed, the one that helped them, the one that made them bounce back.
The one that made them whole again after their life was sucked from them from a sickness that they had no control over.
The looks that everyone gives you over something that you have no control over. The one that you get because you have no idea where it even all started…
Sorry it wasn't in the same format... I can break it up to make it the same format if you would like....
DeleteThe format doesn't matter--this wasn't a form assignment. I really felt this poem, probably knowing what you're going through amplified the empathy for me. I'm not going to comment in full--the poem is too raw (in a great way as far as what and how it says it). But when you write something so immediate it' s hard for the writer to look at it objectively as a poem, and a comment any advise on how to improve it might not be pertinent until a bit of time down the road. I remember Jerry (who's visited as a guest poet a couple times) wrote a poem about his Dad (who had just died) that was very powerful, but very different from any way he'd ever written, and I made a couple comments he thought the poem was bad--even though I told him how powerful it was. It took him years to see the poem was good. I don't want to do that to you. I love the beginning (Lost, how do I find my lost?), and the way you repeated lost in this. I love the breaking seed, the seed that lets me finally get back what I have lost, The seed that will not let me go back to what I missed. And I love "The one that I watched someone else go through" contrasting with "the one that I don't want." I love the continuation of the seed as the healing seed. And I love the "looks that everyone gives you..." Great work!
DeleteI am and will re look at it I am sure. I will probably re visit it and revise it some but as of right now it is what it is and it is how thing are right now... Thank you... I was not sure how you wanted the format, I do try to use the format that you post but I am glad that it don't matter especially this time... this is a new ballgame for me right now and yes a little feeling this time... Thank you for understanding...
DeleteI guess I didn't post it all... Oops...
DeleteHURT
Lost, how do I find my lost? How do I get back what was take from me?
What do I do next? I can’t seem to have my me.
I would like for someone to understand what it is like to go through what I have.
I would like for them to live what I have just lived.
I would like for once them to feel what it was all like.
The breaking seed, the seed that lets me finally get back what I have lost.
The seed that will not let me go back to what I missed.
The sickness, the one that I never had.
The one that I never experienced, the one I don’t want.
The one that I watched someone else go through, the one that I hated every day.
The one that took so much out of them and I couldn’t help them at all, not even an ounce.
The healing seed, the one that helped them, the one that made them bounce back.
The one that made them whole again after their life was sucked from them from a sickness that they had no control over.
The looks that everyone gives you over something that you have no control over. The one that you get because you have no idea where it even all started…
The one that you did nothing wrong in the first place…
The one that you just want to sit and wonder, after all you do for these people every day, why do you get the treatment you do…
I am a crinkled thistle
ReplyDeleteasleep on the high plains
of Nebraska, by the feedlot
the liquor goes down
disappearing day.
I love the crinkled thistle, the line break to asleep, and the line break "the liquor goes down"
Deleteinto disappearing day. I have a feeling this could use a couple more lines, it doesn't quite seem complete to me yet--but like everything here.
• ASSIGNMENT #2, AUGUST 17, 2020
ReplyDeleteDEAD STARS
….Ada Limon
Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.
.Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels
so mute it’s almost in another year.
I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.
We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out
.the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.
It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue
.recycling bine until you say, Man, we should really learn
some new constellations.
And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,
.Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.
But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full
.of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—
to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward
.what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.
Look, we are not unspectacular things.
.We”ve come this far, survived this much. What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?
What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No,
.No, to the rising tides.
Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?
What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain
for the safety of others, for earth,
.if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,
if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big
people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,
rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?
INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Think of something on earth or in the sky or universe to name your poem. (Dead stars, red seas, black holes, empty libraries, sandstone cliffs)
2. Describe what you see from where you are (trees), and what it feels like (a kind of stillness)
3. Make a metaphor for yourself (I am a hearth of spiders, a nest of trying)
4. Point out something in whatever you chose from your title (red seas, etc.), and make the reader see who you are with (We—in the sample poem—the poet and her partner).
5. What are you doing? (rolling out the trash)
6. List some other things you know or would like to know about your title (red seas).
7. What are you forgetting about?
8. List some of the reasons you are forgetting or not looking at more of your (red seas, sandstone cliffs, etc.)
9. Finish with something about what you are doing, and a realization that sums up your poem.
If all 9 steps feel like too much--just skip a couple of them. (Although when doing steps such as this I often try to do them all, then delete the ones that just don't work.
DeleteBlack Stars
ReplyDeleteLooking up to see nothing.
Looking out to see everything has been taken away.
Everything has been ripped away from me.
Everything has been ripped out within me.
I am the littlest red ant trying to survive on its own hill.
The only ant in the biggest dessert there is in Egypt.
Food is hard to find at times but at times I seem to manage to find a little.
I dig enough to get moisture to drink and stay cool as I need to.
Once the stars were bright, but now they are just black.
They are as if they aren’t even in the sky at all as if they aren’t meant to be there.
They have escaped the sky this time in hopes they will be back in time to come.
I am here waiting patiently for the night to come to watch for a start.
I am watching for a shooting beginning.
I am waiting for a yellow night and black to be gone.
I am done with this different new and need to old way.
Black is not a normal.
Black is not real.
Black is not like us.
Black is not what we all expect.
Black is not what I want.
I forget what it was like to not have such a bubble.
I forget what it is like to be so alone.
I forget what it is like to not be so paranoid.
I forget what it is like to be home all the time.
I forget why people step away from you as if they are scared.
I am scared for this.
I am not ready to take all this on.
I want it to be over.
I want to feel relief.
I want what normal use to be.
I want this black to be yellow.
These stars to be suns.
The dark to be bright.
The old normal be the new normal.
Wow! I love the black star. I love the littler ant in the biggest desert in Egypt. I like all the anaphora (parallel structure). I love wanting "this black to be yellow, these stars to be suns." I was wrong to post about skipping steps--you nailed them. I want to think about this poem more--I might have more to say later--it is a very well constructed deep poem. I might leave off the last line and end with "The dark to be bright" because it sticks with the theme, and ends it without being cliche (the old normal to be the new normal). I sighed after the dark to be bright, which is what happens when you have a realization at the end of a poem, the often-used last line seemed like an afterthought.
Delete