The Writing of Poetry

The end?

Wed, 07 Dec 2011 11:02:26 -0500

Wow. This is the last entry for the semester…. Amazing.

This was my last semester of classes before I student teach, and I am amazed at how fast the time went. It seems like we were just sitting down in our crowded, hot, poetry classroom.

During this semester I have learned quite a bit. About poetry, people, and myself. I believe that I have grown substantially as a writer and that I have learned some persistence when it comes to my own writing. While I was so excited to get this semester over with and move onto student teaching, I thoroughly enjoyed it and was sad to see it pass.

Good luck to our class in all your future endeavors! It has been a pleasure getting to know you all!

Open Mic

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 20:21:09 -0500

Give me a speech, no problem. Present in front of a general meeting for work, not an issue. Teach a lesson to third graders, okay.

Get in front of a class and talk about your poetry, uh….

Yeah. That’s how I feel like my presentation went. I am generally a great public speaker. I have taught lessons, spoke at the WestPACS General Meeting, and presented in various classes. Yet when I have to talk about myself, get nervous and begin speaking very fast. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my poetry… I just don’t like people knowing its about me.

I feel that I present myself as a confident, capable individual. It makes me nervous to let people see anything else. My family experiences are in my past. I’ve worked really hard to get where I am, and I don’t want use my past as a “crutch.” What happened, happened, and it just so happens to make excellent material for poetry. So I recall my experiences in my poems, not for attention, but just as a medium to communicate my thoughts and feelings.

My thoughts on revision

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 16:58:00 -0500

So, for our chapbook, we were supposed to include poems that were “substantially” revised.

One of the most substantially revised poems that I created for this semester was a poem titled “Belonging.” This poem was originally two pages long and was shortened to a half page during revisions. Now, not all revisions require limiting length, but in order to make this poem more concise, I thought limiting the length would be wise. I find that my shorter poems always have more concrete images and ideas. As I shortened the length, I played with line breaks and eventually came up with this poem:

Belonging

He looked at me as if I don’t belong -

He’s right of course. This place,

too large, too noisy,

makes me shrink down,

until I am just one among many.

Those begonias don’t belong here either.

Their red and gold so vibrant

against a cistern that has long since lost

its prime. Rusted, faded, worn and old

with no chance of becoming new.

Yet I do, somehow,

belong.

In red and yellow too

this rusted down place

that I just might

make new.

Inspired by my awesome chapbook making skills. I have decided to...

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 16:52:00 -0500

Inspired by my awesome chapbook making skills. I have decided to make another chapbook of my poetry. This time, for my husband as a Christmas present. I am going to include photos (like this one) from our wedding and pair them with a poem for each of our 7 years of dating, plus one for our first year of marriage.

To me, a good plan. We will see how it goes! I am definitely planning on using some of the prompting strategies we practiced in class. One of my first poems is called “Old Spice,” an ode to a “familiar” object in our house.

I guess we will see where this leads!

Updating

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 16:42:53 -0500

On updating Tumblr….

Have you ever noticed how time just grabs you by the wrist, pulls you through the semester, and leaves no room to breathe? yeah. that’s exactly how I forgot to update Tumblr. But no fear, I’ve got time on my side tonight. So be prepared for some awesome Tumblr poetry updates.

To start off, a poem from one of my favorites: Shel Silverstein. Here he speaks of something that plagues us all, especially during finals: the “what ifs.” For a long time, I lived my life by the “what ifs.” They dictated what I did (and didn’t) do. But I eventually learned, that the “what ifs” aren’t definite and that life is better lived in spite of what if.

Whatif
from the book “A Light in the Attic” (1981)

Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I’m dumb in school?
Whatif they’ve closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there’s poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don’t grow talle?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won’t bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don’t grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!

Prezi

Thu, 10 Nov 2011 13:51:16 -0500

I am seroiusly so excited to be learning about Prezi! After seeing it used by multiple people I have always been amazed at the interesting and professional content one can create with this software.

Also, I will be student teaching next semester and I have so many ways I can use this tool in the classroom!

There is one drawback. Prezi does not work very well on the iPad. Viewing is much better if you download the Prezi Viewer (free from iTunes store), but it is terribly difficult to create a presentation via the iPad.

So you know what that means….

I will definitely be experimenting this weekend!

"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness..."

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 17:39:31 -0500

“

Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them

- William Shakespeare

”

- I’m working on something witty and individual to say about this quote. Perhaps even a poem or two.

But my main idea here is:

The first way to achieve greatness is to care. Care about your job, your classes, your assignments. Care about each thing you do.

Because you never know who depends on you.

Prosetry

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 17:28:56 -0500

So what is the difference between prose, poetry, and prose poetry?

The only answer to this question would be: the lines are blurry.

Prose can have poetic elements, poetry can have elements of prose, while prose poetry is a mix of both. Confused?

Here is how I understand it. Prose poetry plays with line breaks, word sounds, and all of the fun things that poetry offers. It tells a story, conveys an idea, or describes something in prose form, but with limited words.

I am pretty sure that there are no clear boundaries on what exactly IS prose poetry, as many in the literary community refuse to admit that prose poetry exists.

So, instead of calling it prose poetry, I have a new name:Prosetry. And here is my example:

All that Remains

Just another pile of dust to sweep under the

rug. Sweeping, sweeping, but the line remains

a constant reminder, a memory if you will.

Not memories of better times, better places, better

names or better faces. But each memory is a tiny

particle of doubt that will not let me be. They swirl

all around me. They call, they remind me.

Even under the rug, they still cause me to

trip. falter. fear. No matter how hard I

sweep, I can’t rid myself of these tiny, microscopic

memories.

Because I love to emulate William Carlos Williams, I thought I...

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 06:25:35 -0400

Because I love to emulate William Carlos Williams, I thought I would do a spin off of his poem about the woman who loves to eat plums (see entry below).

The leaves are falling

down. The leaves are

falling down. The

leaves are falling down.

"The line-break is a form of punctuation additional to the punctuation that forms part of the logic..."

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 06:16:59 -0400

“The line-break is a form of punctuation additional to the punctuation that forms part of the logic of completed thoughts. Line-break - together with the use of intelligent indentation and other devices of scoring - represent a particular a-logical, parallel (noncompetitive) punctuation.
- Denise Levertov”

- In this quote, Denise Levertov suggests that the line break is simply another form of punctuation. She further asserts that the line break enables the poet to play with the “melos” or the musical tones and emotional effects of the poem.

While I do agree with Levertov, I also believe that line breaks have different effects on different readers. Some read poetry straight through without stopping. Others pause at the line breaks when the author meant them to be enjambed.

And just a few, very few, actually read poetry correctly. They pause when there is a dash, read through enjambment, and give punctuation marks their correct pauses. In each different reading, the meaning has changed.

Levertov gives us another wonderful example of this, William Carlos Williams’ poem about a woman eating plums:

They taste good to her.

They taste good

to her. They taste

good to her.

In each sentence, different emphasis is placed on different words (generally the word in the middle).

"Our biggest mistake was getting involved as a nation in lending money to students,” -..."

Wed, 26 Oct 2011 10:55:00 -0400

““Our biggest mistake was getting involved as a nation in lending money to students,”
- Economist Richard Vedder, director of the Center for College Affordability and Productivity”

- As I was reading this article in the Pittsburgh Tribune Review, I was extremely disturbed by this comment.

So many students receive federal aid from the government, and many of us wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Federal Stafford loans. Now I understand, we are in a major budget crisis right now, but education should be the last thing we cut!

If knowledge is power, then obviously this guy does not understand the implications of cutting federal aid to students.

Please keep in mind, the article was about President Obama’s plan to reduce student loan debt, which I’m not particularly fond of either. We shouldn’t allow students to pay back only small fractions of their student loans (because our nation is already bankrupt), but we also shouldn’t cut their funding.

Obviously, if you have a college education, you should understand the implications of taking out student loans. Be responsible and only take out what you can afford to pay back. If you know that you won’t be able to pay back $212,000 in student loans, find another way!

I speak from experience. To avoid going into more student debt (and because I probably couldn’t get a loan anyway) I paid off much of my tuition by working my way through college. It’s not as hard as people make it sound… Plus, places like Wal-Mart, Target, and even local businesses are very willing to work with your class schedule.

So, get up, get moving, and don’t wait for the government to solve your student loan problems!

(And yes, I realize this isn’t poetry, but if it weren’t for being aware of facts like this, I probably wound’t be in this poetry class)

"Compare where you are to where you want to be and you’ll get nowhere - Sara Bareilles"

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:14:00 -0400

“Compare where you are to where you want to be and you’ll get nowhere
- Sara Bareilles”

- As I was driving to SHU today and listening to one of my favorite artists, Sara Bareilles, I was reminded of this simple fact.

If I keep comparing myself to what I want to be, I’m always going to fall short. I can’t wake up one morning and decide I’m Shakespeare and expect to write perfect Elizabethan sonnets in seconds.

It’s about the process. And so, with this in mind, I will continue to write my shitty first drafts, crappy seconds, and maybe, just maybe in that long line of drafts, I will create something somewhat worthwhile.

On Workshops

Wed, 19 Oct 2011 20:53:00 -0400

Workshops can be pretty scary. As evidenced in my poem, “On Shitty First Drafts,” I’m not the most comfortable sharing my works.

I want people to like what I write. I want it to speak to them. I want to say something important, something that will sound so profound and great. I have so many great thoughts. So many experiences to share with the world.

Yet sometimes my words do not always convey my “big” thoughts. Somewhere, between the synapses, some meaning is lost. I am only left with the few words I write down.

But maybe, just maybe, my words will reach someone.

So this leads me to my point: meaning. I tried so hard to sneak meaning into that sestina, but I find that some poems just cannot be forced. My best poetry comes unprovoked, when I least expect it.

Just like this poem: I Go Back to April 2001, inspired partly by Sharon Olds and our repetition class.

I Go Back to April 2001

I go back to the days

when we took this family picture

Did you know that I would remember?

I go back to the days of

teenage angst.

When all I wanted was to be loved.

Did you know that love was all I needed?

I go back to the days of

“mom’s just tired.”

When all I wanted was to know, “why”

Did you know that I still believed in you?

I go back to the days of

“This is the last time.”

When dad told me it would never end.

Did you know that I didn’t believe him?

I go back to the days of

stability.

When I still had a home to come home to.

Did you know that we would lose the house?

I go back to the days

when we took this family picture.

Did you know that I would want to forget?

"Sestina: a lyrical fixed form consisting of six 6-line usually unrhymed stanzas in which the end..."

Tue, 18 Oct 2011 12:28:45 -0400

“Sestina: a lyrical fixed form consisting of six 6-line usually unrhymed stanzas in which the end words of the first stanza recur as end words of the following five stanzas in a successively rotating order and as the middle and end words of the three verses of the concluding tercet
- Miriam Webster”

- Here is my very first attempt at creating a sestina. The repeating words are: time, glass, fall, color, space, and silent.
When I arrived here that first time,

As fragile as the stained glass

That surrounds this place, while fall

Filtered through the windows and color

Spread all around me, occupying this space.

Amidst all the noise and confusion, here was silent.

The very comforting, enveloping silent

Felling that reminds me of the time

When it was just you and I, alone in another space

And I, still fragile as this stained glass

Wanted to know everything about you. The color

Of your eyes, as they watched me fall.

And as I fell, I knew that you, too, would fall

Into a new understanding, a silent,

Secret understanding of me, and of the color

Of my world. And in that short time

Of understanding that fragile, stained glass

Version of me, you decided to love me, there in that space.

Yet I still sit, here in this space

Amazed that you chose to fall.

I look through the fragile, stained glass

And begin to pray, silent

Prayers for just a little more time

And space and color.

My prayers, caught in the color

Of the sunset, forcing light out of this space,

Reminding me that it is now time

To go out into the fall

To walk away from these silent

Sculptures and fragile, stained glass

Time for the fragile, stained glass

Barriers I have built to break, and color

Our space with stars that send a silent

Message to you, telling of my fall

A message heard in another place, in another time.

Yet you need time to interpret that starry glass

Message as you fall, once more, into the color

Of our silent space, together.

"All your life you are told the things you cannot do. All your life they will say you’re not..."

Tue, 11 Oct 2011 06:49:15 -0400

“

All your life you are told the things you cannot do. All your life they will say you’re not good enough or strong enough or talented enough; they will say you’re the wrong height or the wrong weight or the wrong type to play this or be this or achieve this. They will tell you no, a thousand times no, until all the no’s become meaningless. All your life they will tell you no, quite firmly and very quickly.

And you will tell them yes.

- Annon (Nike Ad)

”

- This reminds me of my high school guidance counselor who told me that I shouldn’t even consider college… because I couldn’t afford it. It didn’t matter to him that I was seventh in my class or that I had been working 40 hours a week since ninth grade. The day I got my scholarships to SHU, I knew I had proved him wrong.

In three months, I will be student teaching. I will NEVER tell a student that they are incapable of anything.

Haiku

Sun, 09 Oct 2011 18:45:26 -0400

Before fall break, we dabbled with Haiku poetry. This was our first in-class attempt with poetic form. Ironic, because in my first couple attempts I used the wrong form… I mixed up the syllable pattern. Instead of writing poems in the 5-7-5 style, I wrote them in 7-5-7 style… Oh well.

Here are my haiku attempts:

1.(7-5-7 style) in-class exercise

Colorful satisfaction

yummy chocolate treat

hand over the M&M’s

2. (5-7-5 style)

if names determined

who we would end up being

I would change my name

3. (5-7-5 extended haiku)

My mother’s soft voice

Amidst my useless protests

No one wins the war

Two weeks of rehab

Gone down the drain, once again

Leaving me speechless

Will this endless struggle,

This back and forth clash of desires

Ever resolve itself?

A few weeks ago we watched a video in our class. One of the...

Sun, 09 Oct 2011 18:22:00 -0400

A few weeks ago we watched a video in our class. One of the featured poets was Sharon Olds (yes, the one wearing all pink!). Anyway, I really enjoyed her poetry. Here is a picture of what Sharon looks like now.

The Pact by Sharon Olds

We played dolls in that house where Father staggered with the Thanksgiving knife, where Mother wept at noon into her one ounce of
cottage cheese, praying for the strength not to
kill herself. We kneeled over the
rubber bodies, gave them baths
carefully, scrubbed their little
orange hands, wrapped them up tight,
said goodnight, never spoke of the
woman like a gaping wound
weeping on the stairs, the man like a stuck
buffalo, baffled, stunned, dragging
arrows in his side. As if we had made a
pact of silence and safety, we kneeled and
dressed those tiny torsos with their elegant
belly-buttons and minuscule holes
high on the buttock to pee through and all that
darkness in their open mouths, so that I
have not been able to forgive you for giving your
daughter away, letting her go at
eight as if you took Molly Ann or
Tiny Tears and held her head
under the water in the bathinette
until no bubbles rose, or threw her
dark rosy body on the fire that
burned in that house where you and I
barely survived, sister, where we
swore to be protectors.

"What I’ve learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices..."

Tue, 20 Sep 2011 06:32:00 -0400

““What I’ve learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head”
- Anne Lamott”

- Last week, we read an excerpt by Anne Lammott, called “Shitty First Drafts.” The above quote is exactly how I feel when I sit down to write a first draft. I feel nervous, then I think: “This is worthless…. You’re a literature major, not a writer!” And thus, before I even begin…. I’m finished.

So here’s the first draft of a poem I wrote in light of this experience. And here’s you, Anne Lamott, and to all of us writing shitty first drafts.

On Shitty First Drafts

On “shitty first drafts”

and voices too loud

and mice stuck in a jar.

of first-last attempts

and poems that suck

all thrown out for someone to see.

Of meanings wrote wrong

and metaphors sung

overlapping by twos and by threes.

I scream and I cry

roll over and die

Not poetry, literature please!

Cinnamon My mother smells of cinnamon, A candle melted...

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 07:07:00 -0400

Cinnamon

My mother smells of cinnamon,

A candle melted down.

Of reds and browns and memories

that hid and won’t be found.

A smell ingrained into my soul

of cinnamon and sweet

yet smelling cinnamon alone

leaves me feeling incomplete.

My mother’s skin so smooth,

yet strong and so two sided

with a line that runs between

two parts of her soul divided.

The cinnamon end all spice,

yet hardened to the core

and sweet turned to ice,

and love -

it is no more.

So after much revision, I finally feel like I can post my cinnamon poem. I think I lucked out with such a great food item! Cinnamon reminds many of us of the holidays, time with family, or, like me, time spent baking with my mother. Yet cinnamon alone is not sweet. It is quite bitter, very spicy, and not very forgiving if you eat a tablespoon of it.

That is why I chose to write this poem about my mother: to remember the sweet along with the not-so-sweet.

On Thursday, we were given an item for inspiration. Mine just...

Mon, 05 Sep 2011 17:37:45 -0400

On Thursday, we were given an item for inspiration. Mine just happened to be cinnamon, so I decided to go with it and make some apple pies for Labor Day! They turned out pretty well!

Hopefully I’ll be able to write a little about the experience. Who knows?