#35

Unfaithful

I shall not worship you,
It is not required...

Take me into you,
Ravage my body,
And devour me fully,
Pierce my soul with your tongue.
Position my body in your direction,
Delicately,

Bite my flesh, and lick the whelps
He has risen on my beating heart.

Slap me, bind me, then
release me, and inhabit
my desires. Liberate
my mind and call it,
Nirvana.

I'm not really sure if this poem will be understood the way I meant for it to be. I was trying to make a reference to religion. The sexual connotations are definitely there, but I'm not sure if there has been enough added for readers to recognize the religious undertones. Help?

#34

Headless Figure

I live in the mist,
blurring your visions
of thoughts that used to be.
Lying upon your clothes, your hair.
Creeping inside your lungs,
stealing the words you so desperately
want to exhale.

This is a part of what I came up with while writing about the angel statue in class. I don't know, its kind of weird but I think it may serve as a stanza in a longer piece. Oh! The title will definitely be changed once the rest has been written. This title was put into place so that I would know what it was when looking through my documents. Any suggestions on the work so far or suggestions on what I could do with it? Title?

#33

Anne's Truest Confession

I smiled and told them,
"Think of all the beauty still left
around you and be happy."
Inside of myself, I was shuddering
from the cold that I felt, within my heart.
I never spilled the black ink
that resides within my veins, instead
I tiptoed them blue, in the hushed
thoughts of concentration.
Captured within those small
walls, I begged for them not
to take me, not to peel the
flesh from my bones.
I allowed Typhus to rape my body,
so that I could thrive in my
eternal home.

This was my attempt at confessional poetry. I like some of it, but I feel that it needs to be developed more. Does anyone have suggestions on how I could do this?

#32

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

~Pablo Neruda

Seriously, this guy was amazing. I could post his poems all day. It's somewhat strange but I find myself comparing this piece with those of Sylvia Plath's. It has that haunting quality to it. It stays with the reader long after it has been read, whispering strange whispers into their minds.

#31

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

I was thinking about changing one of my poems because I was so inspired by this one. I really appreciate the way she uses color to create imagery and hope to accomplish this in my own work.

#30

In a box

Their leathery skin
worn, abused,
with deep gashes
caked in mud

cold and alone
abandoned
left to rot in darkness
Their souls corroded

~ Author Unknown

Love, love, love this! This poem exhibits extraordinary attention to detail. I think we could all learn something from this piece. Comment and tell me what you think about it.

#29

May

by Sara Teasdale

The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.

Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May.

Ready for the weather of spring. I'm sad that spring break will soon come to an end but at least
I'm able to post this poem in which I love so much.

#28

To the tune of Gloria Gaynor's - 'I Will Survive'....

First I was afraid, I was petrified
I could feel a strange commotion deep in my backside
I had spent so many nights trying to contain the pong
But I grew strong
And my arse burst into song
And so my gas
Had come to pass
As long as I know how to fart the world can kiss my ass
I got all my life to live
I got all my wind to give
It's fun to fart
It's fun to fart

~Katy

It's spring break! Just having a bit of fun.

#25

Just Remember

When everything is over and gone, remember me.
When our hearts are left without a song, remember me.

I wish you well for all of your days, whether we're together
or apart you will always belong in my memories, remember me.

No matter how frail our minds might become
my love for you wills always be strong, remember me.

I hope our friendship last throughout our life's time
but if it does not I long for you to please, remember me.

If you and I age quickly and our minds begin to waver
in and out of reality, prolong forgetting, remember me.

When you can no longer withstand losing memories,
losing us, I will be there chanting on, remember me?

My attempt at a ghazal stinks. Help anyone.

#27

Aubade by Philip Larkin

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realization of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

This poem is pretty long but well worth reading. At first,
I was trying to figure out how this is an aubade but after
reading through a second time I realized that it is possible
that he is a lover of life and that he speaks of his inevitable
departure.  Any one else have comments on what this piece may be
about?

#26

Elegy for My Angel

Her eyes dimmed as though the
Kerosene in her had lessened
and then the light left.

It was fall of 1994, the world was full of
change. The foliage was slowly losing its color;
The world, losing its Saint.

I had foreseen her departing, her wings in sight.
They had always been there, tucked away
by the teal of her housecoat.
They were not covered in feathers,
but by the selfless deeds she had completed.
Gracious smiles and tears of gratitude
glistened amongst her back.

I would see the pain leave her face, her genuine smile returning.
The pain that had always been there, tucked away
by the lightheartedness of her laughter.
Her truth, eventually exposed by the deterioration of her own
gritted smile.
Without pain her smile would return to
its brilliant innocence.

But it didn't seem fair.

She would have given the world everything
she had. She would have given the blue of her own eyes.
She was beautiful in blue.
She was beautiful in anything.

The same world that she loved so much, expelled her love.

She loved her Gardenias, planted there near the porch.
She loved Jesus and the hymns that were sung on Wednesday.
She loved sweet tea.
She loved me, and I her.

But now she flies.

This is the elegy that I wrote this week. As always any suggestions are wanted and appreciated. :)

#25

Russell Edson's Ape

You haven't finished your ape, said mother to father,
who had monkey hair and blood on his whiskers.

 I've had enough monkey, cried father.

 You didn't eat the hands, and I went to all the
trouble to make onion rings for its fingers, said mother.

 I'll just nibble on its forehead, and then I've had enough,
said father.

 I stuffed its nose with garlic, just like you like it, said
mother.

 Why don't you have the butcher cut these apes up? You lay
the whole thing on the table every night; the same fractured
skull, the same singed fur; like someone who died horribly. These
aren't dinners, these are post-mortem dissections.

 Try a piece of its gum, I've stuffed its mouth with bread,
said mother.

 Ugh, it looks like a mouth full of vomit. How can I bite into
its cheek with bread spilling out of its mouth? cried father.

 Break one of the ears off, they're so crispy, said mother.

 I wish to hell you'd put underpants on these apes; even a
jockstrap, screamed father.

 Father, how dare you insinuate that I see the ape as anything
more than simple meat, screamed mother.

 Well what's with this ribbon tied in a bow on its privates?
screamed father.

 Are you saying that I am in love with this vicious creature?
That I would submit my female opening to this brute? That after
we had love on the kitchen floor I would put him in the oven, after
breaking his head with a frying pan; and then serve him to my husband,
that my husband might eat the evidence of my infidelity . . . ?

 I'm just saying that I'm damn sick of ape every night,
cried father.

This is one of the few prose poems that I actually like.  I hope my prose poem turns out
this interesting.  Enjoy!

#24

So, I've tried to begin working on my prose poem for next week and I seem to be stuck. I'm so used to writing poetry in poetry form that I don't know what to do. The minute amount of work I have accomplished so far, just seems like a regular poem to me. I'm going to be honest I do not like the form. I think poetry should be poetry. "The best words in their best order" The the language of poetry should also be condensed. I do not do very well writing stories anyway, so I am terrified of next week. If anybody has any suggestion on how to make this any easier... POST IT. Ha-ha.

#23

OVERVIEW

Students compose found and parallel poems based on descriptive literary passages they have read. Students first select a passage and then pick out descriptive words, phrases and lines. They then arrange and format the excerpts to compose their own poems. Students create found poems (poems that are composed from words and phrases found in another text) as well as parallel poems (original poems that use the same line structures as another poem, but focus on a completely different topic.) This process of recasting the text they are reading in a different genre helps students become more insightful readers and develop creativity in thinking and writing. Since students are primarily identifying nouns and verbs for use in their poems, the lesson also provides a relevant opportunity for a grammar review of these two parts of speech.

I found this article on the internet when searching found poems. I thought it was an interesting take on the things we learned about found poems this week.

I'm thinking of doing something like this for this weeks found poem. I have so many ideas I'm not sure where to start. So, I will start with the idea of finding lines from books and fitting them together and if that doesn't work out the way I hope I will move on to the next of my many ideas.

#22

Sestina for the Frightened

When darkness falls and the owl speaks,
the floor boards squeak and I become nervous.
Every sound, sight, and shadow makes me jump.
On the couch, blanket pulled up high, I lie fallow
but I cannot protect myself from the thoughts planted
by my overly imaginative mind.

My cat wants my company and I don't mind.
For he speaks
to me in his planted
purrs and my nervousness
begins to fall fallow.
Then the house moans and I jump.

From the couch to my feet, I instantly jump
and thoughts of doubt invade my mind,
it is no longer fallow.
I laugh at myself and speak
to my pet, of my silly nervousness.
But because of my fright he has planted

his claws into the plant
that stands beside me. When I jumped
it made him just as nervous
but now he won't mind.
I calmly speak
to him and ask him to lay fallow.

As we lay fallow
my fingers, his claws planted
into the plush cushions. I speak
to my beloved and ask him not to jump
but to mind,
so that we might contain our nervousness.

I truly would like for my nerves
to be fallow
and for my mind
to be implanted
with realistic thoughts so that I do not jump.
So with great intention I speak:

That I will no longer be nervous; I will keep my body planted
firmly on this couch, while my mind lies fallow. I will no longer jump.

I made the revisions on my Sestina and here is what I came up with. I feel like I have somewhat accomplish the Sestina and am happy to say that I will not be writing any others. Thank you all for the suggestions. Oh, and about the 3 lines at the end... I could not seem to make it work out, so it made it my own and omitted the 3rd and used it with greater attention in the stanza above. However, if anyone has a suggestion on how to work it in so that is doesn't sound crazy I would be willing to look at this stupid thing one last time. Ha!

#21

After reading the "List and Found" packet this week I have noticed potential poems everywhere. While I'm in the classroom taking notes. When I'm walking the halls noticing the posted info on the doors and walls. While I'm driving home. Reading ingredient labels of the food I eat. The instructions from the new heating pad I received (for stress relief). Telephone conversations. Homework instructions. Magazines. Television. EVERYWHERE. All of the possibilities are making me crazy. It somewhat exciting though. Has anyone else noticed these things?

#20

I really enjoyed reading over the new forms and their examples this week. When I was looking them I really wanted to try them all. Unfortunately, I do not have time to do that but I feel that I will try the few that I wrote down in the near future. I was really surprised how well everyone created these new forms. I was equally surprised by everyone's attempts at others new forms.

On a different note, the sestina form I was complaining about earlier is coming along quite nicely now. At least I think it is. I'm pretty proud of the work I have done so far on it but it still has a long way to go. I wonder if anyone else has had a hard time of keeping the lines close to one another in length. This has been something that I have struggled with this time.

#19

It's late. I am again attempting to conquer the Sestina. This form is extremely difficult for me. I'm not sure what it is that I keep doing wrong but my lines are not as uniformed as I would like for them to be. I feel that if I could find the "perfect" words for this form I would feel less frustrated. I feel that if I was able to get a good amount of sleep my brain would be clearer.

SESTINA SATURDAY: Ass On Cushion

To write sestinas, first I have to sit
And ponder on a topic. As I think
I take strange journeys deep within my mind
And memories, until at last I stop.
Ideas are tricky to pluck from the dark,
But till I do I really have no peace.

This one is all about my search for peace.
Twice daily I take time out and I sit -
Ere sunrise, a quick shower in the dark,
While eve'nings, it's my living room, I think
That is best for my effort to just stop
And tame the monkeys rambling in my mind.

For many years, I've given little mind
To anything that you'd call inner peace.
Too much to do; the chore list doesn't stop
Because I'd like to take the chance to sit
Without having to talk or write or think.
Lights out? I'd still be toiling in the dark.

But now I'm stumbling blindly in the dark
Most of the time, just trying to calm my mind.
Just for a little while, just not to think
About what's pressing me, a bit of peace
Is all I want. Still mostly when I sit,
My ass on cushion, I can't seem to stop.

But one day soon, I know that I will stop,
That I will find there waiting in the dark
Some things I need. Until then I still will sit,
And treat with patience all that plagues my mind.
(I'm sure among them is a thought of peace
That's way off base). That's what I hope and think.

I've spent a lifetime learning how to think,
'Twill take a long time, too, to learn to stop
My dwelling on the things that threaten peace
And quiet. But it's quite good to go dark
For its own sake meanwhile, and I don't mind
A little space and time to simply sit.

This poem was my chance to sit and think
About how much my mind just needs to stop
And let the dark sink in and bring some peace.
~Kate Sherrod

I actually found this on Blogger and liked it. I feel that it sums up the way I feel right now.

#18

Light Space

Glitter dances
upon the shimmering
ripples if iridescent blue.
Specs of glass-like
granules dance
through the breeze.
Rush, Thrust, Pull, Recede
Breaking free of this
world, stands a lonely

peak of plaster.
White as the sun
stained with blood
colored varnish.
Spiraling planks
fill the interior
of the dome shaped
architecture.
Shine, Rotate, Illuminate, Blink

I wrote this piece last semester. For some reason I really like it. However, I need some advice on how to format it and I despise the title. PLEASE help a chick out.

#17

My poem this week, "Traveling Charleston and Main" is about the discriminations between different classes, but it was meant to be more than that. The setting of this poem is in a older time (the early 1900's). The young women are meant to be whores or prostitutes. I'm not sure how many people caught that. The word bedclothes seemed to catch some people off guard the intended meaning for this word was for bed sheets. When I did some research on the dialect of the 1900's this was in there and I thought it was cool. So, as far as the title goes I picked Charleston because it is known as the Holy City and I thought that might give the old women more of a reason to scowl and heave. I chose Main because this was the main road lower class women of this time were forced to do. That you all for the comments. I was unsure how everyone would feel about the language and was relieved to find that almost everyone liked it.

Traveling Charleston and Main

From when ce do these churlish people come?
Is it not enough to be a lady,
to curtsey gracefully, polite fully so?
We do wear our dresses and keep our manners.

Is it not enough to be a lady?
We cross our legs and pin our hair,
in fear of the cold night's draft.
But the women in bonnets scowl and heave as if we did something wrong.
We pull the Gents aside privily,

for they too fear the cold night's draft.
So we warm them in our weary bosoms,
but we pull them aside privily
and are steadfast within our tattered bedclothes.

Though we warm the Gents in our weary bosoms,
we still curtsey to all, polite fully so.
We are always steadfast within our bedclothes.
So from whence do these churlish women come?

#16

Even though I did not speak out in class I did find some interesting things that Billy Collins made reference to in his poem "Journal"(page 20).

Corot: was a French landscape painter and print maker in etching.
Catullus: was a Roman poet of the 1st century BC. The works that survived are still widely read today and continue to influence poetry and other forms of art.

Camus: was a French author, philosopher, and journalist who was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1957.

Anodyne: is a medicine that relieves or soothes pain by lessening the activity in the brain.

Kingfisher: Because I didn't know what it was... Is a bird.

Leonardo's Codex: I looked at a picture of the this. It had many doodles and drawings in the margins.

I really could not believe that I had read through this poem the first time and didn't even realize that I had read over so many unfamiliar things. The poem seemed familiar and comfortable enough without knowing the exact meanings and that really amazes me. Collins is pretty awesome if you ask me.

#15

A Cross Haiku

For my newly created form I used a non-traditional styled Haiku with the use of Acrostics.

My example:

Ted

Trees have a time to
expand, during a season
drenched enough at the heart.


The first words of each line spell out Ted and the first letter of each word makes the statement: That Ted as death. Not the best example but I ran out of time. It was a fun form to try out and if any of you have some extra time I encourage you to try it as well.

#14

Disheartened

The cafe is
bustling, green
menus cover
the searching eyes,
of possible
prospects, she now
realizes that
she will remain
at this booth,

in the corner,
she sits, her hair
tasseled like a
child's, clouds fall in-
to her eyes, gloom
has found its path.
In the posture
of un-watered
flowers she sits.

With vibrating
limbs, she waits, for
the person in
white, swirling the
long forgotten
memories in
her now cold cup
of tea, as she
waits for the chime.

This is the new version of my syllabic poem that I re-worked after reading through the suggestions for this week. I can't tell you all how much I appreciate all the feedback I received. There were a couple of you who questioned who she was waiting for and why she was there, but I wanted this poem to be somewhat open for interpretation. The reader can imagine the women in whatever situation comes to mind. Again thanks everyone. If any of you have more suggestions to make this piece better please let me know.

#13

Pantoums

Ok, I'm going to start out very honest. I had a really hard time with the pantoum this week. It took me a very long time to complete the one I did and frankly it stinks. So I plan to revise and re-work it so that I can give it to the class for more revisions and suggestions. I have a new goal in life... Conquer Pantoums! I thought I would post the stinky one so that you guys could give me suggestions before I re-work it.

Traveling Charleston and Main

From where do these ruthless people come?
Is it not enough to be a lady,
we curtsey gracefully, polite fully so?
We do wear our dresses and our bonnets.

Is it not enough to be a lady?
We cross our legs and pin our hair,
when we wear our dresses and our bonnets.
But the old women scowl and heave as if we did something wrong.

We cross our legs and pin our hair,
in fear of the cold night's draft.
The old women still scowl and heave as if we did something wrong.
Perhaps they are envious of our beauty.

They fear the cold night's draft.
The old hag's health is declining.
They are envious of our beauty,
and do not care for us at all.

The old hag's health is rapidly declining.
We still curtsey gracefully, polite fully so.
But they do not care for us at all.
From where do these ruthless people come?


I was going for an older time. The ladies are prostitutes and the old women obviously do not approve. I do not think this idea is very clear so any suggestions would be much appreciated.

#12

There Are No Bars to Our Embrace

There are no bars to our embrace,
No presence more than in heart.
We live our lives with love and grace,
Together still, though still apart.

No presence more than in the heart,
No touch more salient than a dream.
Together still, though still apart,
We are more lucky than we seem.

No touch more salient than a dream,
Though dreams alone must sometimes be.
We are more lucky than we seem,
If I trust you, and you trust me.

Though dreams alone must sometimes be,
We live our lives with love and grace.
If I trust you, and you trust me,
There are no bars to our embrace.

~Nicholas Gordon

I love this poem. The form is right on and the rhyme isn't over powering. I think it supplies a good message as well. I hope that my pantoum turns out half this good. I hope you guys like it as well. Feel free to share your comments on this piece with me. :)

#11

Dreamless

My hands are shaking.
My eyes are half shut.
Delirium flows through my veins
and sloshes around in my head.

Something is holding me here
in this state of consciousness.
I have knelt at the feet of my
sleepless specter.

I pleaded for some relief.
For she is the one who-
prohibits me to sleep.

She's dressed in white.
Her form is squared.
Every night her head is there beside mine.

And she whispers...
"You mustn't sleep dear one.
There's far too much you have left undone."

So, when I wrote this poem I had gotten the idea from Parks blog page. The idea is that my bed is talking to me. However, I did tend to want it to seem like the subconscious as well. I would really appreciate any feedback given now that I am able to discuss what I was going for. Also, any suggestions for a better title. It was Wishes for Dreams which was horrible, but I really don't like this new one either. I don't know I'm running out of ideas. Thanks!

#10

Where's Middle Ground?

Tonight as I sat down to write yet another poem, I found myself stuck. Stuck in the same place I have been for quite sometime. Right there between not mysterious enough and too abstract. Let me explain. Last semester my work did not contain any elements of surprise. My poetry was too forward and this was very well noted. So I have tried and tried to work on this. But it seems now, that my mysterious is too mysterious. I can't seem to find that middle ground. I have been told that this is what every writer struggles with when first starting out. Finding your middle ground. So if any of you have any suggestions on how to do this please let me know. :)

#9

Learning to Write a Sonnet

The sonnet form is old and full of dust
And yet I want to learn to write one well.
To learn new forms and grow is quite a must,
But I will learn it quickly, I can tell.

So I sit today, with pen in hand,
Composing three new quatrains with a rhyme.
The rhythm flows like wind at my command.
The A-B-A-B form consumes my time.

But I am not done until there's fourteen lines.
One ending couplet, after three quatrains.
I've tried to write this new form several times.
The effort's huge; I have to rack my brain.

But I persist, my fourteen lines now done.
I wrote my poem; my sonnet work is won.

~Denise Rodgers

I found this sonnet while I was researching others. I found a lot of humor in it, as it is exactly how I feel when composing my own work. So I decided to share with all of you. Enjoy!

#8

I really enjoyed reading The Good Thief by Marie Howe. It really showed that an artist can keep their own style in tact, even when they use many different forms. I can respect that and aspire to do that myself by the end of the semester. Right now, I tend to go for really short lines and usually a three or four lined stanza. I find it hard to stay away from rhyme and can only assume that's because my earliest readings of poetry rhymed. So I have it etched in my mind that poetry is supposed to have some element of rhyme. Howe did a nice job of keeping a nice rhythm without using rhyme and when she did use rhyme she did so gracefully. I really admire an artist that can use so many different techniques without losing their particular style.
Just a side note- Did anyone else notice that she used the word muddy in several of her pieces?

#7

The Beast

When I ask her what it sounds like
she says it grunts, drools,

it's hunched over and grinning.
When I ask her who it is, shes says it's her.

When I look her in the eye and ask, is it talking
to me now? Is it the beast talking when you talk?

She thinks for a minute, and says, no, it's curled up.
She's talking, but it's watching her.

Later that night, I make love for hours.
I forget my name, where my arms are, what

my tongue is doing. I think I must have cried out
unimaginable things and I think of my sister

in the next room, laying on her back, blinking in the dark.
The next morning, we make coffee and talk about the beast again.

My sister is rinsing out her cup when she turns
and says, slowly, it's male you know.

She looks surprised.

~Marie Howe

After our discussion in class, I went back through Howe's poems and found that my new favorite is indeed this one. I like the imagery used. You can see the beast hanging over the both of them. I also like the tone of this piece. You can feel the mystery and almost fear that the beast holds over these sisters. Although there were many good poems in The Good Thief, this one stands out the most to me.

#6

Disheartened

In the corner
she sits, her hair
tasseled like a
child's, clouds fall in-
to her eyes, gloom
has found its path
like the posture
of un-watered
flowers, she sits.


I decided to try my hand at syllabic verse. I had fun doing it! Hope you guys enjoy. Any suggestions are welcomed as always. ; )

#5

Disturbed

My eyes are reddened
by blood-vines that threaten
to seize the visions
of my youth.

My limbs are weighted
and much devastated
from the endurance
of the day.

My mind has weakened
it feels misunderstood
and knows it could use
a few dreams.

Lying in my bed
waiting for sleep to come
but a force holds me
here tonight.

There's a voice that
whisper's thoughts into my head.
I fear it's the voice-
of my bed?


Insomniac

I might be.
I lie awake for hours
wishing for dreams,
the peace to come.

But the thoughts I have
run rapidly through
the thoughts I've had.

Silence is my wish
but even when I think
that I have obtained it
my mind says it's so,

the thoughts start over again.
I have come to a conclusion
about my sleepless nights...

It's the mattress
in which I lay
that causes my distress.

Talking to me at night
with its soft whispers.

I went a little crazy with this assignment. I couldn't pick one, so I posted both of them.

#4

After Reading Peter Pan

My mother closed her window.
She did not want Peter to take her away.

My father opened his.
He wanted to go, as soon as possible.

And now, years later, they
are too old for Never-Never Land,

and they do not speak
to each other,

and my mother is surprised
to hear that I, at age seven,

flung the windows wide,
not to travel, but to fly.

~Jessy Randall

I really enjoy Sylvia Plath (thanks LaRue). However, concerning stanzas I found this one to be much more interesting. I haven't seen many poems in the form of couplets and I enjoyed how Randall seemed to master the art of it.

#3

Free Entry: List of words I like

Picturesque
Exquisite
Scenic
Shrewd
Insightful
Content
Blissful
Wonder
Amaze

#2

Poetry

Words with a destiny.
versatile, concrete
Meanings always wavering.
insanity, on the brink
Emotions fluid throughout.
insightful, obsolete
Written art comes to life.
paper, a bit of ink

#1

I try to find beauty in all things, good or bad.
I found a new appreciation for poetry last semester, from that I have decided to minor in English/Creative Writing.

My hopes are to improve my understanding of poetry both in reading and writing it during the course of this semester.