Arostic Poems

Though I do view most of these poems as being used for children in the modern world, it is interesting how Arostic Poems have been used as insults so that the government or object that they are discussing will not be decoded. I also found some works that I never thought would be put in this category of poetry, or that I never realized used the first letters to spell something out.

"A Boat, Beneath the Sunny Sky"
Lewis Carrol

A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July -

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear -

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream -
Lingering in the golden gleam -
Life, what is it but a dream

The poem spells out Alice's name. I thought that was interesting.

The Joy of Blogging

I have discovered that I really do enjoy blogging, even though I have not been keeping up with the blog the last couple of weeks like I should (bad). It is a great way to get into your creative side, to read what other people have to say, and to sometimes express what you couldn't say out loud in class. I think that I am going to keep this blog open. I am relieved yet sad that this is my last blog entry. It will be nice to not have to say "Oh crap, I forgot to blog!" but on the other hand, I will miss being able to post on other people's sites and so forth.

I have really enjoyed this poetry class. It has really helped me as a writer, and I have learned things about myself that I would have never learned before. I have discovered a new favorite poet (Marie Howe) and I have met some very great people. I hope that I can take some more creative writing classes before I graduate next Spring, maybe they will offer more than they did in the Fall semester!

Working on My Portfolio

I am having difficulties with my portfolio. First of all, let me just say that I have grown as a writer. I was looking at that first poem that we did in class, where we were supposed to use different words for one word, and I hated it. Not that I liked it then, but now that I have learned forms, I really hate it. Anyway, I am trying to fix up some of my poems. I would love to rework "Tameless." I thought about making it a Villinelle, but I am not sure how to. I know Bishop did it for "One Art," and that her draft was much more different then her poem is now. I know that I can work with it, I just have to figure out how I can fix it up, and give it more structure.

I also want to fix up my Aubade. You guys have not read it, but I have some good ideas in the poem. I know that this is kind of lame, but it is inspired by my situation with my boyfriend who is over in Iraq. Initially, it was about a woman who is married to a soldier, and who watches him pack boxes. She then realizes that he is "like the Lone Ranger," who is chasing after Natives that she cannot fathom. She then thinks about how he could die, and pieces of him could be spread about "like a freshly seeded dandalion." I have been thinking about it, and maybe that is too violent. I am not even sure if it sounds like an Aubade! So I am thinking of describing him as just being distant from her, mentally and physically, while she is away living in a different world (in the domestic sphere). How does that sound? Aubadish enough? I was going to throw some "it dawned on me" and whatevers in there. Not sure what to do with that.

Then, I can't write an Elegy to save my life. I have written one about a cat I found with his eyes still opened on the side of the road. That was creepy, and I think I could do something with it. What I wrote, however, sucks balls. I then thought about the time I found a bunch of chickens that had been masacred by a bunch of cars on the highway. I think they escaped from their cages on the way to the slaughter house. I was thinking about writing an Elegy to them. I feel like my Elegies are sappy, either way. I think I might do the one about the chickens. My mother told me she was watching Food Network and the people at the chicken factory would squeeze this gland on the chickens, to see if they were male or female. My mom said, "they treated those little chicken like they were nothing." I thought about throwing that in there somewhere.
But I am working on it. Anyway, any suggestions would be nice.

Inspiration

I am working on my poems, and reworking my Pantoum. Lyrics by some of my favorite artists have inspired me to write lately. Here is Sarah McLachlan's song "Witness." It is a really interesting song, and very beautiful. I have been thinking about it in terms of my Pantoum, "Blue Lotus Feet." Not all of the lyrics, but certain ones. For example, here are some lyrics that I have been thinking about: "Make me a witness. Take me out; out of darkness-- out of doubt." I love how McLachlan begins her song with these words. I want "Blue Lotus Feet" to remain religious, but I felt like many people didn't understand it, and that maybe it was too religious.I also might use the religious images, but change the subject matter. I am working on it, and I might start the poem off with using some pieces of this song; not in the poem, but when introducing the reader to the poem. Let me know what you think. I tried to correct the punctuation, the site I got this from just had the lyrics. Anyway, here are the words to the entire song.

Witness

Make me a witness.
Take me out;
Out of darkness--
out of doubt.

I won't weigh you down
with good intention;
won't make fire out of clay,
or other inventions.

Will we burn in heaven
like we do down here?
Will the change come
while we're waiting?

Everyone is waiting.

And when we're done
soul searching,
as we carried the weight
and died for the cause,
is misery
made beautiful
right before our eyes?
Will mercy be revealed
or blind us where we stand?

Will we burn in heaven
like we do down here?
Will the change come while we're waiting?
Everyone is waiting.


Would using song lyrics to introduce this poem be a bad idea? I will post my draft on here later, and show you guys what I am thinking about doing to it. I liked the poem, and I want to be able to use it.

Absurdism

Okay, when putting together the packet for Abusurdist Poetry, I had a hard time. It is really hard to define Absurdism....it is just absurd. Pretty much, the poems have no form. They usually take things that sound absurd, and use them in a manner to make them make sense. Does that make sense? Usually, you stare at an absurd poem and are cluesless as to what it is talking about, initially. But if you really look into it, and look past all of the absurdities, then you can find some really beautiful meaning. Even though most Absurd poems highlight the meaningless of a certain subject, or seem just meaningless, Absurd poems are some of my favorite.
I wanted to put so many in the packet, but I didn't want to blow your brains. So here is another poem to think about, written by another student.

Postscript to an Apocalypse



If mouths were more
like windows than doorways
it'd be easier to see inside
each other—the former needing
only occasional cleaning
and the latter opening often, but hardly
ever remaining so, except with the onset
of sleep or something like it,
though inward gazing is frowned
upon in these situations.
If eyes were just the opposite,
we could trade out our sight like old cars.
Not a strange concept, the aging
of personal experience. Say we all get together
some time, our eyes beaming our brains
back and forth and our hearts confined
to our throats for all the good that they do.
Say we sit down in the biggest,
dumbest circle ever thought out
in the entire history of kumbaya,
and we cobble God out of collective
nonsense—the trees humming in the dark
like the noise spidering through your head
that's most likely cancer and the grass
pricking your fingers despite your contrary opinions,
and He knows it all and He sits down with each of us
at the same time and we ask Him about ourselves,
the last people we get to know truth be told,
and He tells us everything about everything,
from the weight of a stick of butter on Mars
to the reason behind every pop song ever written,
the real distance ingrained within an arm's reach away.

-Tim Payne

An Elegy

They say that grief makes the best poet,
but I would let God snatch the words
right out of my hands if it meant He
would breath life into you again; I would go
deaf, dumb, and blind if I were once again
exposed to the light of your cashmere body.
Life ceased. Not just in your eyes, but in
my flesh the day the eyes of the
jealous took hold of your body, crushing
you beneath their furious weight.

Here is what I know. The day that you
died, I ran after you thinking that I saw
your shadow, but what I was chasing was a memory.
They say that memories are what makes life pleasant
afterwards, but that is a lie. The memories
make you more bitter. Rubbing that spot on
your belly, telling you I love you, telling
you I am sorry, sneaking you on my bed,

rubbing that part of your ear that was
like velvet. I haven't felt anything since,
and I never will.

Okay, this is not done at all. I have to work on it, I want to make it longer. But here is my hand at trying.

Elegy-Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.


My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Everytime I read this poem I think of The Dead Poets Society. I have always been a fan of Walt Whitman, and I think that this is a really good Elegy. I think it is really sad, how Whitman relates the Captain to being a father, and in a sense, I guess he is a father figure to the men on his ship. Not only does it seem like Whitman is morning for the captain, but you almost know that this is not only an Elegy for the Captain, but for the voyage that is "closed and done" now that he is gone. Though this Elegy is older, and follows more traditional lines, I still think that it is very nice, and representative of more than a persons death.

Free-Prose

Here's a Prose Poem that I found that I really like:

Charles Bauldelaire

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

Prose-Goodtime Jesus

Goodtime Jesus

James Tate

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dream-
ing so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it?
A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled
back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beau-
tiful day.  How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little
ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.



I really enjoyed this poem, and I though that the last line of it was really great. 
Though it appears that "Hell, I love everybody" is just an expression, I felt like in
this line that Jesus was talking directly to Hell.  This is how I saw the poem:

 "He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head" I think means that
his "nightmare" of seeing death all around him was the only thing in Jesus's head. 
The death and decay around him seemed to mean people in their everyday lives, the way
that they are living, etc.  Jesus isn't afraid of that because he is Jesus, after all,
and is already past the stage of delusion.  When Jesus goes to take a ride on his donkey,
it seems as if he is personally addressing Hell, and telling Hell that he loves everybody,
even his donkey. 

I like the casualness of this poem.  Did anyone else read it that way?

Free Entry-Poems I Love

Here are a couple of poems that I really like from Bill Knott.

Advice from the Experts
I lay down in the empty street and parked My feet against the gutter's curb while from The building above a bunch of gawkers perched Along its ledges urged me don't, don't jump. Bill Knott

When I first read this poem, I literally felt myself looking over the edge of a building. The ending totally surprised me, and made me feel like I was falling. I love how Knott's words are so simple, yet so complex at the same time. Things are never what they seem in Bill Knott's poems, which is why I like him so much. Here is another one of his.

To Ripley (Alien 1-4)

Always your face like a space (Destination: beautiful) ship Empties its mote of closeup trace Down screens that blink blank blip Somewhere between countdown And coma time is a line Where waking centuries often Drained against that measure we find Our blood redshifts (direction: west) Until film can clone one sun With stars both whole and gone Attending every sequel We pray for an intent equal To our interest Bill Knott

Here is a song that I love; it is really old, but very touching and beautiful.

O God Beautiful
From Nanak’s Song

O God Beautiful; O God Beautiful;
At Thy feet, O I do bow.
In the forest Thou art green;
In the mountain Thou art high;
In the river Thou art restless;
In the ocean Thou art grave.
O God Beautiful; O God Beautiful!
At Thy feet, I do bow!
To the serviceful Thou art service;
To the lover Thou art love;
To the sorrowful Thou art sympathy;
To the yogi Thou art bliss.

My favorite part it the last line. I think this is a very beautiful, heartfelt devotional.

Found Poems in the Packet

I was extremely interested in Jena Osman's poem "The Periodic Table As Assembled By Dr. Zhivago, Oculist." I went and looked through it, and wanted to post a couple of the poems I found. I think that it is wonderful how an artist can be so creative with a found poem. I always thought that a found poem would be much like "Ready-Mades," where an artist finds an object that they find interesting, titles it, and slaps their name on it. This is wonderful, though. If you look at the poem online, Osman even gives quotes from Dr. Zhivago about the element, and pairs it with a picture.

Oxygen to Odds
	workers breathe inequalities realize the air captures their minds and chances

Technetium to Take cares I was predicted. I was produced. Bombarded, misnamed and found in a star. Celebrity is not easy: False greetings and manufactured warmth. "Handled in a glove box."

My Found Poem

So, I know that my poem sounded like poo because I was having issues that day from lack of sleep. I couldn't read it, and stuttered. But here it is. Here is what the article originally said, and here is how I reused the majority of the words and just reworked them.

Original Article:

Pink

Pink flowers can often look a little on the sickly and gooey side,
rather cheap shop-bought cakes. However, if they are used
carefully, they can also look light and dreamy. I've tried to show
a variety of ideas with pink flowers. Pale pink double Angelica
Tulips, shocking pink Jacaranda Roses and mopheads od glossy Hydrangea
are just three of my favourites.


Mine:

Untitled

Gooey, cheap, sickly Angelica Tulips
often look dreamy in the light.
I've tried to show a variety of ideas
with pink flowers. However,
all three sides of the shop-bought
Hydrangea mopheads are still shocking pink,
carefully used like the Jacaranda Roses.
They will always be light, dreamy, glossy cakes.

I don't know if I can do that for this form, but I thought it would be okay, seeings how it is a Found Poem and all.

I started on another in class when I was done, it is very raw and needs work, but I think it could go somewhere.

From An Article on Green Flowers

There's something exciting about the first green shoots
in the spring time. There are things unknown about
the zest and zeal of all that green; it is in the flowers,
the rare and beautiful green flowers.

That's all I have on that one. I scrapped a lot of lines, and will hopefully add on to it. I'll figure something out!

Anaphora

To You, Who Will Never See This

I wonder how hated I am.
I wonder how much you hate me.
I wonder if you would smite me to the ground if you saw me,
I wonder if you would relish in my throbbing pain.
I wonder how I became a deep rooted sinner, and
I wonder if I am the cursed one, forever walking the earth.

I wonder, what could I have done?

My voice was the leaky faucet, dripping
and left unattended. When the clock
fell down, and all the ticking chose
to cease, so did my eyes, my lips
my tongue, my heart, my all. Now,
I wonder if I will ever forgive myself.


This needs serious help...but I am working on it. It's hard to do this form and make it look nice and tidy.


The Shower

I said it to the head.
I said it to the water, hard, hardened water.
I said it to all the alabaster tiles, here's to stains.
I said it to the mats, sopping in my filth.
I said it to the rod, daring to hold the weight of my body.
I said it to the curtain, the bastard better not fall.
I said it to myself-- over and over again--
One mustn't cry over spoiled, spilled milk.

Free Thought

Today I was thinking about how where you live deeply affects your poetry. When I was reading our packet, I was amazed at the difference you could feel in the tones of Ali's poems and other poems in the packet. You can see this a lot in poetry. Of course it is a no-brainier that people of different background are going to write differently, but I have been thinking about it. Sometimes in a poem, you write for a speaker that is not yourself. Would you ever really be able to write a poem in the eyes of someone who has a very different life experiences? I have seen some novelist, like Wally Lamb, do a great job at writing from a females perspective, and visa-versa, but what about a different culture? Just some things I have been thinking about, especially with a culture that is very different from our own.

On Ghazels

Ghazals are very interesting forms. I really like the concept behind them. I think that it is interesting that you can have couplets that are totally unrelated to each other, but fit together so well. Of all the Ghazals, I think I liked the traditional ones the best. Like "Ghazal" by Agha Shahid Ali, I thought his work was beautiful. I am not sure if it is because the ghazal is a Persian form, and therefore more "mastered" by this artist, but it seemed to be smoother, and more in tune. I think that my favorite line is "where there were homes in Deir Yassein, you'll see a dense forest--/That village was raised. There's no sign of Arabic." I think that you can see the passion behind this poem, I love it.

copying Paradelle for Susan

Deb's Paradelle

I saw a cat in my back yard today.
I saw a cat in my back yard today.
He was large, and had a mane that blazed like fire.
He was large, and had a mane that blazed like fire.
I was in my fire, blazed and back.
A cat, a mane, saw he, had a large yard today.

He could sense the blood of a reddish cock.
He could sense the blood of a reddish cock.
With great stealth, he spied his prey.
With great stealth, he spied his prey.
His prey, spied he, sense of a cock
he could sense the reddish blood with great stealth.

Long leap, brazen teeth, setting out for a feast,
long leap, brazen teeth, setting out for a feast,
cannot stand up to a peck so sharp, and so deep.
Cannot stand up to a peck so sharp, and so deep.
Brazen peck, so long and up for a feast, long teeth
leap out so, setting sharp and deep.

Blood, back teeth feast. A long reddish
cat cannot sense that deep fire he spied.
For a setting, stand up, brazen cock! Sharp
and so long was he today. I saw in
my mane he could of had his prey.
With a like great stealth that blazed out, and so.

This is really weird, and probably doesn't make much sense. I tried though!

Irish Cows

Afternoon with Irish Cows

There were a few dozen who occupied the field

across the road from where we lived,

stepping all day from tuft to tuft,

their big heads down in the soft grass,

though I would sometimes pass a window

and look out to see the field suddenly empty

as if they had taken wing, flown off to another country.

Then later, I would open the blue front door,

and again the field would be full of their munching

or they would be lying down

on the black-and-white maps of their sides,

facing in all directions, waiting for rain.

How mysterious, how patient and dumbfounded

they appear in the long quiet of the afternoon.

But every once in a while, one of them

would let out a sound so phenomenal

that I would put down the paper

or the knife I was cutting an apple with

and walk across the road to the stone wall

to see which one of them was being torched

or pierced through the side with a long spear.

Yes, it sounded like pain until I could see

the noisy one, anchored there on all fours,

her neck outstretched, her bellowing head

laboring upward as she gave voice

to the rising, full-bodied cry

that began in the darkness of her belly

and echoed up through her bowed ribs into her gaping mouth.

Then I knew that she was only announcing

the large, unadulterated cowness of herself,

pouring out the ancient apologia of her kind

to all the green fields and the gray clouds,

to the limestone hills and the inlet of the blue bay,

while she regarded my head and shoulders

above the wall with one wild, shocking eye.

I did some research on Irish Cows, because I was really interested in Billy Collins title for this poem. A well known type of Irish Cow is a Dexter. Dexters are believed to be a cross between a Kerry cow and a Devon. A large portion of Dexter cows were imported into America between 1905 and 1915. They tend to be very small, as far as cow standards go, and are known for their gently and easy-to-handle nature. They do well in all types of weather, and are known for being very fertile.

Free Post-My Birthday

Tomorrow is my 25th birthday. So, I decided to post a birthday poem for my free entry this week. We were talking about Silvia Plath in my group today, so I chose "A Birthday Present" for my birthday poem, sad as it may be!

A Birthday Present

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

Sylvia Plath

I like the last few lines the best. Oh, and I gave thought to Parks question of the week.

What is a the best overheard line or phrase that you have heard?

I overheard one of my customers say "let's go to the shitty titty." I have no idea, and I am not sure that I want to know.

Working With Pantoums

First of all, this is a really difficult form for me. Here is my progression with the Pantoum we were assigned.

I played with the lines first:

Sitting in the damp sand,
looking to a cider sky,
I see my house is built
by a tree without teeth.

Look to a cider sky
beyond a fence of withered green
by a tree without teeth.
The purpose of this will be apparent.

Through a fence of withered green
that lies mothy and chaffed,
all purposes of this will be apparent.
It will stand, vaguely confessional.

Lie, mothy and chaffed
from the swift twin swifts.
You stand, vaguely confessional,
Becoming sufficiently fierce.

You stand, vaguely confessional.
I see my house is built,
becoming sufficiently fierce
sitting on the damp sand.

The poem pretty much makes no sense, but I felt like I was getting somewhere.

So here are some changes that I made. I am still not sure how I like it, though.

When I was sitting in the damp sand
and looking to the cider sky,
I recognized that my house is built
next to a tree without teeth.

If you look to the cider sky
and see beyond the fence of withered green,
through the tree without teeth,
then the purpose of this will become apparent.

Beyond a fence of withered green
that lies mothy and chaffed,
you will see the purpose of this will become apparent
and will stand before you, vaguely confessional.

You will lie, mothy and chaffed
from the swift twin swifts of life.
You will then stand, vaguely confessional,
becoming sufficiently fierce.

From the swift twin swifts of life
I recognized that my house is built,
becoming sufficiently fierce
when I was sitting in the damp sand.


Input? Thoughts? I don't know how I like it. I almost like the first one better, but I don't think that I did it right.

Villanelle Form

One Art

By: Elizabeth Bishop


The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.



When class first started, I stated in one of my blogs that "One Art" was my favorite poem. It still is, but I didn't know the context of the poem. Knowing that "One Art" is a Villanelle makes the poem even more special to me, especially when looking at Bishops draft, and realizing the hard work and effort that it took to create this poem. I always knew that she had repeating lines in her poem, but I never NOTICED them, if that makes any sense. I never even really paid attention to rhymes, or even noticed them. I just noticed that the poem flowed so well, and was beautifully crafted.

Going back to Bishop's draft, it is hard to believe it is even the same poem, and even harder to believe how a she used a villanelle to better express her purpose in the poem. She still gets to say what she wants to say, and get across to the audience the grief of losing a loved one or friend, but the Villanelle allowed Bishop to do in in fewer lines. Even the title change of the poem was perfect for this form.

Here are some of my favorite alterations that Bishop made to her draft when changing "One Art" into a Villanelle:

-She changes "one begins by 'mislalaying'" to "loose something everyday" or "so many things seem to be filled with intenet/to be lost that their loss is no disaster."
-Bishop used some religious imagery in her draft ("I have lost, it can never be found" and "He who looseth his life...") yet she takes it out in her Villanelle to keep with a central theme.
-Instead of coming out telling the audience she lost a person, as she does in the draft, Bishop begins to almost hold a conversation in the Villanelle, making it more personable.

Needless to say, the Villanelle served "One Art" very well, and I feel like writing good poetry like Bishop could be possible for me through experimenting with forms like she has!

My hand at syllabic poetry

Writing in syllabics is a lot harder than I thought it would be! Here is one, I hope it isn't bad.


The Strange Cat

There is the strange cat,
in the wayward house down
yonder. Running through a
land of sink-holes, after

a large, tricksy wren.
He leaps towards his abrupt,
early eternity.
Don a dirty gas mask.

There is no heaven here.

Yes, it is weird, but I kinda liked it. I did 5 syllables in the first lines of each stanza (except the last) and 6 syllables on the rest. I hope I did okay, I am not that great at counting syllables. As I said before, it is really difficult to do syllabics, but I like it! It makes you choose your words differently. I would like to go back to some of my poems, and try doing them in this form.

The Sonnets of Today and Yesterday

When reading about sonnets, I think about how different that they are in today's world. I have decided that I am going to do some small research on contemporary sonnets and sonnets that were written in the Elizabethan Era. The difference between the subject matter in these poems are fascinating to me. I have always been interested in how things change, and you can defiantly see how different sonnets were in the Elizabethan Era, Even though Elizabethan Sonnets were usually written for Queen Elizabeth.

Examples of Elizabethan Sonnet:

III

William Shakespeare

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.



One Day I wrote Her Name Upon The Strand

Edmund Spenser

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
but came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide and make my pains his prey.
Vain man (said she) that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so immortalise;
For I myself like to this decay,
and eke my name be wiped out likewise.
Not I (quod I); let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame;
My verse your virtues rare shall eternise,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where, when as Death shall all the world subdue,
Or love shall live, and later life renew.



Contemporary Sonnet Examples:

In Simultaneous Rooms

Alfred Dorn

How many doors open, how many close
while your eyes skims this "moments monument"?
Holed up in a slum lord's apartment house,
and old man dies, alone, irrelevant.
Another life is pierced out of the womb,
from tropic sleep into our arctic day.
In the deluxe hotel's Edwardian room
a window fiercely hugs a rose bouquet
set by a chamber half her age, with card
warbling silk words that curtain has design.
In the Sahara of a hospital ward
a bed explodes with pain like a land mine.
And meanwhile the galaxy, that spiral ear
carrying us through darkness, does not hear.


Nightfall

Jared Carter

Now while I sit here in this dark chamber
By firelight, a lost traveler returned
From a distant country, and half unlearned
In his own tongue--I must risk the danger
Of remembrance. Pensive, I would linger
Over old books, yellow pages burned
By unquenchable years, that I once yearned
To know: the verse of forgotten singers.
First almost nothing remains--a fragrance
Of blossoming trees, a single footstep
On the cobbled stone beneath my window.
Yet every line reverberates. A dance
Perhaps, in the way the music has kept
To an old balance, among these shadows.



Though I only listed a couple of these sonnets in each section, but the list can go on and on. As you can see, both the Contemporary and the Elizabethan Sonnets are 14 lines, in 10 syllables. There are very interesting differences in the two, however. As I have seen in many Contemporary Sonnets, they tend to not rhyme as often as Elizabethan Sonnets. Also, the subject manner in both of these poems are very different. In most Elizabethan Sonnets, they are geared towards an object of affection, or love. I noticed in Contemporary Sonnets, however, that they tend to lean on a variety of subject manners.

I think I could learn a lot from looking at these two styles of sonnets. I think that I can learn about how beautiful language can be, while writing about things that I would like to write about. I have always strayed away from Sonnets because I have always been taught that they were written in admiration to someone or something. Looking at Contemporary Sonnets shows me the variety that they can be in.

#1 for Week Four: Free Thought

I have decided to list my favorite song lyrics ever, and my least favorite song lyrics ever.

My favorite: First of all, I am a glutton for Damien Rice. I love him, and if I could, I would marry him, and shoot out his babies.

"The Animals Were Gone"

Woke up and for the first time the animals were gone
It's left this house empty now, not sure if I belong
Yesterday you asked me to write you a pleasant song
I'll do my best now, but you've been gone for so long

The window's open now and the winter settles in
We'll call it Christmas when the adverts begin
I love your depression and I love your double chin
I love 'most everything that you bring to this offering

Oh I know that I left you in places of despair
Oh I know that I love you, so please throw down your hair
At night I trip without you, and hope I don't wake up
'Cause waking up without you is like drinking from an empty cup

Woke up and for the first time the animals were gone
Our clocks are ticking now so before our time is gone
We could get a house and some boxes on the lawn
We could make babies and accidental songs

I know I've been a liar and I know I've been a fool
I hope we didn't break yet, but I'm glad we broke the rules
My cave is deep now, yet your light is shining through
I cover my eyes, still all I see is you

Oh I know that I left you in places of despair
Oh I know that I love you, so please throw down your hair
At night I trip without you, and hope I don't wake up
'Cause waking up without you is like drinking from an empty cup


I love some of the images Damien Rice gives in this song. My favorite is "waking up without you is like drinking from an empty cup." I love it, because he shows how pointless waking up without his lover is through that line.

My least favorite lyrics: No offense Lady Gaga, you are catchy and all, but come on.


Disco Heaven


Oh, the disco heaven
Oh, the disco heaven

Get back, bunny
It's getting cold in here little honey
We got a show to put on your dress
Take a minute for us and relax, relax
Cupid's got me, oh with his bow & arrow, baby
He'll hit you in the pants, hot pants
Get the people to dance and relax, relax

Oh the lights still on, we're dancing
Yeah the floor is shaking
In this disco heaven
(oh, the disco heaven)
The disco heaven

(oh, the disco heaven)

Oh the lights still on, we're dancing
Yeah the floor is shaking
In this disco heaven
(oh, the disco heaven)
The disco heaven

(oh, the disco heaven)

Throw your head back, girly
Throw it like those girls in the movies
We got a show to put on your dress
Take a minute for us and relax, relax

The ball is turning, 300 mirrors burning
Through the hearts of the crowd
In the back hips just banging the track
To the music, the music

Oh the lights still on, we're dancing
Yeah the floor is shaking
In this disco heaven
(oh, the disco heaven)
The disco heaven

(oh, the disco heaven)

Oh the lights still on, we're dancing
Yeah the floor is shaking
In this disco heaven
(oh, the disco heaven)
The disco heaven

(oh, the disco heaven)

Oh we got that disco
D-i-s-c-o
And we're in heaven
H-e-a-v-e-n
Disco heaven

Feels just like heaven
Disco heaven
Disco heaven

A line up for the dance
Yeah bring those fancy pants
Y'know there's disco in the air
And hairspray everywhere

A disco heaven
A disco heaven
Disco heaven
Disco heaven

Oh the lights still on, we're dancing
Yeah the floor is shaking
In this disco heaven
(oh, the disco heaven)
The disco heaven

(oh, the disco heaven)

Oh the lights still on, we're dancing
Yeah the floor is shaking
In this disco heaven
(oh, the disco heaven)
The disco heaven

(oh, the disco heaven)


No offense. Hit me in the hot pants?

Figuring Out Who I Am, As A Writer (Free)

Things that I like to write about:

I love to write about nature, people, and places. I seem naturally drawn to these things, but I would like to expand from them some. I think it is amazing when people can use objects, such as a pair of scissors, and make them into something more. I have never really been able to do that. I kind of tried to with the orange in my last poem, I tried to use it as a metaphor for a man, but I am pretty sure that it didn't get across to some people.
Also, I am not very good with rhyme. I attempted to do something with it in my last poem, to step out of my box, but it didn't feel "natural." I would like to learn how to do rhyme more naturally, so it is something that I will work on. I think Jenna did an excellent job in "Cosmo Girl," her rhymes were wonderful. I think it just takes practice, or maybe rhymes are just not for me.
I am also an emotional writer. I have a hard time being able to write from someone else's shoes. Most of my poetry is very reflective of the experiences that I have been through. Not that that is a bad thing, that is how Marie Howe's poetry is, but I would like to learn how to detach myself from some of the subjects I write about. If I can sometimes take the "me" out of my work, I feel like maybe I would be able to maybe write better. But then again, maybe that is my opinion.

Thought's on Howe

The Mountain

It wasn't only the mountain then,
but the mountain later

rising in sleep
or deep in teh middle of stuttered proclamation

-
when, startled, he saw it,
how it had looked to him before,

how it had felt underfoot
like the back of an animal

heaving him down over and over again,
and the small stones that fell with him

making a music
and the silence then.

Once, he put his ear to water almost weeping
to the mouth of a sleeping child

so many many dead.
And the gravelly walk down then

the stones singing
and the wrist of the branch that held him

when he caught it, held him up.
It wasn't only the mountain then, that day:

the sky clearing, his awful thirst,
but the day after,

and all the days when he, forever moving,
felt it move in him.

It was like that
but he could not say it.

It was what rose up in him one minute
before walking

what seemed to block his view whenever
he looked too closely at something

his son,
his own hand, his food sometimes.

Finally, can you understand how easily
he relinquished it? The grit

the cracked bone, the new land?
He was that tired of walking in what

he knew was the wrong direction.
And he knew

better than anyone, how long the way back was
to where he stared,

when tending the lambs, day dreaming,
for no apparent reason, he looked up.


In class, we defined poetry as something that we cannot get out of our heads. I cannot get Marie Howe's poetry out of mine. I love her work, I think that she is amazing. Especially in this poem, I feel like I can feel Moses, what he was thinking, how he was feeling. I think I could learn a lot from Howe's style. She makes the stanzas hers. Her stanzas never rule her, she makes them perfect for what she is trying to say, and she never seems blocky, or ridgid, unless she wants her poetry to be that way. I love her passion. I hope that one day I can become as good of a writer as she is. Until then, I will use some of her techniques in my own poetry, starting with the one due Tuesday.

#7: Words and Phrases in Each Type of Foot

Iamb: aloof, rewrote, a dove, in love, unhappy, my heart, atop, italic, in meter.
Trochee: Must be, curiously, mocking, steady, lucky, trouble, double.
Dactyl: marketing, trust in me, soon you'll see, robbery, praise the sea.
Anapest: interrupt, in my mug, eat a duck, in a fuss, feel the thud.
spondee: smiling, shotgun, home sick, bleeding thick.

#6: Redoing Poems

Original:

The Lemons

In April they were still tough and green,
strangely proud in the cold sun.

And all around the garden the leaves
conspiring in green on green on green.

By June they turned. The branches sunk
in the wind. The lemons shone with dust.

Some of them fell and rolled down
the hill to the town bellow us.

Packed tight against the sea's
wind, the town was abandoned now.

The roofs fallen away. The setting sun
cutting its way among the rubble.

At night we'd walk down
the big hill and look back up.

We couldn't see the house where we slept,
where our lives were decided.

But the lemons hit the black hill.
By their marks we found our way home.

The winds and the lemons wedded in August,
and the lemons dropped to the cool ground.

A crisp mist settled on the town.
The rains swarmed in from the sea.

All of it became inseparable in our minds.
Walking down the hill and back

again, your hand would fall
into my hand and stay there.

Redone:

In April they were still tough and green,
strangely proud in the cold sun.
And all around the garden the leaves
conspiring in the green on green on green.

By June they turned. The branches sunk
in the wind. The lemons shone with dust.
Some of them fell and rolled down
the hill to the town below us.

Packed tight against the sea's
wind, the town was abandoned now.
The roofs fallen away. The setting sun
cutting its way among the rubble.

At night we'd walk down
the big hill and look back up.
We couldn't see the house where we slept,
where our lives were decided.

But the lemons lit the black hill.
By their marks we found our way home.
The winds and the lemons wedded in August,
and the lemons dropped to the cool ground.

A crisp mist settled on the town.
The rains swarmed in from the sea.
All of it became inseparable in our minds.
Walking down the hill and back

again, your hand would fall
into my hand and stay there.


When you change the stanzas in The Lemons, it takes a different meaning. When the poem is written in couplets, you can see that the poem seems to be telling a story about aging. The couplets help her to present the stages of life individually, then allows them to come together so that they create a pattern and a flow. When the poem is put into quatrains, it doesn't give you that necessary pause between stanzas. The quatrain is comfortable, and "easier on the eyes," so to speak, but it also prevents the poet from giving the reader a series of events that must be separate to be understood. Also, when the poem is changed to a quatrain, the poem seems to be more about lemons, or growing up around lemons, and takes away from the deeper meaning that a reader could get out of the poem.

#5: Interesting Facts about the Ballad Stanza

Some facts about the Ballad Stanza:
-In the form of a song.
-Usually deals with folklore or legends.
-Written in the rhyme scheme ABAB or ABBA.
-Usually a four to six line form.
-Used in The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.
-Used in early historic tales, such as Beowulf.


http://personal.georgiasouthern.edu/~dougt/terms.htm
http://www.freebase.com/view/en/ballad_stanza
http://www.writing-world.com/poetry/ballad.shtml

What I found interesting about my research was the different ways that ballad forms are used. I know that I really should know better, but often times when I think of a ballad, I think of sappy love songs and what-not. I didn't know that Beowulf or The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner were written in ballads, or that people use ballads for story telling. I like how the ballad can be used for many different things as well. You can use a ballad to tell a tragic tale, a funny story, or to mock something. I just never knew ballads could be so interesting!

#4 A Pretty Picture

I took this picture when I was in Salt Lake City, Utah over Thanksgiving. I was in Temple Square, and I looked to my left and saw this really beautiful berry tree. When I looked down, I noticed that the berries were mixed in with these dainty purple flowers.

The first thing that pops out to me in my photo is the contrast in the colors. The way the light hits the berries makes them this brilliant color, almost fuchsia, and I love how that vibrant color contrast with the dull, brown dirt. Also, I feel like the flowers really make this picture. Everything seems to blend in to me, yet it doesn't at the same time, if that makes any sense. I love this photo because it seems designed, but there is no design.
The best part about the picture is that everything was put in the order nature intended. True, the flowers bordering the wall that held the tree were placed there by man, but as you can see in the photo, the flowers began to grow on their own terms. You can see a couple of flowers mixed in with the berries, deciding for themselves where they want to go. Everything in nature seems to come together to create this work of art. The sun is in the perfect place so that you not only see the eye-catching colors of the flowers and the berries, but the sun also shows us the shadow of the tree itself.

#3: Free Thought

A list of my favorite words:

-Yeoman
-Metamorphosis
-Rue
-Articulate
-Billowy
-Populace
-Joviale
-Bastardize
-Blithe

I think most words can be used in poetry, and any subject typically can, if the poet knows what they are doing. However, I do think that words should make the reader think. I do have a list of words and themes that I believe do not make for good poetry.

-Shall: I am guilty of this one, I used this word a lot back in my younger days. Sounds nice, but it doesn't mean that you are being poetic.
-Your boyfriend who broke your heart in the 5th grade.
-Celebrity worship poems: i.e. ones about Josh Hartnett.
-Overly vulgar words: Poop, turds, snot, fart, ham wallet, toe jam, and well...you get the point.

Some puns, most of them I laughed at because I am that lame.

-Why does Joe go to the fish market every Saturday? For the Halibut!!!
-Police were called to a daycare where a three-year-old was resisting a rest.
-There was a sign on the lawn at a drug re-hab center that said 'Keep off the Grass'.
-Two boll weevils grew up in South Carolina. One went to Hollywood and became a famous actor. The other stayed behind in the cotton fields and never amounted to much.

The second one, naturally, became known as the lesser of two weevils.

One Art

By: Elizabeth Bishop


The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.


I first heard this poem in the movie In Her Shoes, and I instantly connected with it. I can relate to how Bishop feels about losing, especially when it comes to losing a dear friend, or a loved one. I feel like Bishop's poem is beautifully crafted, and incredibly intimate. Whenever I read this poem, I feel like Bishop is taking me by the hand, and guiding me into her inner thoughts and emotions. I love how she starts out with simple losses, and relates to the reader when talking about accepting "the fluster of lost door keys" or "the hour badly spent" (lines 4-5). Then, the losses gradually become greater, until they feel almost overwhelming to the reader. By creating such overwhelming losses, she leads us into how much more painful it is to lose a loved one. I think it is a wonderful poem.
There are many things that I could learn from "One Art." First of all, I am not very good at order and form. I have ideas, but it is very hard for me to construct them poetically, or delicately lead the reader into what I am trying to say. Sometimes, I "jump the gun," and begin to lay everything out too quickly, before the reader can understand what I am trying to say. Bishop, on the other hand, very meticulously takes the reader where she wants them to go, and where she does not want them to go. I could defiantly learn how to craft my poems better by studying hers. Also, I really like how Bishop puts words together. The last stanza of the poem is excellent, and I would love to be able to strike the same emotion in my work. I think that if I thought outside of the box, or used different methods to in my work, like Bishop, that I would become a better writer.

#1: Introduction

My name is Deborah Bedell and I am an English major with a minor in History. I am really passionate about school, it has shaped me into the person that I am today! In the future, I hope to become a college professor so that I can teach people how to tap into their creative sides and grow through language. I am really big into cultural studies, and I thoroughly enjoy exploring how art and literature ties into the world around us. I am hoping to become a better writer through this class, and to learn how to become a more creative individual.
I am currently a bartender, and though it has its ups and downs, I enjoy getting to know new people. My boyfriend is a soldier in the National Guard, and he is a big part of my life. He will be going to Iraq in February for a year, and I will miss him dearly! I am almost done with school, and I am trying to graduate by the time he gets back so we can start a life together. We are planning on going to Europe when he gets his two weeks of leave, and I am very excited; I have always been very interested in European culture! I love to write, bake, and do Kung Fu. I have been in Chi Ling Pai for 2 years; Participating in the martial arts was one of the best moves I have ever made in my life (besides starting school).
I am really looking forward to getting to know everybody! I look forward to reading your posts!