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.