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!