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?