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.