Revised Poetry

Sadly my poetry class has come to an end. For the final project, we had to create a portfolio of our poetry, and we had to edit our poems. So here are some versions of poems that I had written earlier that are different enough from the originals to be shared here.

This is the new version of "Sniffles." I wasn't really happy with that poem, and I wrote it while I was sick, so I decided to take the same assignment and write a new poem. See if you can find the influence of Paul's physics book.

Friction

Two objects in motion

Accelerate to a point

In the distance.

If one of them slows,

Changes course,

Or slams into a brick wall

Then how would that

Change the outcome?

If I could make

One person in the

World see sense-

I would take two

Hot Wheels cars

And drive them

In opposite directions.

See, honey?

This one’s you

And this one’s

Trevor.

Maybe the visuals

Would help,

So far my mission

Has been

Remarkably

Unsuccessful.

Can’t she see

They rub each other

The wrong way?

This isn't really a poem, it's more like a string of thought, but we were asked to include it in our poetry books. Basically we had to start with an object, and then from that object associate with other objects and on and on until we were out of time.

This Isn’t Poetry

Sterling silver ring

Flowers

Leaves

Vines

Ivy

Poison ivy

Batman

Comic books

Ink

Pen

Writing

Scrolls

Dead Sea

Salt

Flavor

Indian food

Full

Tank

War

Helmet

Bicycle

Wheel

Spokes

Chopsticks

Rice

Chinese food

Sticky tables

Water refills before your glass is empty

Clink

Shoes

Walk

Sidewalk

Tree

Leaves

Ground up leaves

Wet

Smelly dog

Miya

Skunks

Raccoons

University of Oregon

Locking Derek out of the van

Speech and debate

High school

No sleep

Last night

Dinner

Ring

1920s

Flappers

Red lipstick

Smoking

Grandmother

Sick

Fever

Flu

Birds.

This was an unassigned poem that I wrote during the revision process

Copper

My mom called me tonight

And she told me that she took

My sixteen-year-old puppy to the vet.

There was a growth in his mouth.

It’s benign, but Dr. Milner

Still took blood from my

Puppy to see what the other

Growths are. He’s got high blood

Pressure. His joints ache. He hardly

Bothers to lift his leg.

He used to roll over for carrots.

He used to fetch the tennis ball

Until I couldn’t stand to touch

The slobbery thing anymore.

He used to hear when you called

And come running.

He used to sleep on my bed,

In the least convenient spot.

He used to cover me in the hairs

He shed, not seasonally, but every

Single second.

He used to sit in my lap, though

He was clearly too big to be there.

And now I see his coat turning

Nearly white. It used to be like

A dirty penny. I remember picking

Him out at the pound. He was three

Months old, I was three years old.

I named him after the Disney movie-

I always cry when I see that movie.

And now I hear him clunking down

The stairs instead of padding down

Them lightly. He only barks when Miya

Does, she’s the only thing he can still

Hear. Every time he looks at me,

I want to cry.

I don’t want him to go

Without me there.

This poem I took from the class assignment poem. I didn't like very much of that poem, but there were a few lines about my trip to Mexico that stood out, so I turned them into a new poem:

One of the Guides Said scream

Walking down the cobblestone streets in Puerto Vallarta, black

Sunglasses, tendrils of hair whipping back and forth,

Volkswagen Beetles lining every street, too numerous

To count. A man was building statues from sand

On the beach. Men and women and saints being

Pressed together into form. More statues lined the waterfront,

Surrealist sculptures that surprised me with squat figures

Climbing ladders. Papa always taking pictures of us,

Or of bits of scenery that later turned out to be

Nothing but green blurs. Our shirts stuck to our skin,

We constantly lifted our sunglasses off the bridge

Of our noses, to wipe of the beads of sweat that had

Collected there in the thirty seconds since we had

Last wiped them off. Abby had her first taste of tequila-

Does it count considering it was flavored tequila?

Mango tequila, pomegranate tequila, sour tequila, and

A cherry tequila that tasted like cough syrup. Papa bought

Two bottles of the shop’s finest. Dad loved his.

What could have possessed us to ride in a “safari” truck

With a mostly open compartment in the back with

Benches lining the sides? Grit found its way into our eyes,

Nose, and mouth. I knew that everything valuable would

Be lost in the constant jarring. I wanted Papa to put his

Camera away. For the first time, the girls saw poverty-

Houses constructed from left over wood and aluminum,

Roofs covered in jagged bits of glass, two little girls,

Probably five or six years old walking hand in hand

With bare feet and ragged dresses, stray dogs lounging

On concrete or dirt or mud. We rode by the prison.

And then suddenly it was all replaced by leafy green,

And it started to rain. But the rain kept the bugs and

The heat away. I was grateful. I had enough to worry about.

I thought we were going to die in the middle of the jungle,

Eaten by whatever lives on the forest floor. The ropes

And platforms couldn’t possibly withstand this constant use.

I was shaking when it was my turn for the first time.

I was going to be sick. One of the guides said scream.

I sounded like I was being murdered. And then the next

Time, I pursed my lips together out of embarrassment

From Carrie’s teasing. I looked around and I saw how beautiful

It was. And now I never wanted to do it again.

Papa was waiting for us when we were done.

He had opted out of the brutal second half.

I wished I had done the same. The ride back

Took less time, but the whole way back the girls asked

Me what time it was every two or three minutes-

Or maybe that was just me looking at my watch.

We had to make it back in time for dinner.

We had earned it. We got back and then we were running

For the ship. My purse fell in the wet twilight, scattering

My things. I scooped them up and sprinted

To catch up with the girls. We were out of breath-

Moving as quickly as possible towards the cabin,

Yelling and scrambling over each other to change

Into clothes that weren’t drenched and slap on

Some makeup. We didn’t get lost on the way to the

Dining room. We were the first ones to the table.

Time to eat. Time to breathe.

Tuesday's Column

Yes, I know this should have gone up on Tuesday... but I'm just not that organized.

http://www.dailybarometer.com/advocating-against-the-dreaded-group-project-1.2717117#.TtrgQWBqtW4

Friday's Column

This column appeared on Friday:

http://www.dailybarometer.com/going-back-to-library-books-1.2706238#.Tsl3S2BqtW4

Columns!

I've recently been added to the Daily Barometer's staff (the OSU daily student newspaper) as a columnist. I will be posting links to my articles here from the Barometer's website after they've appeared in print:

Tuesday, November 15

http://www.dailybarometer.com/much-better-manners-found-on-campus-1.2699381#.TsRyJ2BqtW4

Monday, November 7

http://www.dailybarometer.com/no-longer-tolerating-the-fashions-of-oppression-1.2686120#.TsRztGBqtW5

"Brutal" Class Rules Poem

So this poem was created using a set of rules that I frankly consider brutal, and so did our professor. We weren't very nice to each other.

Here's the list of rules, and my poem follows all of them, though it doesn't do very much else. Therefore, you will shortly see a new version of this poem:

1. 10 syllable lines

2. must include the name of your first pet

3. tell a joke

4. a direct contrast

5. use at least one color

6. limit of five adjectives

7. must have a rhyme pattern

8. must use the word defenestrate

9. must include at least one human member of your family

10. needs a good title

11. must use the word soul in a non-cliche way

12. use dialogue

13. use alliteration

14. include a precious metal/gem

15. must include a quote from Abraham Lincoln

16. have a reference to a favorite trip

17. the first word in the poem must start with the first letter of your name

18. include an allusion to your favorite book

19. must mention a plant or a vegetable

Beauty and the Beast

Amant, j'ai vu l'écart entre la belle

et la bête. Defenestrate all your shells.

Let me see your souls- no your soles- your feet

Are my windows to walking on the street.

Walking down the street in Mexico, black

Sunglasses, tendrils of hair whipping back

And forth. Shall I buy silver earrings with

Opals and amethyst? Why yes, forthwith.

Papa always taking pictures of us

But now we’re back home with a lot less fuss.

Sadie’s long gone, a savage bull that could

Not bear the yoke, when she bit they would

Make sure she choked. Character is like a

Tree, reputation like a shadow grey.

Phew. Aren't you glad you're done reading that?

The next poem was a result of an in class writing session where we were shown different pictures, each picture separated by a stanza:

You Walk Through It

I tried not to look at it,

But I couldn’t help myself-

The sun was so bright

It stained my eyes

Green and purple

Like a giant bruise.

There was a slight,

Misty fog so light

As to be almost

Inconsequential.

The sun shot rays

Of gold and silver,

Diffusing all the other

Colors. The cattails

Glowed as if they were

On fire, or had been

Linked to an electrical

Line. The sun’s sticky

Fingers grabbed everything

They could find.

I had forgotten

What a sight they were:

“Moo” cows on a green

Hill, basking in the sun

Like snakes who needed

To increase their

Body temperature.

If they could yawn,

They would yawn.

One of their ears

Will twitch as they

Survey the land,

Not quite ready for

A nap.

They fly by when

You pass them in

A car, but if you

Go running with your Dad,

And you call to them,

You can make the oafs

Get up and chase you.

All this was a week

After I saw the

Hazy motion of the

Smoke fill the yard.

Apparently, it was a

Burn day. I felt bad

For the cats-

Today the weren’t

Quite the masters

Of the universe.

They weren’t allowed

To play in the piles

Of broken limbs

And thousands of

Needles and pinecones-

The result of hours

Of labor. Daddy

Picks them up and

They nuzzle his goatee

And groom him.

Then they wiggle

Loose and they’re off

To get that frog.

Mom will be heartbroken.

You can smell the wood

Burn, its flesh blackening

At the edges and then

Reaching the core,

Until there’s nothing

Left but a few ashes.

When I think of it

Now, what I remember

Is the cobalt sky

Settling on top

Of the cherry filling.

The landscape silhouetted

Like the little shapes

Of dogs and horses

My grandmother

Used to cut out for me.

The world turns dark,

Color is slipping away,

Sinking into the earth,

Which will spit it

Back out in the morning.

Everyone notices

When the moon is full

And close, but tonight

It’s far away.

Once I saw my brother

Fly off his bike

During a race,

Crashing down

On top of it.

The day was just

Beginning to cool

And darken-

A beautiful night.

And we were off

To the emergency room.

Nothing was broken-

Just a bruised back

And some bruised pride.

Wind knocked out

And blown back in.

He looked so good

Up there by the

Starting gate, wearing

All his mandatory gear,

And smiling like

He didn’t know how

To stop.

And in a dream

Once I saw death

Stare me in the face,

Looking similar to

A Georgia O’Keefe

Painting of a cow skull.

Death was bony, with

Hot, cracked, dry skin.

We were in the middle

Of nowhere,

In the middle of nothing.

And so I shook

His hand, and he

Dissolved and left me

Alone in the desert.

I sat down and cried,

And the tear soaked

Into the dirt, and

The dream changed.

And Death was there

Again, so I gave him

A hug- he thought I

Was crazy.

Now I’m at the beach,

Running down the hot

Sand barefoot, trying not

To burn the soles of

My feet, or to step on

Anything I would rather

Not step on. A seagull

Was having a confrontation

With a crab at the water’s

Edge. The crab seemed

Unhappy, so I ran

Listening to my toes slap

The wet sand, waving

My arms, and the bird

Flew off and settled

Down the beach.

The crab didn’t appreciate

Me fighting his battles,

He scuttled off without

Saying thank you.

They say you shouldn’t

Go walking by yourself

In the city, and you

Definitely shouldn’t

Go in those dark

Tunnels by yourself.

Sure, you can see

All the way through

To the end, and you’re

Carrying pepper spray,

But you can never

Be too careful for

Your mother.

It’s a good thing

She doesn’t know

You walk through it

Every night.

Tudor Windows

This poem assignment was all about structure. Basically our teacher provided us a structure that looked like this:

If May is like (blank)

Then November is like (blank)

As now when I look out the window I see (description)

Yesterday the best thing happened (blank)

The worst thing my (father/mother) ever said to me was: (blank)

Suddenly outside the window: (metaphor)

Statement about love.

Anyway, it's November (.....)

Also, each line had to be twelve syllables.

So here's what I came up with:

Tudor Windows

If May is a stained glass window, then November

Is like the small leaded panes in a Tudor house.

As now, when I look out the window I see leaves

Strewn upon the ground, edged with frost that clearly defines

Each leaf from its brother and cousin. They are plastered

To the ground partly from the rain the night before,

And partly from the morning dew. There is a fog

Obscuring the air, I can only see enough

Of the tree to watch each individual leaf

Fall to the ground to join the carpet already

Laid out. Yesterday the best thing happened, I told

Paul I love him by tricking him into saying

It first. And then he kissed me. The worst thing Daddy

Ever said to me was that I was ungrateful.

Suddenly outside the window, the leaves are stirring,

It’s as if I’m watching the woman lazily

Drag her ladle through the pot at the soup kitchen,

I feel my stomach rumble. I’m hungry for warmth.

Love is baking challah, incorporating all

The ingredients, waiting for the dough to rise,

Braiding it together, being gentle- careful

Not to stretch it out of shape, brushing it with egg

Wash to make it shine, then baked until the color

Is mahogany. Anyway, it’s November,

And the diamond shaped glass is blurred and romantic.

Unassigned Poetry

Our assignment was to write poetry that wasn't assigned (I shouldn't say it was an assignment, it was more of a suggestion...), so here are three that I composed this week.

Halloween

I only got to say it three times tonight.

I’ve been waiting all year

I bought the candy a couple weeks ahead

Of when I really needed to,

Sifting through the bulk candy at WinCo

Trying to decide if I’d rather give out

Tiny jawbreakers or Double Bubble bubble gum,

Then deciding I’ll add both

To the large bag. It was already straining

With the effort of creating my imagined scene

Of tiny children coming to the door

And chiming trick or treat in their tinny,

But altogether not unpleasant voices.

Maybe I’d even guess what they were supposed to be:

Ballerinas, Spiderman, Princesses, Serial killers…

I even dressed up myself- teasing my hair, donning

Pearls, wearing heels, and a dress, and an apron-

A 50’s housewife complete with a sparkly glass ring.

But for all my work, I got six.

One devil, two ninjas, one Batman,

One ghoul-ish looking thing, and one-

I don’t know- was he Iron Man?

And so I gave them a huge handful each,

And they all said thank you,

And I said Happy Halloween!

And they trotted down my stairs

To the next apartment building

With the orange trick or treat label that means

We’ve got candy inside.

And now it’s 10:43,

My makeup is smudged,

And the last person to knock on the door

Will be my boyfriend.

And I know he’ll want candy.

It’s Inevitable

Yes, it’s like looking through glass

At an aquarium. On the other side

Is a scene unfolding- something is about to get eaten-

But try as you might, you can’t save

That poor little fish.

You’re sitting down at the movie theater,

Restraining yourself from throwing popcorn

At the screen. You know that it will end

Badly if she goes for that guy. You tell her

Not to do it. But, of course, she does

It anyway. You can’t save her from herself.

You could hurdle things at a brick wall,

But that won’t stop it from being a brick wall.

Throw an iron through it.

Now it’s a broken brick wall.

Now you have to fix it.

Greek Food

The garlic is so thick in my mouth,

If I breathed on a vampire, it would pray

For its immortal soul. Candles flicker,

The air is heavy with conversation

That rumbles like a volcano building

To eruption. The paper tablecloth

Smell like wax. The light is just bright enough

To barely see. Paul dips a spoon in the hummus.

Mom copies him. I inhale. There’s that

Garlic again. Silverware is clattering

In the kitchen. So I distinct, I can almost tell

The difference between the utensils.

I can hear enough of the music to hear

It’s a guitar. How wonderful to be on a double date

With my parents. Sneaky fingers keep

Finding their way back to the plate.

Slow on the Update

Even when there's not very much to do, there's not time to do everything... So here are two more poems that I've neglected to put up until now, even though they were both written last week. I promise I have not forgotten about the short story either- it should be up soon.

The first poem was created out of our class's need to slow things down. He said our poetry was like skipping stones, we just wanted to hit the water and run to the next jump. We needed to suspend the rock in the air for a while. His assignment was either to blow out or last poem, or take just a part an blow it out. I was so inspired by the idea of skipping stones, that I decided to blow that out instead.

The second poem is a revision of the earlier poem "Without End." In this poem we were supposed to "turn up the heat" and just take the cold, lifeless, or dull parts out. So here's the new (and hopefully, you'll find it improved) version.

Skipping Stones

My eyes peruse the ground,

Moving in lines first horizontally

Then vertically,

Searching the crossword puzzle for the right word.

It must be round and so worn

by the river that I can feel the water

Lapping at its edges.

I bend my knees into a crouch

closer to the bank dotted

With small wild flowers and daisies,

which are related to the thistle.

It’s chilly here, the wind alternates between cold

and freezing. How can the

River still have running water?

I clutch myself in own arms,

participating in an

I-love-myself exercise.

The wind’s fingers find their way into each

Space left by the knit of fabric in my sweater.

My great grandmother used to knit

And crochet, but my hands never followed in her footsteps.

The knee high grass that itches my legs

When I walk through it, waves in the wind,

Sways in tune to a concert that I didn’t buy a ticket to.

If only I could find a vendor.

The oak trees are also attending,

But they aren’t as enthusiastic

As the wind, some of their branches move,

But they stand at the edge,

Merely tapping their feet in rhythm.

A bird flies overhead. I don’t know

What kind it is and I don’t know where it’s going.

I wonder if birds ever

Stop to ask for directions, and if they do,

Is it the male or female bird that does so?

Some of the rocks are spotted.

These must be the adolescents

Who haven’t grown out of their acne.

Some of them have deep pores, they must

Not wash their faces every day.

I’m looking for one with perfect skin.

Well, I’d settle for one with a very minor blemish.

If one catches my fancy,

I advance carefully. I casually inch towards it,

And then retreat as though unsure.

I’m afraid if I crane my neck any further

That I’ll topple over, falling like

A roller skater that is confused as to what to do with his feet.

My arms will flail out

In the hope that at this last desperate moment

I’ll discover the possibility of

Unaided human flight.

I rock backwards on my heels, catching myself more

Gracefully than I had anticipated.

My arm reaches out as though it is unattached

To my body, it moves of its own free will.

It picks up a rock.

The rock seems satisfactory.

It’s probably granite, but its true color and

Personality will only be gleaned by spitting on it.

So I spit, not like a man who sounds

As though doing so is a good excuse to clear out

Anything else, but like a lazy girl who can’t

Walk three feet to the river’s edge.

Delicately I well up liquid in my mouth

By thinking of lemons, which my brother

Loves to suck on. One day he’ll have no

Enamel left, but in the meantime the citrus is

An easy craving to satisfy.

I purse my lips to draw the liquid out,

And I hold the rock up to my mouth like

I’m telling it a secret.

I rub the moisture into the stone vigorously,

So it understands my intentions.

The rock is too grey, just another

Day waiting for the rain that is playing coy.

I set it back down gently, a mother

Putting her child to bed, rocking the baby

To sleep and then, though exhausted,

She watches to ensure that the kid’s chest

Continues to rise and fall- that it has lived through

Another breath.

Losing patience, I gather up the six closest stones

And hold out the bottom edge of my sweater

like women used to hold their aprons.

The rocks clunk around in their makeshift carrier

And carefully I stand up,

My knees threatening to creak under the strain

Of moving so deliberately. When I reach my full height,

I look around expecting applause. Everything is silent.

My steps echo across the weathered rocks,

Gossiping old women telling their stories in any

Willing ear. The clunk of pavement is not here,

The whisper of sand is not here,

It’s just the rattle of the rocks.

I plunk myself down on a now mangled

Pussytoes flower, which my mother always

Called cat’s paw. I sit heavily, sighing from

All the exertion. I examine the rocks,

Holding them up to light that is indifferent

To me, its light is much too weak.

The first rock is not the right shape,

Someone must have broken off an edge,

It’s jagged like a saw on one side.

The second rock shows more promise,

But it is not the right kind of smooth,

It is not creamy like butter,

So it gets tossed back.

The third rock has too many speckles,

So many that I can’t tell what the original

Rock color is.

The fourth rock is smooth, but it’s rather

Bulky and lumpy, a sack of potatoes, or

An old woman under her housedress.

The fifth rock was perfect, as though it had

Taken careful notes on the flaws of the others

And had resolved to not be found wanting.

I didn’t even look at the sixth stone, instead I threw

It carelessly over my shoulder.

I couldn’t wait another moment to be rid of it.

Nothing immediately happened.

I held the perfect stone in my hand possessively,

Daring someone to steal it. I held it hard so that

My skin was glued to the contours.

The light grew even more dim, a flashlight on its

Last legs, only emitting those feeble rays of

Yellow light.

I had to do it quickly now, and yet I fought

Against the inevitable arc and ripple.

I stood up again, this time with no attempt

To stay balanced. I moved from criss cross applesauce

To knighthood and then I pushed myself off the ground.

I brought my toes, clad in crappy tennis shoes I bought at

Goodwill so that I wouldn’t feel guilty about getting them dirty-

They make my feet wide at the toes like ducks- to the line

Past which there was no darkened soil that indicated

The river’s presence.

My arms stretched to the sky,

And I popped my neck to the east and west.

I wound up my left arm like a pitcher.

How funny it would be if after all this work,

The stone merely sunk with a loud plop,

Like a body with cement shoes that the mob

Throws over a bridge, except that seems like

More of a splash to me.

I take careful aim and bring my arm back,

Then I swing it back and forth, rolling the dice

In order to yell Yahtzee or whatever game we’re playing.

My arm drifts back again, but this time my

Muscles are tense like a loaded spring on a

Pinball machine, and I have to get the high score

Because everyone’s watching.

My arm comes forward and I release the perfect rock,

Watch it soar over the water like Icarus flying too near the sun,

He thinks he can fly, but it’s just too high up and the sun is too hot,

And he must come down to the water.

The rock bounces like a pogo stick on the

Surface of the water and skitters like a startled cat,

Darting to a new place, but it finds fault with that one

Too, merely resting for an instant, a friend who sits

Down with you to a lovely meal and continuously

Glances at their watch, waiting for the moment to run.

I’m sure it will sink soon. It cannot remain suspended in the air

Like the flying gallop pose of the bull in Minoan art.

Soon it will need to sink into the river and find new brothers

Among the rocks that cover the surface where humans

Rarely penetrate. I don’t want to watch it sink, and I pivot

On my heel and cover my ears so that I can disguise the sound

That distinguishes what was meant to be.

Ripples, the consequence of my action, move outward

Until they dissolve back into still and silence.

Aside from the inadvertently damaged Pussytoe,

Nothing says I’ve been here.

Without End

The Torah is rolled out completely,

Everyone present is supporting the sacred text,

Their fingers whispering against the edges.

It must be read from the end

To the beginning without pause.

I don’t want to sit in temple

And pray in a language I only know a dozen words of.

I sit in the pew, looking up, but all I can see is the ceiling.

And I am not called to explain, only to express.

And I sing fairly well,

But I could never coach my voice to hear G-d.

The cantor has, and every syllable moves from her lips

To G-d’s ears.

The great searchlights

Never sweep over my skin.

I have lit the Channukah candles,

I have said Kaddish at funerals,

I have sipped the wine enthusiastically at Passover,

Cracked the matzo and hid it from my Grandfather who never found it,

Read the transliterations to prayers I don’t understand in English,

Given another voice to the song that drips with honey,

Thrown breadcrumbs in the river,

To throw away sin and feed the ducks simultaneously,

And never understood.

I am a twig caught in the eddies of tradition,

Moving in circles,

Never going anywhere, but going on

Forever.

Baruch atah Adonai…

There is a great

Chasm between the words

And their meanings.

I fear falling into the abyss.