James Holbert's original poem, and the new Revised Version

(This one is the original)

On K

My imitations fall from the sky.

And I hope they rain on the head of the man they’re made of.

If they did, he would not care;

He walks with his head down.

He stole me years ago.

He did not mean to.

I followed along,

But he does not ever look back.

My Prince, my King,

I try to understand him;

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

“My King, what ever do you mean?”

There is silence:

I must turn to ink.

I learn and I pretend.

Actually, I know not a thing.

“You are a child in a man.”

—But, then again, I don’t know—

“How then might I become a man?”

My imitations fall to the ground.

_________________________________________________________________________________

(This is the Revised Version)

On K

A broad tree of beginning has been planted before me and I am to make a taste of the apple. When the day begins I am already at a writing table. Sleep. Or black. Or nothing? The day is night now and I stoop over a hole my size. K stands away from me, across the blank river between us. His shovel sweeps up piles of sheets of familiarity, tossing them into the hole; they don’t even flutter as they fall to its bottom and sink in the air like hefty stones. When it is done, a pen flies through my chest and I pick it up after it has fallen to the ground. K doesn’t look at me and so fills the hole with an almost endless blanket of dirt. It goes high, higher over the level ground, mounting until a great skyscraper of dirt appears before me. It takes four years for K to climb it. Then he points down from the tip of the dirt skyscraper, downward as that finger descends, passing all the heavens and all the clouds and all the birds and all the nothingness in between, and then I am to vaguely see he points to the tombstone at the front of the skyscraper. I go with the pen and it writes smoothly, cutting through the stone like it is not attached to this, my own hand. With this new everything I write my first permanent words: “HERE LIES—”

A Miracle for Breakfast

A Miracle for Breakfast

Elizabeth Bishop

At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.


This poem was full of detail and makes me want to be there and have breakfast. Those sunny, breakfast smells that just starts your day off right.

My boy made this poem in response to a Johnathan Edwards sermon

With hands held steady
over a fire
Spiders crawling sprawled over the skin,
As it exposes fakes and liars.

Fear weighing a ton 
both parties 
Equally understanding of one another 
And the tremble of each other’s body

The spider knows the only thing
Keeping him from the fire is the hand
Of the human so to the skin she must cling

To the human 
hands broad
The fear of the spiders bite
Is nothing in knowledge of being held in the hand of God

Poetry at Home

Jenn brought up a great idea of talking about homes. I wanted to share a story of my own about home.

 Since 1777

Farmland stretching for miles.
Oh look, theirs the school
where I once went two years ago.

The fall leaves make their decent to the ground
as fall begins.
The big white house
with all my childhood memories
still stands since 1777
when it was built.

Remodeled, redone a few times
but still holds many memories
of swinging on the swingset
or playing hopscotch on the driveway.

Shooting for two
or picking some flowers
jumping into water
to cool down on those hot summer days.

Volleyball, trampoline, or even a game of ball
was the backyards duty
to stay green
and stand strong.

Bonfires, parties, giant trees
made up memories
never to forget
never to replace.

Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter
is how this house would be decorated
every year when the season was near
family would come and gather. 

This is where I stand
since 1993
this home will always be
my home. 

Poetry About Home

I've been sitting online for a few hours reading poetry about home and sometimes I wonder if its all already been written. People's definition of what home is, the stereotypical "I'll be home for Christmas attitude" etc. All those cliches about fire places, Mom's home cooking, creaking, a clock sounding, and saying Grace at the kitchen table...

Recently I have been thinking about writing what home means to me, and I am a bit deterred by what I see on the internet...maybe looking stuff up is a bad idea sometimes. I don't want to write a stereotypical poem.

I suppose I should open up a bit about this: I have been very confused as of late about what home actually is. Having lost my grandmother in May, and my family experience several deaths and downfalls last year, we kind of lost sight of what family and home actually means. We stopped really talking to each other and just working on what needed to be done from paperwork to clearing out homes of old stuff.

I love my parents. I love my sister, and my cat, and my grandmother (rest in peace). But I moved into my apartment with friends and felt home there too, at least until my best friend moved out and my other roommate's girlfriend moved in.

I am curious about how you guys feel. If given a topic about family and home do you think you'd reflect on negatives? Do you think you'd write about a fireplace, and the sounds of your clocks? Do you think you'd recall your dorm? 

What do you recommend for someone looking to write about home and family? What do you think are your family's quirks? 

I'll share: We always drink pomegranate juice with breakfast at my parents' house, everyone has a down comforter, and all our furniture is old. We have a clock that sounds like a grandfather clock but really isn't. Our porch cracks loudly when it freezes under the weight of the snow, and my mom has more than 5 bird feeders that she fills 3 times a day. Every year, these pansie flowers grow back in greater numbers in every garden. My house has undergone construction in my time living there, and I miss being able to use my fireplace in my now unfinished basement. We have to carry my cat up and down any flights of stairs because she is old. The second step from the top to our rooms is creaky. I'd only know this because I used to sneak downstairs to write in the living room and finish any unfinished puzzles past my bedtime.

The Bridge?

Good morning!
When is the due date to submit to the Bridge?

Jenn Kilgallon

Rain.

Rain.

I remember almost drowning

I still feel like a fool for loving him

We fell asleep under the stars one night

I swore our hearts drummed in sweet sync

He held my heart in the palm of his hand

Is it weird to crave a person on days

when rain ensues after kisses goodbye?

I gave him my poems as lullabies

to soothe his longing on damp nights when love

would not suffice to keep him full of me.

 

Conversation Rant

So I am still plugging away at this metric poem...and I am opening a rant page to discuss the eavesdropping assignment.

I sat around someone playing GTA [so lots of swearing, wanting to crash cars and planes, etc.]
Did anyone else get aggravated with these?

I am thinking of scrapping the whole thing and starting over...

One thing I find fun about writing is challenging the assignment; if I have a list of stuff people said and a list about what I said about something [eaves dropping vs. listening to the music and responding] I am gonna try to get in the heads of people I've eaves dropped on. I want to challenge this with the explicits that someone was shouting during GTA...whether or not that might make this easier I am not sure...

I honestly think it might be because people yell in fives or twos, ["Joooonnnnyyyy"=Jonny when Mom's calling for dinner]

We'll see if I can get more than 5 lines and not sound like a horrible person writing about Grand Theft.

dirty boys with bullet holes and knuckle tattoos

I saw this while browing tumblr and fell in love. It's from this blog.

A Dream by Christina Rossetti

A Dream

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.

Oh! The Places You'll Go.

Alice Thompson's blog (posted below) talks about metre in Dr. Seuss. All of his work is metrically regular. 

http://badtoverseblog.wordpress.com/2012/11/05/understanding-metre-with-dr-seuss/

For Tuesday,

As we went over in class, using already existing material from your "I remembers", your overheard material and/or your responses to music we listened to, craft at least 10 lines that have an identifiable governing meter.  Most likely, since we are writing in English, this will be iambic.  It will be easiest to spot and easiest to rearrange for.

You can use any meter in English as your governing meter - Anapestic, Dactylic, Spondaic, Trochaic or Iambic, it's just that iambic is likely to be clearer and already present in you texts.

The handouts provide plenty of material to will help to clarify, but no amount of explanation will replace saying a word or line out loud and feeling your own tongue press up against your front teeth to determine where an accent falls. You can't intellectually learn this. You have to feel it in your body.

Listen to yourself.

Homework for 10/22

What is the poem we have to write for Tuesday again? 

Slam Poetry

What makes Slam Poetry Slam Poetry?
Are there any Slam Poets in the class?

While we're on meter can we talk about how Slam Poetry works and when reading, how pronunciation counts?

I remember at Open Mics there were usually one or two Slam Poets, and they were pretty amazing to listen to. They caught your attention, and used their voices in really interesting ways.

beau sia - love

This is honestly hilarious and in my opinion is what love is:) I recommend you watch this!

So I Run (Def Poetry)

This Video has so much passion in it and I am just a fan of def poetry. They way they tell there stories and can recite poetry so fast and so clearly.

Terisa Siagatonu & Rudy Francisco - "Sons" (NPS 2013)

This is an absolutely incredible video. It is so powerful and speaks an extremely important message. I especially love the reaction of the man in the hat behind the mics.

THE APP FOR YOUR PHONE AND HOW TO GET NOTIFICATIONS

Hey guys,
On your app store (apple or droid) there will be apps for the Blogger. Look for the orange 'B' logo and download it. You can set it to notify you when posts show up on here. Also I think there are options on your web blogger that will email your gmail account and flag you when John or anyone else posts.

Please utilize these. I downloaded them after this weekend happened to prevent missing any more assignments.

Have a good night!
Jenn

"A Good Day" - Kate Rokowski

I found this on Tumblr and it made me cry...

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.

A good old poem, "The Kraken"

The Kraken

 

Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

 

Alfred Tennyson

Seven

seven

her whispers

echoe through my head.

i remember wanting to be a superhero.

there is no such thing as superheroes

each step proved it,

bruised.

watching from above, vanishes.

my cape tangled, suffocating before the plummet.

what is supposed to keep you in the air, up,

safe,

drops you.

i will be a hero,  I will stand.

i remember getting the biggest battle

and chuckling, afraid? brave? 

the biggest and baddest villain in the whole wide universe

staring directly in my eyes.

i can and will be a superhero.

i remember becoming the strongest soldier,

i taught myself how to keep going, break down the walls, don’t be afraid of the dark,

don’t be afraid.

i’m not lying.

no.

every single step.

bruised.

i stand up, finger in front of me

i am a hero.

i beat up all the bad guys real bad, i help people who hurt, lots of bandades.

i clean up the biggest messes, i wipe away floods,  i…i…

never give up no matter how hard you push.

i still am strong enough to lo…

i remember my cape tearing from my shoulders,

i felt like i was flying, soaring, i was finally a hero, mommy look i

told you.

superheroes are real.

your eyes widened, I guess I made you a believer.

i remember quiet.

This has always been one of my favorites.

The Gray Bracelet

The Gray Bracelet

I wear a gray bracelet.

I wear it everyday.

It reminds me of the little things

that can so quickly go away.

It makes me stop and appreciate

how fragile life can be.

I have learned to be less quick

to judge, to anger, or complain.

It helps me to remember

what really matters in life.

I welcome the reminder

as it is so easy to lose our way.

I wear a gray bracelet.

I wear it everyday.

It is simple, nothing fancy.

Speckled with pink words

that tell the story,

that make it special.

She’s only one but

has the strength of many

to face each dawning day.

In every picture I see of her

as she walks along this journey,

her smile, so infectious,

always fills the frame.

With youthful eyes that shine,

her spirit clearly strong,

Meghan inspires me

to truly live an old cliché,

“make good use of time.”

I wear a gray bracelet.

I wear it everyday.

It sometimes causes questions

that are difficult to answer,

however, her story must be shared.

Her story of faith and courage,

of never giving up.

It is the most valuable

thing I will ever wear and

as I go throughout the day,

I often think of Meghan,

especially when I pray.

Denise Larochelle Lessard,  Meghan’s  Cousin

This poem was written when my best friend Meghan had cancer, she has since then passed away, but reading this makes me smile at the memories i had with her, and look to my gray bracelet which sits on my arm. I love the emotions that pour out of this, and make you see Meghan even if you never met her.

Thou Art Not Lovelier Than Lilacs

-Edna Saint Vincent Millay

 

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,--I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,--with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink--and live--what has destroyed some men.

 

I admire this poem for its angry energy from start to finish.  In the opening, the reader does not encounter the traditional "love poem" designed to extole the virtues of a lover, instead, we discover the subject is "not lovelier than lilacs...nor honeysuckle" neither are they "more fair than small single white poppies"--already there is an angry tension expressed in the atypical opening that carries through to the end. As we continue we discover that, nevertheless, the speaker wields power over the speaker in that they are forced to "bend before" the subject. In time, however, the speaker frees themself of the power: "like him who day by day unto his draught / of delicate poison adds him one drop more / till he may drink unharmed the death of ten, / Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed / Each hour more deeply than the hour before, / I drink--and live--what has destroyed some men"--thus, the speaker has finally conditioned themselves against the subject until they are at last free.

 

To be honest, I think the final line: "I drink--and live--what has destroyed some men" is utterly amazing

Alone

-Edgar Allen Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

     
I have always loved this poem, from the time I stumbled upon it in a book in highschool.  I think what drew me in were the very first lines "From childhood's hour I have not been / as others were; I have not seen / As others saw."  Such lines are, to me, emotionally charged and full of energy as a result of thier honesty--a speaker who can admit to himself and an audience that he is, essentially, an outcast is a powerful individual.

oh, yes

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

- Charles Bukowski

I love how short and simple this poem is yet it still hits you so hard at the end

The Game

Start your engine.
Here we go.
What fallacy is committed in the following passage?
The dreaded
A
B
C
D
Which to pick?
And around the back corner he goes
now in second place!
Maybe A
not C.
Wait..D
it's always B everyone knows that.
He's spinning out of control..Collision!
Smoke everywhere.
Pen drops.
Pick it up!
WE WO WE WO.
Ambulance on the scene
The race is
Over..


This is a poem I wrote last semester when I was really stressed about Philosophy and how I never like taking test and the stress we have when we have to pick between 4 letters sometimes 5. 

Flames by Billy Collins

Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.

His ranger's hat is cocked
at a disturbing angle.

His brown fur gleams
under the high sun
as his paws, the size
of catcher's mitts,
crackle into the distance.

He is sick of dispensing
warnings to the careless,
the half-wit camper,
the dumbbell hiker.

He is going to show them
how a professional does it.

America
  by Claude McKay
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate.
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20221#sthash.zDyyLopN.dpuf

I love this poem. I have ever since I read it in school. It made me really think about how the US treats people from different nations. 

Spring

Spring

Frost-locked all the winter,
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend
That they may put forth shoots?
Tips of tender green,
Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
Telling of the hidden life
That breaks forth underneath,
Life nursed in its grave by Death.


Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
Drips the soaking rain,
By fits looks down the waking sun:
Young grass springs on the plain;
Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
Swollen with sap put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.

There is no time like Spring,
When life's alive in everything,
Before new nestlings sing,
Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
Along the trackless track -
God guides their wing,
He spreads their table that they nothing lack, -
Before the daisy grows a common flower
Before the sun has power
To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.


There is no time like Spring,
Like Spring that passes by;
There is no life like Spring-life born to die, -
Piercing the sod,
Clothing the uncouth clod,
Hatched in the nest,
Fledged on the windy bough,
Strong on the wing:
There is no time like Spring that passes by,
Now newly born, and now
Hastening to die.  


This poem is by Christina Rossetti. She is a poet that I had to write about for English class and also got the privilege to order her complete works which is sitting in my drawer in my dorm waiting to be dug out when it was needed. She is a poet that has manage to write everything from romantic poetry to children's poetry. 

Hello all,

For Sunday,


Utilize at least four locations.  Eavesdrop with a pen.

Public space - libraries, parking lots, busses and trains, malls and shopping areas/restaurants  - are best because you have the great possibility to overhear speech that is out of context and no one has real expectation of privacy.


In other words you don't want to write down "Guy with the hat said, 'the Tigers are a bunch of punks'"

You do want to write down "The Tigers are a bunch of punks".


That said, you needn't provide any context for the speech you hear. I would like it if in your email to me you identify what four locations they are from.

Get a couple of pages and email to me by Sunday.

jmulroon2010@gmail.com

enjoy.

Pursue Your Passion

This something that has always moved me, talking about pursuing what you're passionate about, despite what people think.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UK-fcfalsw

"The Secret of My Endurance"

Bukowski gets a bit of a mixed response nowadays. He's either hailed as one of the best poets of the 20th Century, or dismissed as a bitter misogynist. Both are probably true.

Emotionally driven

I am curious about how you might go about emotionally driven poems like anger and sadness. Do you have techniques? What about grieving?

Does anyone try to charge any happy/excited/proud poems? How does that work?

Do you struggle when you're not in the mood?

-Jenn

Alice Munro wins literature Nobel Prize

Alice Munro, 'Master' Of The Short Story, Wins Literature Nobel http://n.pr/1acEOJ5

I reference this poem all the time, one of my favorites

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

By John Keats

 

 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Give Me a Chance

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9EOf7mw3qs

I would check this out I have always been a fan of Def Poetry and my English teacher showed it to us Junior year and ever since I would sit and watch many, many def poets all day as they have so much passion and a different way of delivering there poetry

I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz (Favorite Love poem)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

What If Money Was No Object? (+playlist)

Will I ever understand

Will I ever understand.

now I am alone

with no-one,

wondering where I went wrong

obsession, my only companion,

as I long for the

warm embrace and

crisp sensation associated with

another.

Fluttering behind the bars,

wanting to be free, to soar.

Pulsating for the urge of excitement,

hunger.

So many that are happy

when I lack the experience to define it,

so many that smile

when I forget how.

I gaze at the world

passing by;

fingers intertwined

lips tied

people left breathless.

Where is it?

My breath,

Gone.

Wondering where I went wrong.

Trickling down my fingertips

i feel warm

finally

chest not rising

I feel breathless

finally

the bird no longer fluttering

I feel at peace

finally

I understand one thing now,

lights interrupt the serenate of the darkness that has become my reality

sounds penetrate the silence that has become the soundtrack to my life

vibrations create a sensation, where I so comfortably felt nothing

for so long,

now,

cries, someone cries for me

I understand one thing now,

I went wrong,

where?

I gave up.

-Lapan

The Stranger

The Stranger  

If only I had the answer,

why my world spins so much faster.

Crashes,

so much harder.

Your eyes tease me, beckoning me.

Lips, shout in anguish and desire.

Licking the flames that escape the confines of my chest.

Palpations echoe, reverberating against the walls.

Desire,

fuels me.

My fingers starve for the compassion of being

entangled

in the locks of crimson that cascade down your smooth

façade.

I am left starved, parched

craving.

Admiration is a simple thing,

when one admires something that they have the

potential to

possess.

Instead, I watch from a far, and

anticipate the sensation of your skin in my grasp.

Your lips pressed ever so delicately against mine.

Bare, close to my chest, every breath in

unison.

I admire,

the challenge.

Happily ever after.

Digging by Seamus Heaney (one of the best poems ever)

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney

On Being Brought from Africa to America

'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."
Remember, Christians, Negro's, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train. 

Phillis Wheatley

Where the sidewalk ends.

Where the Sidewalk Ends

from the book "Where the Sidewalk Ends" (1974)

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

and before the street begins,

and there the grass grows soft and white,

and there the sun burns crimson bright,

and there the moon-bird rests from his flight

to cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

and the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow

and watch where the chalk-white arrows go

to the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

and we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

for the children, they mark, and the children, they know,

the place where the sidewalk ends.

Good Poem I read in my Advanced Portfolio class

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

~ Mary Oliver

(American Primitive)