My Favorite Days

 Glistening, green, grass,

Smooth, soft, sand,

Menacing oaks dot the fairways,

My leather glove grips my hand.

The sun beats down,

The wind whispers quietly,

The water is like fine glass,

The flag billows defiantly.

My irons slice through the tranquil air,

My spikes rip up the perfect fairways,

I smile alongside my friends,

These are my favorite days.

Poetry Blog Spotlight

http://firmlyrooted.blogspot.com/

ROOTED 

           This blog entitled “rooted” is a blogspot page with a simple layout and complex themes. The author covers a wide variety of topics with her poems, and each one brings different elements to the table. Her poems such as “nirvana” (http://firmlyrooted.blogspot.com/2013/09/nirvana.html) are very well written and mix earthly and unearthly concepts. She uses great imagery in her poems, especially when describing landscapes or everyday things. For example, in “nirvana” she writes, “a lone tree in the sharp hillside where clouds spill all over it. That exact spot where the ghosts gathered.” I enjoy reading these poems because each one is different and original, and the quality is great. The author uses a variety of poetic devices, writing styles, line breaks, et cetera. She also complements the majority of her poems with a picture (or pictures with a poem), which only increases the ability of the reader to visualize her poems. The layout is simple and white, which in my mind demonstrates she is not trying to make up for a lack of creativity or quality in her poems, because the blog still appears somewhat pleasing to the eye. In other words, it is easy to look at, and her poems are easy and interesting to read.

            The author also includes a short quote after each of her poems, usually motivational or inspirational. I thought these added a lot to her blog, and really like the one she wrote following her poem “Sway That Bay” (http://firmlyrooted.blogspot.com/2013/09/sway-that-bay.html), which read

"there is no single master of the world,
but who pulls the invisible strings?"

            What the hell does that even mean. So there is a master? Or does no one pull the strings... Either way it's a thinker, and you can interpret it however you want. Although some of the quotes may be cliché, most of them relate to the poems and can be a guilty pleasure of sorts. I really like how this blog, like I wrote earlier, has lots of different dimensions and elements of poetry, whether it be the range of topics or poetic devices, style, or meter. I think this is important because it keeps the reader engaged, and it doesn’t feel like you’re reading the same thing over and over again.

            Many of the author’s poems are about specific objects, but some address deeper issues. Her poem “cries inside the mind” (http://firmlyrooted.blogspot.com/2013/08/cries-inside-mind.html) is especially powerful because it addresses a serious problem in her home country of India where she still resides. She writes of the poor treatment and frequent gang rape of women in India, and the pain and recovery they have to go through every day. Lines such as “we cannot help her pick up the pieces/she needs to do it alone,/to stop the cries inside her head” resonate deeply, and the annotation at the bottom of the poem is also very important to read. This poem shows the author is capable of addressing a wide variety of topics, and gives an important voice to the unheard.

            Overall, “rooted” is a great blog with tons of great poetry. Its simple style provides no distractions from what is important, which are her poems.

Final Project Proposal

I want to make a chapbook which consists of around four sections which do not necessarily relate, but inside each section is a group of poems which stem off or work well together. I am also considering writing short transition poems between either the sections or the poems to create a more fluid movement throughout the chapbook. There should be around 15 to 20 poems.

Erotic Poem

The Well-Oiled Machine

The car effortlessly shifts into a higher gear, its engine purring at the increase in acceleration.

Pedal to the floor, the transmission grunts and responds, vaulting the car forward.

The gears grind while the car works like the well-oiled machine it is.

The driver slams on the brakes, the car screams and gasps as its tires rub roughly against the hard road.

Panting, the car rests shortly before resuming its race,

Where its engine hums and vibrates in a hypnotic sigh. 

The Shadow Poem

Selfish

I avert my gaze from the homeless beggar on the side of the road.

I will give him money next time, I say.

I know I should, but for some reason I cannot.

I am selfish.

In kindergarten we were taught to share,

And it’s not that I don’t care,

It’s just I feel like I am letting a part of me go.

I’m losing my worth to the side of the road.

How can I give to some and not to others?

There are always more people in worse conditions,

These are the things I tell myself,

So my greed can grow, alongside my health,

So I will never have to lose my sense of wealth.

Nonsensish Poem

Through and About

Walking and talking through and about the novel. Skimming and flipping, avoiding the light drizzle. But it’s pouring. Shame, the pages are soaked through and about. Meandering now. Not lost, but aimless. Rain hits the cobblestone pitter patter. I watch from within the confines of my mind, thank God I’m not out there, but rather trapped inside myself. Pitter patter. Again, I begin to worry. Will I ever make it home, or have my travels consumed me. Shame I can’t make it home for dinner.  I know the sky will open to the heavens, but when the white marble staircase crashes down I fear I may miss it, because I’ll already be on my way. 

Argentina's Dirty War

35 years ago stares me in the face,
But we are anything but eye to eye.
I can't understand their pain,
I can't understand their suffering.

I can't look away from the man on horseback with the gun.
His shadowed figure is unwavering.
Did he shoot?
He is at once portrayed to be the most powerful and the most cowardly.

The protesters run toward him and his comrades, fearlessly.
Led by a man with one hand clenched into a fist and the other open to the sky,
They are unarmed.

The mural is anything but silent, cleverly cutting through the peaceful street and green trees.
It remembers what has been forgotten, overlooked, covered up.
It is the work of the people themselves, not the government.
It tells the true story, written on the walls of society itself.