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.

Poetry Slam Response

          Tucked away on the corner of 4^th and Broadway in Lowertown, Saint Paul, the Black Dog Tavern recently hosted a poetry slam called “Nu Griot’s Gumbo Revolution.” The small wine and coffee bar was packed to the point where there was nowhere to sit or stand to see the local poets. Among the Minneapolis and Saint Paul natives performing that night was the once aspiring people’s politician, Marcus Harcus. Harcus read a few of his pieces, which ranged from three to four pages. Between each page break he was so passionate that he threw each finished page to the floor with great emphasis. Harcus focused on the huge gap between the rich and the poor present in today’s society. He read his poem titled “The Missing Class Ain’t the Middle Class,” but I was unable to find a copy of it at the slam or online. Essentially, Harcus talked about how the majority of Americans are living in poverty and that the comfortable middle class is nonexistent. He talked about how there was a lack of jobs even for qualified people, which brought several sounds of approval from the audience. Harcus' prose style equipped with long lines allowed him to elevate the intensity of his performance with each word, drawing the audience in closer and closer with each breath. His performance seemed bigger than the bar itself, covering issues so big and prominent.
          Even though I couldn’t find “The Missing Class Ain’t the Middle Class” online, (other than references to it on Harcus’ fan page) I found another poem written by Harcus about how history seems to have skipped over the era of slavery in its detailed volumes. Yes, Marcus Harcus wrote another long ass poem: http://nefermaathotep.tumblr.com/post/46223106839/via-marcus-harcus-wrote-another-long-ass-poem Harcus uses prose in his poem entitled “Getting Over Slavery & Getting Over Racism” to convey his thoughts on how we avoid talking about slavery in today’s society. A line from this poem that really struck me is in the first stanza: “Although they [Americans] don’t mind commemorating the better parts of our national history, things they can be proud of, they’d rather forget and downplay the significant influence and trauma of the ugly aspects, things that are deeply shameful, like historical oppression of the indigenous and Stolen African populations.” Harcus is very blunt and assertive in writing about this sensitive topic, showing his passion and mindset on the topic. I think the free prose style of this poem allows Harcus to display how he truly feels without the limitations of rhyme or meter, making it that much more meaningful.

            The poetry of Marcus Harcus focuses on issues of today’s society and what we can do to resolve them. His poetry has meaning and conveys concepts the everyday man can relate with, and for this I find his work very grounded and progressive. His performances of these poems only make them more powerful, and I am glad I went and witnessed his poetry out loud. 

Louis Jenkins Response

Being a writer who is most comfortable working within the bounds of a given structure, I was initially pessimistic upon hearing about Jenkins' more undefined writing style. However, after reading only a couple of his prose poems I was surprised by how much I enjoyed them.

One of the things I noticed and liked most about Jenkins' poems were the themes. He invokes self reflection from the reader about everyday topics such as living too fast and not enjoying the moment. In his poem "The Speaker," Jenkins examines the overlooking of the small things in life which can mean the most. He concludes the poem with the two sentences: "When the speaker has finished we gather around to sing a few inspirational songs. You and I stand at the back of the group and hum along since we have forgotten most of the words." He writes that we may have ideas of what is important but are not experiencing everything to our fullest potential. I think it is true that the important things can get lost in the busy shuffle of life and Jenkins does a really nice job of portraying this through his questioning in "The Speaker." Another example of Jenkins' causing the reader to look deeper into their lives is in his poem "Gravity." In this poem Jenkins writes, "If you look into it further you will discover that the water is not attached to anything either and that perhaps the rocks and the trees are not all that firmly in place." He is talking about the narrator's house but it can be connected to the bigger picture - not everything is as it outwardly appears. Upon closer inspection even the foundations of our perceptions can be inaccurate, something which can be easily overlooked with the wrong attitude. I think Jenkins succeeds in portraying ideas like this in his short prose poems and wonder if he gives himself any definite boundaries while he is writing them. I'm also curious to find out how Jenkins picks the topics for his poems. 

Video Poem of the Day

America In 4 Minutes

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

The Team

Inside the locker room walls,

We celebrate together,

We suffer together,

We bond together.

Enduring the hardships of losses,

And the highpoints of wins,

We become a tight knit group

With a common goal,

To never lose again.

Our line mates become our most dependable friends,

From getting nauseous at practice with them

To getting to know all of their habits,

It is hard to find a closer trio in all of sports.

Inside the locker room walls,

We battle together,

We lose together,

We win together.

Routine

When I wake up I feel a collage of emotions.

Tired, angry, optimistic.

The sound of my alarm stabs into the quiet morning air,

My sanctuary is ruined, but at a good price,

A new day awaits me.

At school I sit in the classroom,

And watch the clock tick, each

Second slower than the last, until

It reaches the point where time stops all together.

When the bell rings I feel relieved.

I make my way to practice where I can temporarily

Relieve myself from the pressures of school,

And hide from expectations and society.

When I finally make it home,

I feel tired enough to fall asleep,

But know I have hours of homework waiting for me.

These are the nights when I question what it all is worth.

Saint Anthony Park

On the Northwest corner of Saint Paul in between Highway 280 and Cleveland Avenue lays my neighborhood.

Busy during the day, quiet at night, there is really no need for the rare patrol car.

Hockey creates a community here.

From pickup games at Langford Park during the winter to intense rivalries between Como and Highland,

There is always opportunity to prove yourself.

The men of the neighborhood stay up late under the lights to flood the outdoor rink,

Making it a point to make the ice smoother and harder than the day before.

The youth spend their whole winter here,

Whether it’s drinking hot chocolate in the warming house

Or idolizing the highschool boys who play all sorts of games on the big rink.

There really is no substitute for hockey in Saint Anthony Park.

Fall Days

The smell of fall is what gets me the most,

Pumpkins, apple cider, the dried leaves.

The weather brings sweatshirts and bonfires

And a festive atmosphere to the community.

I observe the grace and beauty of the transition,

Not just of the seasons, but of the people too.

I wonder if I will still appreciate this,

When I’m as weathered as the leaves that litter the hard ground.

I wonder if the novelty of autumn lies within my inexperience.

Surely the colors of October don’t dull with time,

The smells never fade,

The serenity is never exposed.

I hope bliss is not ignorance,

But rather is true and beautiful,

Undefined by time, I wish

Fall was forever. 

Chris Martin Poetry Response

My mind wanders, half in attempt to understand the poem, and half because it is somewhat led by the meandering ideas within the poem. Martin spins each idea with a creative twist that really enables imagination to take over, and is very unrestricting. Ideas come from within the run-ons of other ideas, which is very interesting but the reader can get lost if he or she isn’t paying attention.

And we the passengers

Convene momentarily, our anonymous lot

Suspended slant as if

Preparing to nosedive on some

Futuristic and ad-laden

Rollercoaster safely blasting

Through the patently everyday

Landscape of traffic.

This excerpt is from Martin’s “Surviving Desire” and is a great example of an idea that really takes off and runs on. It is about passengers on a subway and is ultimately a long metaphor describing the subway. I had to read it a couple times to understand that it was actually about the subway the whole time, because words like “futuristic” and the phrase “landscape of traffic” distracted me.

I think this style is refreshing in a world of poetry that requires dense analysis to understand each line. Rather than cramming a bunch of ideas into one line, Martin elegantly gives each of his ideas proper space to pan out and be whatever it can be.

Poetry of Place

Saint Anthony Park

On the Northwest corner of Saint Paul in between Highway 280 and Cleveland Avenue lays my neighborhood.

Busy during the day, quiet at night, there is really no need for the rare patrol car.

Hockey creates a community here.

From pickup games at Langford Park during the winter to intense rivalries between Como and Highland,

The stage is always set.

After cold days on the rink one can always walk down Como Avenue, and find whatever they need.

The neighborhood coffee shop, café, market, bank, and both gas stations all make their home on Como.

Walking up the hill on Bourne you reach the highest natural point in the neighborhood.

Here you can find a beautiful overlook of downtown Minneapolis,

Where skyscrapers pierce the red horizon.   

The Dropout

Our physics textbook looks into our eyes.
Says the motto on our overpriced shirt
Just do it, or vectors will compromise,
What is supposedly good in our lives.

But how can a book steal our ambitions?
How can we let this define who we are?
All this work for merely a position?
I believe this all has gone much too far.

I have officially withdrawn my name

From the long list of my fellow classmates,

If I played another day in this game,

My mind would corrode, at a rapid rate.

See education is just handcuffing,
After all, we all amount to nothing.

Cinquain Poem

SUNRISE

It's morning time.

Make sure you open the

blinds as the sunshine shines inside.

Time flies.

My Response to Joyce Sutphen's Poetry

My Response to Joyce Sutphen’s Poetry

The writing style of Joyce Sutphen is very unique, at least in my somewhat narrow scope of poetry. Her broken sentence style of writing puts a lot of emphasis on both the first and second half of the sentence. This is very powerful because the reader stays focused for the whole sentence, rather than tailing off. The pause required in the middle of the sentence also forces the reader to piece together each sentence if they wish to understand the poem. This may require the reader to read certain sections several times to get the true meaning. In Sutphen’s poem “For the Record” her style proves very interesting. She writes:

            It wasn’t like that. Don’t imagine

            my father in a feed cap, chewing

            a stem of alfalfa, spitting occasionally.

The first thing you imagine (partly due to Sutphen writing “Don’t imagine”) is her father in a feed cap. The line break between “imagine” and “my father” puts the second line in its own light, giving it more importance. “My father in a feed cap” becomes a powerful image of its own. Another example of this broken sentence approach can be found in Sutphen’s “A Bird in County Clare” in the third and fourth stanzas.

            Earthbound, head bowed, his dull eye turned

            away from the house, his wings tucked roughly

            behind his back as he noticed the complete

            absence of branch and leaf which I now saw

            For the first time when I wondered what song

            he might have sung, in what bare ruined choir.

First, the split in the top stanza between “complete” and “absence” puts a lot of significance on the fact that there are no more branches or leaves. While this does not seem very important to humans, the reader now realizes the bird has lost his habitat. The second example within this poem is the mid sentence break between stanzas. Sutphen really emphasizes that this is the first time the narrator has noticed the bird has lost its habitat, and that the narrator feels strongly for the bird. Sutphen creates a powerful situation, an epiphany even, by breaking up “saw” and “For the first time,” in which the reader can experience the emotions of the narrator.

Question: What is the main purpose of breaking up sentences, as my above response, is of course, my own opinion?

*I now understand that each sentence has 9 or 10 syllables and is written in iambic pentameter, but I still do believe the way and order in which the sentences are broken up involes more significance within the poem.*

Love/Hate Relationships

The Poet's Companion pg. 29 #4 - What are the things you love? The things you hate? List them in two columns. Now, write a poem that combines something you love with something you hate. 

ORIGINAL:

With intense love for the game comes intense hatred toward injuries.

Feelings of withdrawal are just as powerful as feelings of passion.

Having to watch your career tick like the scoreboard when you’re down one goal.

Showing positive emotions in the purgatory named recovery.

Nonetheless, injuries fuel you to become stronger, faster, and better at what you love.

After reading "Voice and Style" and "The Energy of Revision" from The Poet's Companion, I made several changes to my poem. The ideas that were most helpful for revising and improving my poem were the amputary method, the process of mixing up my sentence type, and the section on diction.

In the Bleachers

With intense love for the game comes intense hatred toward injuries.

The physical pain does not compare to the frustration of sitting out.

Having to watch your career tick like the scoreboard when you’re down one goal.

Withdrawal is simply the dark side of passion,

The physical and chemical dependency,

It is the fuel to become stronger, faster, and better .

How can one say, it’s just a game?

Poem of the Day 9/11

If Only
by Adam
Take a snapshot view of your world One that is sedate and serene You’re at the top and it’s not a dream You look out and everything’s fine And in a New York minute you’re spun on a dime Suddenly you are face to face With the limits of Company ambition And the scars of America’s political marketplace Ever close your eyes Ever think why? Sit, really think and listen Find a reason for so many to die No sign of life, it’s all gone Take a walk in an empty room Memories come rushing up to loved ones now Sadness is mixed with war and gloom You know it never ceases to amaze you and me This world where we just exist Is absolutely full of maniacs and crazies Who demand protection from a well-produced list You know I can’t help thinking That one day soon We will all wake up We will all be on the moon Soaring above the heavens Looking back on what has been Seeing things we’ve never really seen Thinking how it all could have been If only the Moon had stayed up If only the Sun hadn’t woke If everyone were late for work They would have been warned off by the smoke If Only ©2001, Adam Quin 22/09/01

http://poetry.about.com/library/weekly/aa110901g.htm