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I have officially withdrawn my name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