Poetry Saga part Deux

As I have established not so long ago on this very blog, I have a rather well defined hatred for writing poetry. My professor for Core II (Master of Arts), Dr. Diane Penrod, encouraged the class to partake in an observation exercise. My partner (poor soul) was Amanda H, and the two of us spent a half hour getting to know one another, well, as much as you can really get to know someone in that amount of time. Once our observations had been made, the class was instructed to use the information to create a series of poems that represented our partner.

For the first five days after class I lamented and sulked over having to write poetry. Yes, I acted like a child, stubborn and steadfast in my rejection of the writing genre that had caused me so much agony growing up. I was still stuck in the mentality of poetry as rhyming schemes (how shameful to admit) love, dove – car, bar – peg, leg. Pathetic and unrepentant, I plagued poor Dr. Penrod for the entire weekend, forelone with my inability to write the assignment she had set. Now I have to give kudos to my professor, she tried her darned best to booster my moral (that’s what she’s paid for, right?) but I was having none of it. Funny, how once you convince yourself that you are not able to do something, that the idea is cemented into your brain and is there to stay even when you try to break it apart.

Well, let me get to the point: below are the results of my and Amanda’s poetry struggles. I have to thank Amanda for letting me post her poems that represent me – she did a wonderful job. Mine are there also (gulp). I’m still no Lawrence or Donne, but I got the assignment done, even if it did exhaust me and my poor professor in the mean time! Ha, that’s what you get for being a Writing Arts director Diane. To end on a positive note, I think I have managed to break out of my pubescent mentality towards poetry – I certainly had fun creating these poems with Amanda and although the process was uncomfortable for me, I learned that I still need to have more patience with myself and that I don’t always NEED to be the best at everything I do. Tra da, there’s some food for thought.

Amanda H’s Poems:

 

  

 

 The Pursuit

She signals mischievously toward the door of the writing classroom

Hurrying to a quiet and comfortable place

For a conversation and some poetry writing

To satisfy a love of the written word

Not just a stepping stone to higher education

For, what use is fiction in law school?

Driven by her aspirations

Yet also by the need to create,

To form new worlds

    

Reader

A Brit who reads Brits

She speaks

Listing the poetry of the masters

With their inflections

While satirists and modernists add their edge

A combination that engenders a writer

Part fanciful, part real

Like all writers, influenced

Blending both to find her own voice

   

 

Obsession

Time

It’s all about time

What time is it

In the middle of the night

Watch wearer

No time

For lateness

Driven by time

How much has passed

How much is left

  

Cinephile

She sits primly with ankles crossed

Describing a director’s “grungy punkiness”

With passion, like a writer

Capturing a scene, a moment

And making art out of it

Setting it to just the right music

    

Writer

Fluctuating fascinations with form

One day, creative nonfiction

The next, memoir

After that, writing the next great novel

So just write

Form will take care of itself

Whether dictated by subject matter or style

Although not a poet, still

Beholden to technique, making life out of words.

 

 

My Poem Collection: Something Hidden

 

A Question of Why

 

Why am I here?

Pulled. Strained. Sit remaining still.

            Taut inside. Teach outside.

A Professor of Words – forced to create.

            A secret writer lurks, waiting,

            Wanting to explode onto your page.

 

The Decisive Reader   

Literary need only apply.

No romance, no sci-fi, no fluff, no lies.

Shift time, shift place, choose him, I’m her.

Fiction lies in the mind of the beholder…

Fiction lies.

 

Sticking Point 

I’ll stick to what I know.

I know fiction is the hardest thing.

I’ll cling to the agro of academics.

And gnaw on the knowledge that non-fiction gives.

            Factual

                        Historical

The Once Was will be the Now in my steady hands.

 

My Tavern in Mongolia

 

Indiana crashed through my classroom door,

My students shrieked, earnest with glee.

Jones swept me away, not off my feet,

But to the place I travel in my mind.

I’m an adventuress, daring dripping from my pores,

He recognizes me.

What you see is not what you get,

The shell before you, soon to be shed

to release the amazon that stalks inside of me.

I am my own prey and she’s seeping out,

Cracks in my walls, stitches undone.

One day I might be the woman who runs a

Tavern in Mongolia, my temper flowing as freely as my ale.

For now, I’m content to let Jones carry me on his back.

Wee Obsessions 

 

It’s the simple things.

Give me chocolate – I’ll savor it.

It’s the small things.

Give me tea – I’ll appreciate it.

It’s the little things.

Colin Firth – I’d enjoy him.

Give me all three?

I’d definitely OD.