Dusky View

I was inspired to write poetry today, so I did. If you know what this is about, I would be surprised. If you know what it means, I would be interested to hear since I'm not entirely sure myself.

Dusky View

Curled like an armadillo,
with its silver back against the gradiated brown,
I watch the invisible rain
dampen my paper like falling fog.
Against the spongy browns of my sandpaper seat
my feet press,
feeling their fine prickles redden my skin.
Away, yards by the ground but a few feet by sight,
the green bush buffalo charges
from the llama fence where it grows.
I wonder if the soft wind stroking my body
chills the buffalo's branchy bones
as it does mine.
The uneven creak of the white-haired woman's chair
riding the crickets
soothes me as my own seat
grows more damp and cold and hard.
Or is it a dark-haired woman,
with just a few hairs fading to gray,
framing the drooping eyes lulled by the crickets
like the fair figure she gently fingers?
I don't know.
From here, you can feel life,
As far as the eye can see,
Until the trees obscure it.
Orion is there, like a friendly man,
completely obscured by the foggy dusk.
With branchy arms, three companions stand
unless their fading shadows and dark sillouettes
warn of a coming gang.
Light comes, below, around, beyond,
but always at a distance
and always spreading shadows.
I wait for morning,
but for now I relish
the height while the sun is down.

Imperfect Metaphor

After quite a long hiatus, my sisters and I returned to our writing course. I've mentioned it here before, when I posted an essay I wrote for it.

This time we did an exercise in which you were to choose a personal metaphor or word picture that describes you, your personality, your circumstances, and so forth. This was to be written in a center circle. Then in other circles (or not, if you missed that part as I did) connected to that one, you were to write related words and then use them to write something.

This time I wrote a poem. For my metaphor I chose a wooded trail. Most of you probably don't care to read the words I chose after that, so I shall not put them up. They comprise most of the nouns in the poem.

I couldn't think of the right title for it, but this was the closest I could get to what I was trying to convey.

Imperfect

Across my life the soft breeze blows
The honeysuckle smell.
On a spongy fallen log I rest
Midst the bright green dell.
My muddied footprints on the trail
Lead back through the thorns,
Evidenced by trails of red
Traced upon my arms.
Through the whisp'ring leaves I hear
Some creature's grating caw.
Sunlight like a cheerful child
Brightens the mosquito on my jaw.
The twittering birds cease their songs
As I join mine to theirs
Till the distant backhoe's bang
Beats upon the ears.
The yellow flower my fingers twirl
Doesn't have a name
The phantom hand that pulls on mine
Seems to be the same.
Behind the roping vines I hide
To catch a glimpse of deer.
The thorns, the mud, the caws are worth
Smelling honeysuckle here.

Do you know what I'm trying to convey? If you need a hint, I almost called it "Life."

Acting

It's like death,
this watching a muted movie,
this asking why
and what the actors are saying.
This repeating
over and over and over
as if you are praying,
the Author has a plot
this pain is not for naught.
This hoping
and knowing
and trusting
that the climax is needed
for the conclusion,
and that when the credits roll
(with the author's name
listed after every part)
we'll know then
the meaning of the script.
This knowing the story is good
because He's a published author
with satisfying subplots
but still letting the tears fall
because it's death
becoming an actor
to a plot not your own.

Trust

Last Thursday was the last day of Kid's Club. It was sad, knowing that I would probably not see these kids again until next fall, and maybe some of them never again.

Several weeks ago I had to write a poem for my poetry class including something about rain. I was thinking about Kid's Club, so I wrote this.

Trust

Some days when I looked up at the two-story brick building,

waiting for someone to notice me and open the door,

it was raining.

Sometimes I was late, and when I entered the basement,

six kindergarteners yelled my name and tried to hug me at once.

The curly-haired woman smiled, calling the kids back to their bold blue seats.

Some lessons I held Markell as he slept,

running my fingers through his long brown locks.

Sometimes when my mother’s friend, with the mic

pressing down her silvery hair, said, “God has a good plan for you,”

my heart beat fast. I traced Aubrey’s soft brown cheek with my finger,

wondering what the plan for my little friend held,

praying it didn’t include slammed doors and ex-husbands and sitting home alone.

Some days it was still raining when I let the door slam against the cedar doorstop,

and I avoided stepping in the streams running down the sloped drive.

Every time I opened the car door, I could still feel the last long squeeze

from Maria’s chubby arms and her whispering in my ear like a caressing prayer:

“I don’t want to ever let go.”

The title of trust is double in meaning. It is the overwhelming and sweet burden of feeling the utter trust a child has in you. And it is loving someone you cannot protect. Sometimes, it seems harder to trust God for the people you love than for yourself. Then we turn to prayer and cry out to the Lord, and we learn to delight in God's sovereignty.

The Mind and the Pen

For Christmas I and two of my sisters were given The Young Ladies' Course for Proper Writing by Becky Moorecraft. Each lesson has a lecture, questions, and, perhaps our favorite, writing exercises. So far we've only done two lessons.

The last exercise was interesting: take some publication (I used the workbook) and find at least ten interesting words or phrases in four categories. Then write a short story, poem, three-paragraph essay, blog post, etc. Needless to say, blog post appealed to me.

Gathering the words was fun:

NOUNS:
status quo
innocence
shiver
frailty
oddity
disgust
woe
loveliness
image
vehicle
refinement

VERBS:
tantalize
diminish
infest
distort
pour out
crush
gasp
swell
journey
hone
glean
gambol

MODIFIERS:
graceful
barefaced
ramshackle
poetic
adequate
thick
mere
trippingly
untutored
exceedingly
exact

The last category was the most interesting: phrases or quotations.

"I'm conscious of many people as I write."
"into the jaws of death"
"a reminder of all the choices"
"the mind travels faster than the pen"
"careful interpretation and application"
"putting into it the squirrel as well as the mountain"
"spoken words are slippery"
"I haven't had time to make it shorter" (This was a quote from Blase Pascal, who apologized for writing a long letter, saying he didn't have time to make it shorter. I immediately delighted in this quote. I often when writing-such as this very post-feel that it'd be better shorter, but how to explain myself in such a short time? It'd take a lot of thought.)
"compensating merit"
"fashioned as for the palace" (a quote from Solomon, I believe)
"my portion, rich and full" (another Bible quotation)

After scanning these words, what is your overall impression or thought? Mine was clear, and I knew I would be writing about writing and posting it here. This is what I wrote.


The Mind and The Pen

The mind travels faster than the pen. At least the unfiltered images that swell in my mind press against the tip of my dull pencil as they attempt to pour out onto the lines of my notebook. It's the vehicle for refining my thoughts, for crafting untutored ideas into exact and graceful flow, for honing the oddities into acceptable propositions. 

I'm conscious of many people as I write. Mere need to express is tantalizing to me, but words are slippery. Which have compensating merit to be taken from the barefaced frailty that infests my mind and tutored into poetic loveliness? What is adequate and worthy of being fashioned in the palace style? Considering the unfiltered impulses that gambol through my thoughts, unique and far from status quo, I am reminded of all the choices, of the exceedingly vast journeys that I might probe with my pen. Which is one from which others might glean some benefit, to find our time profitably spent? This requires careful interpretation. 

Mostly my musings remain rather ramshackle; though I attempt to put in the squirrel as well as the mountain, yet not distort my thought or disgust the reader, the journey is often too tedious for others to take after me. So I sometimes gambol alone, for I haven't had time to make it shorter.

This reminds me of an assignment for the poetry writing class I am taking this semester. We had to write an "Ars Poetica," a poem about poetry. By "had" I mean that that was what we learned about that week. Poetry being what it is, we aren't really required to follow the assignments given each week.

I almost didn't, because I knew what I wanted to write about (the drive to write poetry in order to understand my own thoughts), and I had some ideas of what to write (for example, explicitly what I meant, something like the essay above, and some ideas for a metaphor), but nothing was inspiring.

Then the idea of a pit of snakes came to mind, and I decided to pursue it. I wasn't excited about it until I was well into it.

Organizing Thoughts by Poem

The rocky dirt cuts at my hands
as I scoot close to the sharp edge
like an army-crawling soldier.
Peering down at the neon colors
weaving in and out like a living rug,
I realize I’ve avoided my task for too long.
I must get these serpents in order
before they multiply enough
to escape the dark hole they inhabit.
Struggling to lift my cold iron tongs,
I extend my arm deep into the abyss.
The muscles in my calves tighten
and my toes, digging into the ground, ache.
My eyes squeeze shut
as with both hands I close the tong’s jaws
around the closest snake,
waving its head at me like an enemy flag.
Pushing up digs my elbows into the sandy gravel,
driving stones into my skin like a million BBs.

I shudder at the almond-shaped pupil,
reminding me of Quasimodo, my yellow-eyed cat.
I shrink from its squarish face,
reminding me of a Chinese dragon.
Moving the tongs to one hand, with the other
I grasp the clear plastic storage box,
Pulling it towards me and stuffing in the vibrating snake.
I slap down the lid and latch on both handles
lest it nose its way out.
The hissing creature squirms,
but now I clearly see its body through the plastic:
Jonny green and taxi yellow,
White scales along its back like lightning bolts,
holes like gills above its bloody red dragon mouth.
I glance from the caged creature
to the tangled mass below.
One set,
twenty-one thousand to go.

Again extending my arm against the rough wall,
I am startled by a face rising
like a gray Loch Ness monster.
With eyes darting about as if searching
for flesh in which to sink its thick round teeth,
it is already tasting the air with its tongue,
both shiny black like oil.
With tongs quivering in my hand,
I nudge the smooth head towards the plastic walls
waiting like an empty cell.
Silently the creature dives in,
rippling over the box’s edge
and coiling at the bottom as if it belonged there.
Tongs clattering to the ground, I slap down the lid,
click on the handles, and swivel against the box,
heart pounding, fingers resting in the dust.
Two done,
twenty-one thousand to go.

What do you think? Can you tell what I'm doing with it? Some people can and some people have to have it explained.

Sorry for the length, but "I hadn't time to make it shorter."

Seeing What I Said

I found a quote a while ago that I immediately loved. Quotes are delightful when they say something that you realized you had always thought but had never had the words to say before.

There's some debate as to who really said it and what they really meant, but I don't really care, and I take it at face value like this:

How can I know what I think unless I see what I've said?

I think the first time I saw it, it said, "How can I know what I think unless I read what I've written?"

It was one of those quotes that is so perfect it makes you smile. It exactly describes what I thought. Often, when I am confused I will write, and then I will realize, "Oh, that is why I feel like that. I didn't realize that was what I was thinking." Somehow, having concrete words put to feelings makes them much more objective. Most of the time it shows me how silly my thinking is. For example, in a recent post I told how I had written that I needed to be content with God's love. Then I realized how ridiculous that was. How could I think something so ridiculous?

That is why I write, and why I write whether others read it or not.

If I could have one (frivolous) wish, it'd be for another lifetime. One would be for living life, and the other devoted exclusively to reading and writing. There is simply not enough time to do all the reading and writing needed.

Actually, as we did when we were kids, my wish would be for three wishes. Then I would wish for a life for reading and for a life for writing. I haven't figured out what I would use the third wish for. I would have written that I would wish for two more wishes, but we always wished for three wishes, and two just doesn't seem right.

I remember very distinctly when we started the first orphanage we played, my younger brother and sister had been thrown into a maze, where they met a man who gave them three wishes. One was for horses. When I met, them, however, they were walking. "We should have wished with those wishes that they wouldn't run away!" they said.

There are a lot of things I would wish for with an extra wish...big things for my family, spiritual things...but there is a reason we aren't granted a wish for whatever we want. Really, if I was offered a free wish, I would probably decline it, or ask for something really quite small and silly.  Unless it was something like God's offer to Solomon....) Because we are very finite in our wisdom and it's often good we don't get what we ask for.

And, thinking of Solomon, I realize that I have that anyway. What I would really use a free wish for, if I were really offered the chance, I can ask for and receive. Because I'd ask for a heart that longs for Christ over all. Or that He will give that to my siblings or family or friends. I don't need free wishes. I have a God who knows what I need.

That was quite the tangent, wasn't it? But there you have it: the reason I write. Those thoughts just came from thinking as I wrote. Writing can transform your thoughts. It is a way of meditation.

The other reason I write is because I forget. Every once in a while, I get lost for a few hours in my old blog posts, journals, or other writings. It's good to be reminded about what the Lord taught me.

And sometimes, I write because I'm compelled. Sometimes I have thoughts and feelings that must be expressed. Some of my favorite poems come from these times. This one, for example. Poetry is good for expressing thoughts that are hard to express. Writing randomly is too. This is why I enjoy writing randomly. I never know what I'll discover.

Too Many Children

We were assigned to write a political narrative poem for my creative writing class. This isn't so bad as it sounds; categories for poetry are pretty flexible. One of the examples he gave of political narrative was a strange, thought-provoking poem about American consumerist culture, and another a poem I found really amusing about rap music, with very apt descriptions (doesn't "a thousand schizophrenic Shakespeares" describe rap perfectly?).

Still, I wasn't inspired. Then I thought doing one about how we always wanted Mom to have more kids might work for political. However, I had a hard time getting it to be narrative. So I started writing about a baby we wanted to adopt once. I liked the idea and incorporated much that I had written for my first idea.

Too Many Children

We called him Joel.

In our minds, he was perfect and adorable.

He was just the right fit for our family.

“Timmy is getting too old,” we complained to Mom.

“We need another baby.”

“Too old?” she asked. “I’m too old.”

“No,” we said. “People have babies even in their 50’s sometimes.

You should have twins. There’ll be more baby to go around.

It’ll be easy now. We can help.”

“You can’t just order twins,” Mom said.

“Or a baby, for that matter.”

We didn’t care.

At church, we jabbered to our friends,

All at least twice our barely double-digit ages,

About the babies.

“Ruth and Naomi will be their names,” my older sister declared,

Flipping her long brown locks behind her thin shoulders.

“Ruth Arlene and Naomi Annabelle,” she added.

Fifteen months older than I, Deanna was a name enthusiast.

“After our grandmothers,” I informed, grinning.

Our audience would smile at us,

And we were too young to notice the raised eyebrows.

The next week, Mom would be stopped by a hand on her shoulder.

“Congratulations! How many is this?”

The questioner would receive a blank look.

“You’re not pregnant?” they’d ask.

Mom would shake her graying head, smiling.

“Your daughters were talking about twins…”

“They’re just talking. Wistful thinking.”

“Oh,” was the reply.

Every birthday, no one told what they wished for.

There was no need—we knew.

Wait for the singing to end.

“Make a wish!” they’d cry.

Shut your eyes tight.

Whisper under your breath.

I wish Mom would have another baby.

Open your eyes.

Blow, long and steady, until you waver,

Forcing out the last bit of breath.

Sometimes all the flames went out, sometimes not.

Would the wish come true?

Babbling little Timmy couldn’t be called a baby any more,

But there was no sign of another one.

“The older you are,” Mom said,

“the more likely you’ll have complications with the pregnancy.”

“We should adopt,” Deanna suggested.

“Yeah!” we all clamored.

“Our house would never pass inspection,” said Mom.

“That’d be fun,” Dad said. “But adoption is expensive.”

They dismissed it, but late at night when we couldn’t hear, they talked.

I don’t know how we found him,

But we called him Joel,

Our choice from Deanna’s piles of library name books.

We gathered around the armoire,

Looking at his information on the computer screen.

He was going to be a little person when he was born.

We had never seen him, but we loved him.

She wasn’t married, but his mom chose to give him life.      

But not to us.

“Why?” we asked. “Why wouldn’t she let us have him?”

“We have too many kids,” Dad said.

“She thought he wouldn’t get enough attention.”

“Enough attention!” we laughed.

With six older siblings, what child would have more?

“That’s not how they think,” Dad explained.

“They think that he won’t have as much time with the parents.”

We did not understand. He would have plenty of attention.

We could help him.

We could reach things for him.

We would love him.

It was not to be. Some other family got him.

A perfect, 2.5 kid family, perhaps.

Or maybe he was an only child,

So that his parents could give him their full attention,

Without half-a-dozen other people to distract them from him.

Without half-a-dozen people to love him,

Or pray for him,

Or be extra hands and legs for his little body,

Or care for him and their parents when they are old.

Our wishes came true, twice more—

Though they weren’t twins,

So we did fight over getting to hold the baby.

We were happy to be blessed with two more siblings,

But sometimes,

We wish there were nine

And think of Joel.

I took some liberties with the story about Joel; I think it was actually after Paul was born when it happened, and of course none of the speech is exact quotation. Other things I also made more specific than I actually knew.

I was interested to hear people's responses when I read it in the workshop. Their remarks weren't entirely unexpected, but I was still somewhat surprised.

They didn't like my use in the second line of "perfect and adorable." They also wanted to know more about the family and what their interactions are like. Someone said it was like a children's book, and another agreed, saying, "Oh, yeah, it's fairy-tale like." A lot of people thought the use of dialogue was unique and worked.

The professor wrote, "It's tough to pull off a poem in 3rd person [I think he means first person plural?] without imposing a definable group voice, but you almost almost almost pull it off." I also found it hilarious when he marked by the part about what we did at birthdays and wrote childhood fertility/baby Ritual!

I originally called it, "The Perfect Family." Most of them didn't like that. One suggested I "reword the title because it is a little contradictory." Of course, I meant it sort of sarcastically, with a double meaning, a satire of what people consider a perfect family. But one guy said bluntly, "I have an aversion to the word perfect."

One girl said that she thought the conclusion was a little judgmental because it's difficult to predict whether Joel received the love he needed. "However, I do not think this was the narrator's intention. Consider revising these lines to help the reader." They are often, especially my professor, concerned about people sounding judgmental.

But the biggest thing, the main question was this: why do they want more kids? Why isn't what they have enough?

"Consider explaining why the family wants another child after six children already." My professor wrote, "big question: why do they want more kids?"

I didn't know how to explain. I didn't understand: why wouldn't you want more kids?

The most interesting and telling critique was from the guy who wrote that he had an aversion to the word perfect. He said:

I philosophically have a difficult time with this poem and it makes it hard for me to read it objectively, but the family in this poem seem to love each other, and you portray it rather eloquently. I think this poem is very well written and in the eyes of the right audience, will be appreciated.

In the eyes of the right audience. I philosophically have a difficult time with this poem.

That was my trouble with many of the critiques I did: philosophically I differed so much with the poem that it was hard to read objectively. (Especially since in my opinion, they ought not to have been read by any audience, nor written to begin with.)

Isn't that fascinating? I found it interesting that he would say that. It's amazing how your worldview affects your thoughts and opinions, even on things you wouldn't think it would (an idea I shall return to if I post my last poem).

It's not simply a Christian worldview, I have come to find out. Even many Christians, and not just marginalized Christians either, do not value children. Let me rephrase that. They value children, because you cannot be a Christian, read and believe Scripture, and not value children. But they do not love and delight in children. I am not saying that everyone should want more than six kids. The older I get, the more I understand why not everyone is wholly positive about having kids, something I didn't when I was younger. But that doesn't mean that you cannot understand that having many children is a joy.

I have discovered that, in this, my family is something of an anomaly. Even many children from big families do not embrace the idea. Perhaps, however, that has to do with the nature of the children they grew up with.

We've heard lots of comments like this:

"You liked having that many brothers and sisters? I can't deal with the ones I have."
"I wish my brother was like yours."
"Your sisters are so nice. My sister would never do that."
"One sister is more than enough for me!"

"You wanted more siblings?" people ask when we excitedly told Mom was pregnant or said something about wishing she'd had twins.

Do we want more? More best friends? More help around the house? More amusement? More babies? More birthday parties (dude, any excuse for more ice cream is good!)? More people to give Christmas presents to? More brothers- and sisters-in-law? More nieces and nephews? More cousins for our kids? Yes!

I've thought lately what it'll be like when most of us move out. Just imagine: the boys can have the big bedroom-they'll have so much space!-and Kristen can have the boys' room and a walk-in closet to herself! That sounds amazing. I would love it. I have never had the experience of having my own room.

But as I thought about it, I thought, no. I do not envy my youngest siblings. I don't want my own room. I would much rather have my siblings than space. As I am fond of saying, siblings are awesome.

I've thought about that as I've talked with my youngest sister. She doesn't like the idea of Deanna getting married because she doesn't want her to leave. When I tried to convince her that it was good, she said pitifully, "But it's been fun having her here, right?" It's sad and adorable that it affects her so much even at such a young age.

"It's been fun having her." That's a pretty good summary.

Not everyone is called to be in a family with lots of kids. But few relationships-perhaps none save my parents-have shaped me more than those with my siblings. I am thankful. I don't think you can have too many.

Okay, that's not true. My sister used to say she wanted to have 50 and adopt 50. That's a little excessive. I like to remember all of my siblings' names at least. Of course, if you named them all after the states and their capitals as she was going to, that might help.

A good ending ought to tie everything all together. It should never be something random that has nothing to do with the essay. However, nothing is coming to mind and I feel like posting this. Perhaps later I will think of a good ending and change this. Until then this will have to do.

On the other hand, since I write for my own enjoyment, I will probably never change this.

Siblings are awesome. Is that an acceptable ending?

View of the Sacred

I said I would post on the less pleasant side of my Creative Writing class. So this is a poem I wrote after one class. During it, I was overwhelmed and saddened by the casual acceptance, even the embrace, of crudeness and immorality by my classmates and teacher. Afterwards, I could simply not think or focus on anything until I got these thoughts out, and this, best done in poem format. I am not sure if what I was trying to say came across clearly, but this is what I wrote.

I knew it
It is no surprise--
Or at least it shouldn't be.
You know no different.
How could you?
It's all you've ever seen.
What more is there?
You find nothing wrong.
That's how life is, y'know?
In the back of your mind,
You wonder why I don't laugh.
If I told you what I think,
You would understand.
I'm just a hick
A prude
A victorian, no-fun, toe-the-line.
You prefer your freedom
Your fun
Your carefree unrestraint.
You pity me for my rules,
And my ridiculous, old-fashioned,
over-active conscious,
Fed by indoctrination in my environment,
and fears.
And with the ache in your heart,
You pity me.
You pity me as I miss your jokes,
don't know your words,
blush at your descriptions.
To you,
they are normal, everyday scenes.
But to me,
they are unknown, and should be.
You joke at what I see
As violation of the precious,
the sacred.
You think with my rules,
I am missing out on life.
You want to taste all life has to offer,
But without separation,
Food becomes bland.
Without restraint of volume,
Enjoyment is lost.
While you gorge on the appetizer,
I'm waiting for the 12-course meal.
Learn to eat what is good.
Raised on sweets,
How can you appreciate the subtle flavors?
Your laughing cuts deep into me.
Life and joy and love pass you by
And you don't know it.
I may look foolish to you.
Waiting, refusing to indulge may be hard.
But beneath the heartache and trouble,
I have hope,
While beneath your joking,
Your mocking, your criticism,
You ache.
Am I naive? Foolish? A prude?
If it means that I reject your ways
And hold what is pure in high esteem,
Yes, I am.

Workshopping Fun

This semester has been filled with classes I really enjoy. My favorites are Visual Communication, which I took on a whim and loved; American Sign Language, and signing with people has been really fun, and I can't wait until we're beyond simple vocabulary; and Creative Writing.

Though there have been different issues with the class (a post on that soon, perhaps), I have loved doing workshops.

Workshopping consists of everyone bringing twelve copies of their work and giving one to everyone, including the professor. Then, one by one, the author reads his work aloud, and everyone discusses it. "What is this about?" the professor will ask, or, "What was your favorite line in this poem?" Grammar, diction (word choice), tone, imagery, line breaks, are discussed. At last the author is allowed to speak and give a reply or ask questions.

I thought this would be rather intimidating. Having a professor, who is an interesting, cynical kind of man and ten peers who think very differently than I saying whatever they think about something that I have written--I figured it would be rather unpleasant, even if profitable. The slightest criticism of your work can be hard to take, for good writing is personal.

The first poem we were assigned was to be about a place. Immediately, I knew what I wanted to do. As soon as I left class, I began to write. I set up the scene:

Too many people, too much mess

I slip out of the house and into the yard

Past the garden and barn

And the neighbors’ field

Into the covering of trees

But it was to be 20 lines long. Writing like that, I wouldn't be able to do it within those limits. (Turns out that 20 lines was the minimum, not the limit, but I along with the rest of the class didn't know that at the time.) Besides I didn't really like it. So I started another one.

My Retreat

Swish, swish, shoes through the grass

Snap, snap, twigs underfoot

Twist, twist, snake through the trees

Slowing, slowing, the world and me.

Chirping cicadas all around

Soothe my mind with comforting sound.

Up ahead I see the log

Where once I sat and wept aloud.

Then it was high,

Now broken down.

Still damp and green with moss,

A place to sit and mourn a loss.

Yet I go on as setting sun

Slides through layer and layer of leaves

Quickening again, driven by pain of thought

Towards the place I know I ought

Not intrude, those industrial mounds.

Yet I go to gaze in the pools

And there in the silence my passion cools

In companionable solitude.

It wasn't quite what I wanted, however. The tone wasn't right. So I went there, to my "thinking spot" in the woods behind our house. There I was inspired to write again.

Heavy, so heavy

The thoughts in my head

I escape the walls

Pass the wild garden, full of green,

tall weeds. Pass the inviting swings

Into tangled opening.

Once again, treading the pathless path.

Familiar the place, familiar the solitude,

familiar the feeling.

Over there, that fallen log

Huge with open seat before its tangled roots

where I once sat and wept

Feeling alone.

Once too tall to swing my legs over,

Now broken down.

Beyond, mown path, yet tall, itchy growth.

Comforting, its silence

Comforting, the sounds from far away.

Damp, damp, is every seat

So I stand alone.

Then, while I was there, I wondered what I would have written should I have finished my first poem. So, I finished it.

Too many people, too much mess

I slip out of the house and into the yard

Past the garden and barn

And the neighbors’ field

Into the covering of trees

Where at last I yield

Voice to my yearning

Sound to my pain

Here where I come

Again and again.

I don’t want to leave

But time slides past

And I know they are calling

And will miss me at last.

The silence comforts my restless soul

The sounds are a balm, yet I must go.

A quick moment of panic when I think I’ve turned wrong

And do not remember the lay of that log.

I right myself, and it brings a smile.

I must depart, but just for a while.

Lovely, I realized: I now have three poems for the same assignment. How was I to decide which one to do?

I consulted my sister, and she liked the second one best. I dubbed it Isolation, printed twelve copies, and took it to class.

This first workshop, I rather cringed for some of the authors as people said what they thought. Even though it was all said in friendly critique, I imagined what I would feel if someone said it about what I had written. But to my surprise, I was excited and grinning as I left class and headed towards my brother and two of our friends, who are often studying outside of my class when I get out. I had loved it.

I like reading poems aloud. Both my creative writing professor and my American Poetry professor told me that I read well after I read a poem. It was fascinating indeed to hear what people said about my poem. I took notes.

There were some interesting comments: it reminded them of "a young lady marooned in a wilderness," "that scene in Forrest Gump" (which I now want to see) or "something from Alice in Wonderland." The tone was "sad" and "beaten-down."

One girl, who seems quiet but talks often because she is very literary-minded, talked about how it's someone who wants to belong but is struggling, and needs to find that one person who accepts her, a like-minded person.

They liked the imagery sense of the woods. Someone said you're not sure how to get there, but you know where you're going.

The professor said that the line "huge with open seat before its tangled roots" was "very interesting diction." That amused me.

He also asked what they thought about the last two lines, "Damp, damp, is every seat, so I stand alone."

One guy who is amusing in his comments, a communication major, but more of an article writer than a poet, said, "I liked it."

"I liked it, too," the professor replied. "But what does it imply?"

Someone said something like it wasn't the end. The professor sometimes speaks in a mimicking voice and he did now: "Get ready for part two! Isolation: the sequel!"

In one of the critiques we have to write for each person's poem (I love getting them too), one of the girls said that was her favorite line. She also said, "During the workshop, I could see you smiling to yourself because we were trying to analyze it, and you were originally writing about your backyard." That was true. It was so funny-I just wrote describing things, and they found them to mean all this profound stuff I never would have thought of.

The only thing that they really said I should change was elaborating on what "the sounds from far away" were. One guy said he would not change a thing. Another said, "I feel that it's complete and well written. The only thing is the comforting sounds aspect."

I find this often happens when I write under inspiration-I don't have as much that ought to be changed. When I am not writing under internal compulsion, it needs more revision.

The professor had a few more suggestions, such as the removal of two lines. Here's the revised, with changes in bold for those of you who don't like reading just for the sake of reading, which is probably most everyone, and for those of you who have better things to spend your time on that this lengthy whatever-you-call-it, not really an essay, which is all of you.

Isolation

Heavy, so heavy, my head                                     Professor said to remove "the thoughts in"

As I escape the walls,                                                                                                  and add as

Pass my wild garden, full of green,

tall weeds, pass the inviting swings

Amid manicured grass,

Into tangled opening.

Once again, treading the pathless path.

Familiar the place, familiar the solitude,

familiar the feeling.

Over there, that fallen log

Huge with open seat before its tangled roots         Removed the part about weeping alone 
Once too tall to swing my legs over,                                                at professor's suggestion

Now broken down.

Beyond, mown path, yet tall, itchy growth.

Comforting, its silence,

Comforting, the clanging and beeping of the backhoe     Elaboration on sounds as desired 
Invisible beyond the trees,

Comforting the murmur of cicadas all around
And faint voices calling my name.
Yet I go on as setting sun                                                                         Added these two lines 
Slides through layer and layer of leaves.                                   from one of my other poems

I do not return, not yet.                                                   After changes a transition was needed

Damp, damp, is every seat

So I walk on, alone.     Professor "liked the intention" of the last line, but "not sure about wording"

The second poem we workshopped was an ode or list poem. I wrote one about Kristen which I have already posted. This time, I wasn't inspired at first. Even though I was later with the idea, I still didn't get the execution quite right.

I knew they would have a lot more to say about this one. The first was just an anomaly since everyone happened to like it almost as it was. This time, workshopping would be less pleasant.

Once again, I was surprised to be leave with a grin because it was so much fun. Yes, they had suggestions on what should be changed, but I knew it needed them, and it was still fascinating to hear. My favorite things were two statements, surprising coming from my professor. One, he said, "I have a low tolerance for sappy [that is very true], and it wasn't raised until like the third stanza." The other was surprising because he usually wants people to give better imagery, more specific descriptions. "As far as descriptions and sounds, there is not a bad moment."

So I have been enjoying this class. But since my professor is always saying that nothing is completely good and they should touch on the less positive aspects of things, that shall be the topic of my next post.