Anyway, I thought that today, since the fall semester is wrapping up (and don't I know it, with two giant papers constantly looming over my head), I would share all the poetry I wrote this semester. Since I'm not taking a poetry seminar, I haven't been as prolific as I was last year. However, I am taking a poetry literature class; that is to say, I've been reading a lot of poetry without writing a lot. The poetry I've been reading has inspired my poetry to take new turns, which is pretty cool.
So, here's some of the poems I wrote this semester:
Poem 1: Trees
I look on trees naively,
as though they are my friends,
who cannot speak as I do,
with lungs and mouth.
And yet at least
for my imagined mind,
I'll never know whether
their music is real
an imagined thing.
Poem 2: October 21st
Summer tore its way
I tried to wear a sweater
and have a cup of tea
but the day would have none of it.
Three days ago,
I tasted snow.
Now the ice cream truck sings
its way down Glen Washington Road,
the inexhaustible exhaustion of summer
drifts its way down
to cloud up my mind.
This morning I shot up
sure that my alarm clock had failed
to go off on time.
Nope- it was just 9:29.
Lucky no one had seen
my foolish dream,
which bobbed pleasantly
the rest of the day,
singing, "back to sleep, sweet"
I'll drift back to sleep
in my warm and empty room.
When I wake up,
it will be October again.
Spoken Word Freewrite
I hate people.
My biggest fear is birds.
All I ever do is watch Parks and Rec
and I eat way too much.
Everyone hates me,
or they're annoyed by me or something.
I'm way too full of myself to notice, though.
I'm so vain,
and honestly everyone's sick of it.
I talk too much.
I'm not even good at the things I think I'm good at.
I'm sick of those scary dreams.
I'm not afraid to die.
Everything, even this last line, is a lie.
(So, some backstory: we were reading Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons in class, and I honestly did not get what the hell was going on with that book. So I tried to make myself understand it by attempting to imitate her style with a few Stein-esque poems of my own. I still don't really get it, but it was a fun writing exercise.)
The clear in yellow peels off that I ate blue. I didn’t eat because I coughed into the phlegm universe. I smoothed over the skin of my back down into the caving stars where I slept and came. Alive, and that is that I drank in jelly. I wanted to glob out into caves of napping. Napping into the nose that takes me swirling down into pillows I ate swallow alive. The fall into sleep I fall asleep.
Edges on the paint. Someone brushing, their hair bristles into the holes that stars pin. Yum, licking, the dark licks at the sky and the smearing glass. Break that I pull and pull that I wake into waking. Walking up reams.
Fist balled takes the shadows red into the seams. Curl like the curves of my fast and vigorous dream into swan voids. Whole, hole, into the space away from the hard. Oceans of menstrual blood in the tapestry Oriental carpets of autumn dreams. Nothing is turned upside down. Some hang and some just crumple.
(Then we read Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems, and those inspired some tiny poems too:)
Early whistle of rain
and I am exhausted
untapes down my scalp
eggshells crinkle my vertebra-
flushes me live
soft incense, thunder
brushing my hair
elephant curls itself
into the starry darkness
the sweater is
heating my throat
let me fall in water
(I wrote some more poems inspired by Stein and O'Hara but I'm not going to subject you to all of them)
The Night Campus
Wood wet, driftwood, on the triangle stage of the Yoko.
Cigarette smoke like onions
One girl with a big long coat and a ponytail
walks ba-a-ack and forth on the edge of the street
talking on the phone in french
with a cigarette
using the city-sponsored pavement to get away with it
Two small students sit on the sidewalk bricks
lean into each other
Everything is shadows
on the night campus
on rocks and side-street stones
puddle of street-lamps
Trees don’t say anything
The world is small
with the clouds close on us,
the frame of the angular library
The two girls are just talking
Groups cluster outside the library
The phone girl is still at it in French
Shuttles wander down
Glen Washington Road looks like
the streets of kindergarten TV fantasy dreams
Smaller than the world
leading to nightmare realms
There goes the tiny ember of orange on the end of their cigarettes
And it’s cold
That last one was a little inspired by Frank O'Hara, too. I might use it for an upcoming assignment so like... hey, if you're my poetry teacher Googling my work to see if I plagiarized it, I really did write it, and it really was inspired by Frank O'Hara.
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed at least some of those poems. I had fun writing them.
Good luck to all those currently suffering through conference season/finals season/actually living in the real world outside the bubble of college,