This is my conversation poem. We were supposed to give a little insight of who we were by describing something we were not. Some people described why they weren't swimmers or chefs, but I decided to describe why I wasn't concerned with my appearance. Enjoy!
It’s only temporary-my appearance that is
It will fade and wrinkle
Like tissue paper with time
As long as I am comfortable in my skin
Why should I spend hours primping and preening?
It’s a comfortable and carefree life
Where I don’t have to suffer
The horrors of itchy, tight, yet stylish attire
No recuperation from vicious stabs
Of the bristled mascara wand
Or the irritating scratches of the eyeliner pencil
And for what?
To be ruthlessly judged and compared to others
“Is that really what you’re wearing?”
Free yourself from the evils of scorn
Have faith in who you are
And wear what you want!
When you want!
And most importantly...
Be your own dictionary
—and define yourself.
Showing posts with label Wild card. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wild card. Show all posts
Friday, May 24, 2013
10 Ways of Looking at Red
This is my 10 Ways of Looking at poem, popularized by Wallace Stevens in his poem, "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." We actually did a collaborative activity of this where we passed our poems around the room and one person would write a stanza in the style of Stevens. I found the activity quite interesting because it was cool to see how other people interpreted one thing. Enjoy!
Desolate, naked woods
A landscape of a snowy white
And a splash of Red
Spilled in the circle of life
I am of many moods
And one of them is a rage
As hot as a Red star
The Red of the hot autumn sky
Lay over the quiet field like a blanket
Just before the dark
Count the shades of Red
Red is everywhere
Count them- Red of a rose
or Red of war-torn failures
Count the shades of Red
Red
So dark it’s almost
Black
Drips and splatters
Like blots of
Red, Red ink,
Ink that writes your fate
Look at the Red of the water
When God punished the Pharaoh—
Or the Red that filled Moses’ painted sea
Explosions
Then Red flickering fire
In the silence
When the Red horizon,
Collapsed out of sight
It marked
The horizontal end,
Of an endless world
Aphrodite’s robes hung Red,
The color of love
Lust in her eyes
Her passion is never dead
The day fades to black
Only a speck of Red
Where the sun
had once called
—home.
Desolate, naked woods
A landscape of a snowy white
And a splash of Red
Spilled in the circle of life
I am of many moods
And one of them is a rage
As hot as a Red star
The Red of the hot autumn sky
Lay over the quiet field like a blanket
Just before the dark
Count the shades of Red
Red is everywhere
Count them- Red of a rose
or Red of war-torn failures
Count the shades of Red
Red
So dark it’s almost
Black
Drips and splatters
Like blots of
Red, Red ink,
Ink that writes your fate
Look at the Red of the water
When God punished the Pharaoh—
Or the Red that filled Moses’ painted sea
Explosions
Then Red flickering fire
In the silence
When the Red horizon,
Collapsed out of sight
It marked
The horizontal end,
Of an endless world
Aphrodite’s robes hung Red,
The color of love
Lust in her eyes
Her passion is never dead
The day fades to black
Only a speck of Red
Where the sun
had once called
—home.
Indecision
This is my prose poem. As you can see, it is in the form a singular paragraph. In it I personify the emotion of indecision. I later modified it and made it into a visual poem which you can see at your viewing pleasure here. Enjoy!
Indecision teeters and totters upon an intimidating cliff. Straddling the thin line between yes and no, Indecision wears grey, never black or white. His mind runs rampant, processing numbers and outcomes yet always failing to choose. He coasts through life, wasting precious time, always wondering “What if?” instead of “Why not?” When asked a simple question, he shuffles his grey shoes, eyes downcast, mumbling a wishy-washy, “I dunno.” He is the caution sign in your life, the anchor weighing you down from taking that fateful leap. Back and forth, he sways like a limber palm bending in the breezes of influence. Make the decision, and never allow him the liberty to consume you.
Indecision teeters and totters upon an intimidating cliff. Straddling the thin line between yes and no, Indecision wears grey, never black or white. His mind runs rampant, processing numbers and outcomes yet always failing to choose. He coasts through life, wasting precious time, always wondering “What if?” instead of “Why not?” When asked a simple question, he shuffles his grey shoes, eyes downcast, mumbling a wishy-washy, “I dunno.” He is the caution sign in your life, the anchor weighing you down from taking that fateful leap. Back and forth, he sways like a limber palm bending in the breezes of influence. Make the decision, and never allow him the liberty to consume you.
Preface
This is my preface for my Personal Anthology I had to compile for my Honors English course. It was quite time consuming and I did not sleep the night before it was due, so I was a wee bit delirious while writing this. Unfortunately I cannot include my entire anthology, but it was basically 25 pieces of literature which I written weekly essays on, bound creatively in a scrapbook like thing. Enjoy!
Inspiration can strike anywhere. For me, it was under the all-knowing eye of my showerhead. It seemed like any other shower; even the spider was nothing out of the ordinary. However, inspiration struck as I was subconsciously splashing water onto the spider. I did not think anything of it until a few seconds later, it resurfaced. Annoyed, I had splashed at it again, assuring its impending watery death, but somehow it once again pulled itself up and continued. This spider had an inextinguishable fire, blazing inside of it, driving him to persevere. As I conditioned my hair, I pondered, “Who am I to drown this harmless little spider that yearns to live so passionately?” Being a slight arachnophobia, this thought was quite profound, for usually, I am under the impression that spiders are plotting my long, drawn out, violent death.
Suddenly, it hit me like a stinging slap to the face. Revelation streamed like sunlight through the clouds of my lethargy—the itsy-bitsy spider. So simple yet so perfect, the infantile nursery rhyme seemed destined to emerge as the backbone to my anthology. There would be four chapters defining my anthology: the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out, out came the sun and dried out all the rain, and the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again. Each chapter would be supported with works, outlining the treacherous journey of my eight-legged protagonist and I could cleverly title it, “Reaching for the Water Spout” and perhaps promote it as a “self-motivation guide to a more secure self” or something of the likes.
My first chapter circulates around youth, innocence, and naïveté; the initial passion exhibited in the spider’s first trial is admirable. The spider’s innocent and unhindered path in life parallels that of the pure, boundless creativity inferno radiating from the Little Prince’s soul. The Little Prince holds so many life lessons; it seemed the absolute candidate for my twenty-fifth work. This chapter nurtures the virgin mind of humanity, free of prior wisdom as portrayed through “Before you knew you owned it”; the rash and adamant mindset of self-righteous individuals as illustrated in Jack London’s “To Build a Fire”; the liberated souls, emancipated from the anchor that binds one from leaping into risky situations as preached in “Letter: Teach students to think, not obey.” Due to its emphasis on youth and vitality, I designated green as its color, for “Nature’s first green is gold.”
My second chapter revolves around a theme of adversity and hardship— “Down came the rain and washed the spider out.” Whether the conflict is as shallow as a kiddie pool or as profoundly deep as a great abyss, there is not a soul in existence that has not crossed paths with the rude personality of calamity. I selected a spectrum of conflicts for this chapter, ranging from the fitful nightmares described in “Butterfly’s Dream” to the lack of recognition that accompanies the essential background roles like “Sidekicks” to the horror of defiling ones name as John Proctor of Miller’s The Crucible faced. Each work adds to the tapestry that is my anthology; each bringing its own unique backstory, laden with repressed tales of sorrow and melancholy hence this chapter’s color scheme is, fittingly, blue. With each thread bringing its own morose history, I propose that one take a stroll in one’s enemy’s shoes and attempt to walk a golden road to tolerance.
My third chapter centers around a theme of light, knowledge, love, security and enlightenment—“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.” In this chapter, I looked to the sun for inspiration and found heat, an unimaginable heat throbbing from the star’s core. It was true love, familiarity and unity, reflecting a vibrant orange. To encompass this vibrancy, I looked to the fierce heroine of Gone with the Wind, Scarlett O’Hara. Her adamant drive could have easily fallen under the youthful green of chapter one, but her passion and love for Rhett Butler thrusts her into the vivacious orange chapter in a spectacle of blinding tangerine.
My fourth and final chapter focuses on facing and overcoming adversity— “And the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.” The beauty of the itsy-bitsy spider is that it persevered and endured the hardships thrown its way with its head held high. Triumphing in the fierce battle of dilemmas is dangerous both emotionally and physically; therefore, there is bound to be blood spilled: metaphorically, literally or both. In fighting for what one deems moral, the scarlet blood of both parties is spilled into these pages of poetry—and into its color scheme, triumphing over prejudice like in Hughes’s “As I Grew Older,” sibling rivalry in Soto’s “Broken Chains,” and technology in Alben’s “I lost my smartphone and lived to tell about it.”
The itsy-bitsy spider’s long and treacherous journey up the waterspout is that of youthful innocence, disheartening obstacles, vivid revelation, and a test of will to subdue the intruders of one’s contentedness. Although the anthology was a pain in the derriere at times, I optimistically hope that one day I will look back on my work and smile. Despite the late Sunday nights before an entry was due, I always had a sense of accomplishment and pride in what I had written even though I had written it half delirious. Surprisingly, I found that I tend to become inspired in the wee of the morn, for my mind is free to wander—so free in fact that sometimes it wanders to sleep. All in all, this anthology has punched a bold exclamation point on my need to stop procrastinating; however, on another note, it was a rewarding project, and I am proud to have completed this anthology, for without Honors English, I can honestly say I would not have willingly compiled such a massive collection. This anthology was the push for me to expand my horizons and explore different realms of my creativity.
Inspiration can strike anywhere. For me, it was under the all-knowing eye of my showerhead. It seemed like any other shower; even the spider was nothing out of the ordinary. However, inspiration struck as I was subconsciously splashing water onto the spider. I did not think anything of it until a few seconds later, it resurfaced. Annoyed, I had splashed at it again, assuring its impending watery death, but somehow it once again pulled itself up and continued. This spider had an inextinguishable fire, blazing inside of it, driving him to persevere. As I conditioned my hair, I pondered, “Who am I to drown this harmless little spider that yearns to live so passionately?” Being a slight arachnophobia, this thought was quite profound, for usually, I am under the impression that spiders are plotting my long, drawn out, violent death.
Suddenly, it hit me like a stinging slap to the face. Revelation streamed like sunlight through the clouds of my lethargy—the itsy-bitsy spider. So simple yet so perfect, the infantile nursery rhyme seemed destined to emerge as the backbone to my anthology. There would be four chapters defining my anthology: the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out, out came the sun and dried out all the rain, and the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again. Each chapter would be supported with works, outlining the treacherous journey of my eight-legged protagonist and I could cleverly title it, “Reaching for the Water Spout” and perhaps promote it as a “self-motivation guide to a more secure self” or something of the likes.
My first chapter circulates around youth, innocence, and naïveté; the initial passion exhibited in the spider’s first trial is admirable. The spider’s innocent and unhindered path in life parallels that of the pure, boundless creativity inferno radiating from the Little Prince’s soul. The Little Prince holds so many life lessons; it seemed the absolute candidate for my twenty-fifth work. This chapter nurtures the virgin mind of humanity, free of prior wisdom as portrayed through “Before you knew you owned it”; the rash and adamant mindset of self-righteous individuals as illustrated in Jack London’s “To Build a Fire”; the liberated souls, emancipated from the anchor that binds one from leaping into risky situations as preached in “Letter: Teach students to think, not obey.” Due to its emphasis on youth and vitality, I designated green as its color, for “Nature’s first green is gold.”
My second chapter revolves around a theme of adversity and hardship— “Down came the rain and washed the spider out.” Whether the conflict is as shallow as a kiddie pool or as profoundly deep as a great abyss, there is not a soul in existence that has not crossed paths with the rude personality of calamity. I selected a spectrum of conflicts for this chapter, ranging from the fitful nightmares described in “Butterfly’s Dream” to the lack of recognition that accompanies the essential background roles like “Sidekicks” to the horror of defiling ones name as John Proctor of Miller’s The Crucible faced. Each work adds to the tapestry that is my anthology; each bringing its own unique backstory, laden with repressed tales of sorrow and melancholy hence this chapter’s color scheme is, fittingly, blue. With each thread bringing its own morose history, I propose that one take a stroll in one’s enemy’s shoes and attempt to walk a golden road to tolerance.
My third chapter centers around a theme of light, knowledge, love, security and enlightenment—“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.” In this chapter, I looked to the sun for inspiration and found heat, an unimaginable heat throbbing from the star’s core. It was true love, familiarity and unity, reflecting a vibrant orange. To encompass this vibrancy, I looked to the fierce heroine of Gone with the Wind, Scarlett O’Hara. Her adamant drive could have easily fallen under the youthful green of chapter one, but her passion and love for Rhett Butler thrusts her into the vivacious orange chapter in a spectacle of blinding tangerine.
My fourth and final chapter focuses on facing and overcoming adversity— “And the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.” The beauty of the itsy-bitsy spider is that it persevered and endured the hardships thrown its way with its head held high. Triumphing in the fierce battle of dilemmas is dangerous both emotionally and physically; therefore, there is bound to be blood spilled: metaphorically, literally or both. In fighting for what one deems moral, the scarlet blood of both parties is spilled into these pages of poetry—and into its color scheme, triumphing over prejudice like in Hughes’s “As I Grew Older,” sibling rivalry in Soto’s “Broken Chains,” and technology in Alben’s “I lost my smartphone and lived to tell about it.”
The itsy-bitsy spider’s long and treacherous journey up the waterspout is that of youthful innocence, disheartening obstacles, vivid revelation, and a test of will to subdue the intruders of one’s contentedness. Although the anthology was a pain in the derriere at times, I optimistically hope that one day I will look back on my work and smile. Despite the late Sunday nights before an entry was due, I always had a sense of accomplishment and pride in what I had written even though I had written it half delirious. Surprisingly, I found that I tend to become inspired in the wee of the morn, for my mind is free to wander—so free in fact that sometimes it wanders to sleep. All in all, this anthology has punched a bold exclamation point on my need to stop procrastinating; however, on another note, it was a rewarding project, and I am proud to have completed this anthology, for without Honors English, I can honestly say I would not have willingly compiled such a massive collection. This anthology was the push for me to expand my horizons and explore different realms of my creativity.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Me is Cat
My unconventional self portrait, “Me is cat,” was such a joy to write; I had lots of fun. I found that the words just flowed out of me effortlessly as if I was breathing. I wrote it in a total of seven minutes and I was so relaxed in that moment, I felt like a lazy cat without a care in the world, hence “Me is cat.” Though it could be more personal, my unconventional self portrait accurately reflected me in that moment in time, and I feel a cat reflects my personality well, for when I was younger, my life goal was to become a cat.
Meow I is a cat
Stretching my feline spine
Do you dare wake my slumber?
You shall suffer
the wrath of my evil eye
Stop with your incessant hurrying
Know I never run
only saunter
For my life is that of ease
and tranquility
Nothing can rock my ship
Shower me with affection
Cherish my presence
As I swagger across you
teasing you with the tickle of my tail
They call me boring
But I couldn’t care less
I am happy with who I am
You have no power over me
Meow, I is a cat.
Meow I is a cat
Stretching my feline spine
Do you dare wake my slumber?
You shall suffer
the wrath of my evil eye
Stop with your incessant hurrying
Know I never run
only saunter
For my life is that of ease
and tranquility
Nothing can rock my ship
Shower me with affection
Cherish my presence
As I swagger across you
teasing you with the tickle of my tail
They call me boring
But I couldn’t care less
I am happy with who I am
You have no power over me
Meow, I is a cat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)