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Poetry is the universal language.
This, without a doubt, has been something entirely new to me. However, I've never felt something that comes as naturally to me as poetry does. Be that as it may, poetry in no way is simple, or easy. It's challenging, it's unyielding, but it's refreshing, and it's beautiful. I never once in my life attempted to write poetry. I, for one, always thought that I was just a talented writer only when it came to prose, never poetry. I had heard poetry before, and read it previously, and I had received this immediate feeling of appreciate, not only for poetry, but for the person who had created the specific piece i was listening to or reading. I almost at once believed that I could not write poetry, or at least not relate to it. However, after trying against my will for this class, I was pleased with I had came up with. I don't think it's as good as some other's poetry in no way, but I like it, and I think it's above average. It means a lot to me, the poetry I have created so far. I try to always implement my past or experiences into my poems because I think through a poetic representation, with eloquence, rhythm, style, and strategic word use, they are best told. Here are my poems, read if you wish.
4700 Abbotsford Avenue
The man opened the wooden door.
I walked in through what separated deception from honesty.
Not truth and lying, but far deeper aspect of my life.
One that had been littered with facades that ensconced feelings of anguish,
Whom were accompanied by this certain uneasiness.
I felt the warm air flow from the white noise machine
As it hummed in it's own singular way.
Walking through what I still remember as not a doorway,
But as the space designated only for my most cached and repressed thoughts,
Leaving no room for the superabundance of superficial ones
That ran through my head.
This room meant I had importance.
This room meant I was cared for.
This room meant I was getting help.
Were they bullshit veneers that my rattled mind
Was begetting to deceive me with it's blindly optimistic thoughts?
Or was it reality?
I was to only wait and see if this was my ticket to placidity.
We Become The Words We Say
We become the words we say
We become the words we hear
We embody the words we're called
We embrace the words we love
We resent the words that hurt us
We try to say the words that console
We try to say the words that create a need to console
We need to say the words that are true
We need to say the words that are lies
We say the words we try to hide
We don't say the words we want to say
We make others different with the words we speak
But all the while,
We become the words we say.
An Ode To My iPod
Purchased through a predetermined amount of funds,
But bringing unbounded joy.
An object, one so sleek,
So argent. Silver plated, like a JFK half dollar.
Something so concrete, can be so abstruse.
You are an abundance, while being so meager,
Creating instrumental transport and lyric rapture as your accents
Resonate through mind and body.
I'm with you every day.
There isn't a second you're not by my side.
Through you and your wonders, I am graced
Each day with the hypnotic ectasy of Music.
Every sound, every beat, every melody sends an unprecedented
Feeling that envelopes my body in blissful appreciation.
It is an injustice that I cannot listen to the addictive songs
That flow from the speakers into my ears at every moment, every chance.
I've become obsessive over you, Music.
Never leave my side, never leave me abandoned,
For without you, I'd grow forlorn.
Music, you are what keeps my heart beating on black days and somber nights,
Through intense disconsolation and despair. You keep my from being rendered lifeless,
You, I, Music.
The Counter To Prose
I was once asked what is unique about poetry?
You are so diverse, so varied.
Different in a plethora of facets, inspiring many every solitary day.
You take so many forms, so versatile, so malleable.
You allow your appreciator to annunciate your eloquent and rhythmic lines,
Stanza for stanza, in a conglomeration of ways,
Voicing them in whatever tone is necessary.
Your originality, your infinite ingeniousness knows no bounds.
Personal accounts, most intense feelings, so skillfully spoken.
Spoken in a myriad of tongues and dialects, yet becoming and remaining
Your own, individual language.
I Was Raised By:
I was raised by
Tension between us slowly fading
As we developed.
10 Grade and Universities as
I grew every year from Elementary foundations.
High expectations and hard acts to follow.
Yeah, that kind of family.
Knock knock on the door.
You wanna hang out?
Yeah, hold up one sec.
No, I can't, I'm going to my cousin's.
"Okay's" turned into "Alright, bro."
Talking about video games and "Did you beat that mission yet?"
Turned into, "Yo, how's your girl? Oh, when did you drop her?"
Yeah, those kind of friends.
Scoffing at curse words
Evolved into using them in conversations every day.
Learning about parables in Religion textbooks,
Being taught how to behave as young women.
Loving to be good,
Turned into loving drugs and debauchery.
"What did you get on your last English test?"
Turned in to "Which guy did you hook up with last?"
Yeah, those kind of girls.
Finding my future in my youth,
Molding my good group of friends.
Staying out of harm
And staying in school.
Knowing my profession,
And being satisfied with it.
Yeah, those kind of dreams that came to fruition.
I'm Here... Still.
Of course it was. It always had been, but it Doesn't mean it always has to be.
Everything always seemed to be a struggle, a new obstacle posed a threat once a previous one had been overcame.
I own a dark, morbid past. One that Never just went away. One that lingers, one that clings to me like the scarred skin I wear.
My infantile fingers wrapped around the patriarch's thumb, soon I'd have the matriarch's hands around my throat.
"Why?" I still question it. To this day. It haunts me, yes, remaining feelings of anxiety around those of the opposite sex whom are older.
It defines me, No, Nor will it ever.
Scoffing at Parochial education's feeble attempts to mold me into a obedient church boy who "Embraced God's love."
Faith had been and remains something that I Don't find necessary in my life, and especially not Catholicism.
I preach rationality and logic. They will supersede faith and dependency on an "unseen force."
Perfection is Not my aim, although my OCD always wins out. Never to be perfect, Never to be a "Good Samaritan."
Striving to my last days, only to be a gentleman and a scholar.
Nary a moment where I Wasn't being told what to do. The analyzation of my mind interrupted schooling.
Open up to this listener about your A's. Anxiety, abasement, and her Aghast effect on you.
Her. She who disappeared. She who abandoned. She who became obsessive or being addicted.
I wasn't being torn apart by it hand over fist. I was cared for, respected.
Blood really was close, and they oversaw my rehabilitation.
A new era. An era that would happen 4 more times, 9 months each time, just like it's predecessor.
A higher form of learning, but the first thing I learned was that school was the place for getting higher.
A new type of pressure form my peers, I Wasn't about to let narcotics and pharmaceuticals play a part.
An end of the first 25%. A beginning to the darkest heat wave of my life.
Rampant thoughts of self-exposure to death, 5 times over. 5 times avoided. 5 times closer.
Starting anew in the next 25%, hoping to recover. Harm to myself rather than a permanent solution, I thought.
Dripping rubies from my skin. How could I succumb, how would I continue? Uncertainty for certain.
She met me, I met her. We met each other, but a 12 month epoch to realize the importance of what he had.
So now it's skin back to pale, maybe even apricot at times, stained No more. A smile fills my features, increasingly more than fear envelopes my optics.
Rather than a razor in my grip, or pills in my palm, it's her hand fitting perfectly with my own and her lips softly connecting with mine.
I'm here... still.
Detailed Poet Study
: Margaret Atwood
Margaret Atwood often writes about ways women are exploited and oppressed by men. She always seems to pay very close attention to the multiple meanings of words in her poetry. In the 5 specific poems that were researched, Backdrop Addresses Cowboy, Is/Not, Morning In The Burned House, Variation on The Word Sleep,and Variations on The Word Love, Atwood uses these techniques such as the multiple meanings of words, as well as different ones like giving the reader multiple options on how to determine the meaning of the poem, or the outcome of the poem. The reason that Margaret Atwood does this in her poems to allow the reader to make many types of assumptions for not only certain words that she uses strategically throughout her pieces, but also, assumptions for the whole poem to leave them wondering. An example of this is in her poem Backdrop Addresses Cowboy, Atwood says in the first stanza “Star-spangled cowboy sauntering out of the almost- silly West, on your face a porcelain grin, tugging a papier-mache cactus on wheels behind you with a string...” She says this cowboy, who we are just meeting, has a porcelain grin, which, leave the reader wondering whether this cowboy we are hearing about is a real man, or just a figure made of fine china that a child of some sort is playing with. What is further convincing that this cowboy isn’t real is revealed in the following lines. “Tugging a papier-mache cactus.” The way Atwood creates this sense of uncertainty of whether a poem means one thing or an entirely different one.
Margaret Atwood has another technique she uses in her poetry. She gives the reader a sense that something is reality, and by the end, what the character was first involved with which the reader thought was very real, the character was fantasizing, just like in Variation on The Word Sleep. To begin the poem, Atwood writes “I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen.I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head...” This person speaking of sleeping with another, evidently someone who they care deeply for, and have love for. But is this person actually with them, are they just watching over the other? More is revealed at the end of the poem in the last stanza. “I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.” Here, we are shown that the character’s only desire is to be with this unnamed, sleeping person who they are watching over. Atwood gives us the sense that this person, this admirer, their only living wish is to be with this unconscious person. To feel their love and to beside them, but they aren’t and they can’t.
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