House on Central

My blog this week is going to feature a rough draft poem I wrote for my Victorian house that we are soon to move from:

House on Central
blending with the sky
forget the brotherly rape
and embrace goodbye 
For opportunity has come
for your scratched up wood 
to heal with varnished love 
just like it should
Your walls will hold
a new family stable 
and shelter 2 years 
with food on the table 
A couch with 2 cats
and a vase full of flowers
and a flood that brought tears
that later empowered 
House on Central
our time has come 
to part ways and go on 
not leaving behind a crumb
For a new purpose
and shelter you share
with a new family 
please treat her with care 

This poem is a rough draft and only took a short amount of time to write. I want to go back and make it a bit deeper in the future, maybe when we have actually moved out of our lovely home. To be continued possibly... 

This week's poem I wrote about a very difficult class I took and how I was feeling overwhelmed and stressed. The "him" that I refer to is the teacher. He was very intense and involved with the students, and would often ask me how I was feeling. Here is the poem:

Rubbing temples
physics slip
blurry eye sight
drip, drip, drip 
don't know answers 
hands constrain
watching clockwork
veins of shame
don't look at him
forced to choose
disappointment 
eyes are bruised
sitting shallow
don't look up
perturbation
I know. I suck. 

I shared this with a few people in a poetry elective I took. It isn't very deep, I realize, but oh well. My goal for next weeks blog is to create a new poem and not use one of my old ones. Wish me luck!

Philip Larkin

For another English class I am taking, we have a project on an English poet and I choose Philip Larkin. He was a prominent writer in post war England, and worked as a professional librarian for more than 40 years. He was born August 9th, 1922 and died December 2nd, 1985. He was offered the position of Poet Laureate in 1984 but declined. Here is a poem of his: 

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   

    They may not mean to, but they do.   

They fill you with the faults they had

    And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   

Who half the time were soppy-stern

    And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

    It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

    And don’t have any kids yourself.  

As you can see, his style is a darker English. This poem is called This Be The Verse. It was written in April of 1971 and published in August of that year. I like that the poem uses everyday language, it allowed me to relate to it more. 

This Thursday (1 day late oops) I have decided to share a poem I wrote on Tuesday, May 27th of this year. I was down in the dumps when it was written: 

Nicotine stained spit rags 
wipe up what's left of the battle
the dead are gone and the wounded remain
and the stained rag wipes on 

It blotches and taints the blonde trees red
and the fingers of God along with them
so the wounded still lay in wait
as the silver soldier returns 

The sweltering heat reveals more lost battles
and the fossilized footprint of the silver soldier
the tint of the ground is different there
where the rag, most menacing, had been

The battle can't be seen by those who care
only the eyes that had been there before
there were more battle plans for the soldier and the rag
for the terrains lifespan of 100 years 

Looking back at this poem, I saw that it was hard to understand. I plan to make a few changes to it in the future. If you wish to ask me questions about it, comment on the post. 

I first started writing poetry last year during a school class. I had two of my favorite teachers teaching it, and their writing inspired me to write poetry. We spent a week on poetry, and in the course of that week I wrote my first poem. This is it: 

My fingers bleed from the smoke in your lungs
for the unsolved equation 
for the unspoken tongues 
My fingers bleed from the tightness of my chest 
for the pitiful looks
from the early life molest
The skin will peel and the blood will burn and the stains will show my many concerns
about You 
You, whose arms wrap around infinity trying to comfort all who need warmth
You, whose unbalanced brain is beginning to worn and yet my fingers bleed 
because I follow you like a sheep follows its shepherd
My fingers bleed so that my arm does not
My fingers bleed because I use my blood as a mirror 

I am very happy with this poem, but have not shared it with many people, so I hope you enjoyed it!

This blog is intended to help me write more poetry every week on Wednesdays for my blog assignment in school. I will post a poem at least once a week to meet the academic requirement for the English class and to help me improve my writing skills. I started writing poetry in a poetry class at school and thoroughly enjoyed it. I bought a little black notebook specifically for writing, and I will post some of the poems every week. This weeks poem will just be a simple haiku that I will write on the spot because I don't have my little black notebook with me. So here goes: 

Redwoods remind me 
of music and shooting stars 
Irish strings, and You. 

I don't like writing Haikus because you have to fit a bunch of things into very little words, and I have so much to say sometimes. That haiku was about a week in the redwoods of Santa Cruz learning beautiful music and meeting amazing people. So tune in next Wednesday for more poems!