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.