#2

Ghazals are extremely interesting poems. I can't for the life of me figure out how to write one effectively. I've been trying, and maybe I'll post some of my efforts but I doubt it. They're really bad. I do like the repetition in Ghazals, and the way Shahid rhymes is incredible to me. I've always had trouble with rhyming (as you all well know), so it really sticks out when something flows so nicely into a rhyme.

#1

OK so for my free entry this week I'm posting my sestina since I'm pretty proud of it but unfortunately won't be able to receive workshop comments on it. So feel free to make suggestions if you want!

Sestina for the Birds

I stood, watching the fire
and noticing how quickly the birds
rose from their watery chairs,
the tips of their wings barely brushing
the water's surface. They left only the imprint
of their stout bodies as they performed the fire drill.

It's amazing how well they know the drill.
All their lives they wait for the fire,
and when the flames finally reach high enough to print
their dancing shadows on the birds'
domain, they fly over the brush
and search for a more solid chair.

As the leader of the flock reaches his plush, leafy chair,
the others begin to squawk, and drill
him with questions: Will the brush
ever return? Or will the fire
ruin it forever? The crescendo of the birds'
chorus would take novels to transcribe and print.

The leader steps forward, creating talon prints
one by one as he leaves his judge's chair.
He moves among the flock, among his fellow birds,
explaining the point and purpose of the drill
itself, the reason it is necessary to be conscious of the fire.
He caws that in order to live hear the brush,

one must be aware of the dangers that surround the brush.
One must know of the strange boot prints
left behind after gunshots. One must know of the fire,
of course, and of the way the watery chairs
seem to rock to and fro with the most conviction just before the drill
begins. And oddly enough, one must especially be aware of the other birds.

One must know of the tall, featherless, flightless birds.
These, the leader explains, hide in the brush
and wait for us to begin our drill.
Into us they blow the bullet print,
sending us careening before we reach our chairs.
They delight in the dancing of the fire.

I stared at the fire, trying to tell the birds
that they were safe in their watery chairs, and to brush
off the suggestions of the printed directions to stay safe through the drill.

#12

For my free entry this week, I did the "best overheard line" idea. The line was, "She's like Beethoven. And I'm like Houdini." I heard it in Wal-Mart walking past a group of teens that couldn't have been over sixteen. So I adapted it just a little. Here it is!

I was nothing but good to him.
My actions sang of love--
the sweet symphony of affection.

He never even heard the melody.

So I began to practice the art of escape.
Each night in my mirror I'd rehearse
my lines, tying my words in knots all too easily undone.

I perfected my disappearance, then put on a show.

He's like Beethoven.
And I'm like Houdini.
Masters of opposing crafts

can never share the stage.

#11

This week I've enjoyed getting to know more about different styles of poetry. I've always been more of a free writer, so it's a lot of fun to see what I can do with different forms. While it's extremely challenging, I'm trying my hand at each of them, and turning the one I like the best in for workshop. So far I've completed a Villanelle, and I'm working on a Pantoum. I may post some of my other attempts as my free entry this week.

I love the repetition of lines in both the Villanelle and Pantoum. To me, repetition gives a sense of momentum to the piece, and it moves the poem along to its eventual climax. It is tough, however, to design lines that can be repeated without seeming overdone. I was halfway through with a Pantoum when I realized that it sounded extremely cliche and I ended up trashing the whole thing. Now I've got to start over and see what I can do. I look forward to seeing your adaptations as well!

#10

Sheep Charmer

She writes, and
So many emotions spring to the surface.
She wills
This lamb to save her,
That one to comfort her,
The other to inspire her.
The birds sing to her
When her father comes home,
And each night she cries into
What the Angels Left.

If you didn't know, that was supposed to be a piece about Howe. I used only what I remembered from her writing--only what struck me enough to stick with me. That's probably the reason I used the lamb idea so much. Thoughts? Comments? Ideas for revisions?

#9

While reading through Howe's poetry this week, I found several things I liked, and several that I didn't. I figured a critical post was more than appropriate for examining these aspects of her writing.

One thing I enjoyed throughout her work was, as we talked about in class, she has an ability to say shocking things without shocking the reader. She uses such strong language and imagery that there's no way around what she's saying to you. Sometimes she uses words that would get me a slap across the mouth. But she does it in such a way that you can't be upset because it fits so perfectly.

I must admit that, while I understand having a central theme to your poetry, the repetition throughout her poems was driving me nuts. If I read about a lamb or a bird one more time I was going to shut the book and give up. I feel like a great writer would be able to express their ideas with a multitude of words rather than the same ones over and over.

Another thing I liked about Howe's writing was that some of her work was religious. I've never read religious poetry before so I really enjoyed that new facet. Although her religious poems used the lamb metaphor constantly, I feel like here it was almost okay because the lamb is a religious idea anyway.

Did any of you feel like this about her writing? Or am I completely crazy?

#8

For this week's free entry I decided to post an updated version of my Billiards poem from class. Here it is!

Billiards

The white ball sits atop the green felt
facing the colorful triangle.
Waiting for its cue,
the ball almost vibrates with anticipation.

A sudden crack,
a sharp pain,
the
cue
ball
rolls
at
an
alarming
rate.

The colors
cry out for mercy.
Another moment,
and all Hell breaks loose.
Hectic collisions,
suffering screams...
Over and over the colors crash.
One by one they disappear into the darkness.
Shivering with fear, they await their turn to fall,
Newton freezing them in place with the curse of inertia.

As the white ball chooses its victim,
each color envisions themselves
rolling
spinning
bouncing
out of control,
first off the others,
then off the walls.
The upside of darkness is that
there is no more pain.

The lone ball sits atop the green felt
and thinks
This is what I live for.