Poetry I Wrote - Probably Badly

Hey. So I write prose. I don't know if you've noticed from EVERY SINGLE OTHER post on this blog. Even the one I called a poem is really prose written in very short sentences. These two are actually poems. The first is a sort of modified sonnet and the second one is a prose poem. If they're really bad feel free to let me know and I won't post poetry up here again. This is kinda an experiment. Have fun. Also the first poem should really be read with this playing in the background.

A Rain Sonnet -

Drips echo up in to my ear

Washing clean my cares and my fear

See it’s not the feel nor the sound

Wherein stormy pleasure is found.

Rather tis the thought may that I

Prove the sadness brought by the rain

Fiction, Fant’sy, and Brittle Lie –

Lies of sorrow, sadness, and pain

“sad is happy for deep people”

Just to feel is proof of my life

Life is not found in home’r steeple

But in good hope after strife

How can sadness stay here and not

Flee if’t exposes what I’ve got?

The Source of Utopia -

For me there is no single utopia. I am enthralled by the serene life of the countryside. The slow moving people. The sweet smelling wind. The sounds of life in its purest form.

Yet I find an equal peace in the city – in the hustle and bustle of the city. The speeding of the always-cycling train. The rising stench of a thousand hot dog stands. The dull roar of a city that won’t sleep.

For me, utopia is the progression of life reminding me I’m alive. Utopia isn’t a sight. Or a smell. Or a sound. It is the amazing variety of sights in every place. And the ever changing scent of the world. And the sounds of the different folk, flora, and fauna found throughout the earth.

Beauty in Mundanity - A Review of MFA Poetry Readings in the Narrative Format

            The poetry reading started not with a bang or a murmur, but with well-maintained introductions. I arrived just as the first reader was introduced – Blake something – or something Blake. I had biked here and was in all likelihood not the best smelling human being in the room, so I was a little distracted when they announced his name. He is an established author who has been published a number of times. He is known for his humor, and he writes prose. Tonight, Blake will be reading his short story “The Best Man,” which he admits to the audience is about his brother. It is hilarious. Irreverent and mundane, the story details the narrator and his brother’s trip to a tailor to get their tuxedos fitted. The story seems to me to be an expose of the relationship dynamics between the narrator (who, under first impression, appears to be a pretty solid reflection of Blake) and his brother. The short piece details exactly how the narrator feels about his brother and life in general. The whole thing was a surprisingly realistic and uncensored (at one point the narrator ponders “rubbing one out” to a Victoria’s Secret catalogue) portrayal of what goes on inside a man’s head. I thought it was wonderful.

            Following the reading I take a look around the room. There is wine and cheese in the corner. Pretentious? Yes. Delicious looking? Of course. Do I want some? Most definitely. Unfortunately I can’t reach the wine and cheese due to the massive crowd guarding the concessions. That’s when I notice that the room is full of people from my class who, like me, had waited till the last possible reading to attend. It’s always nice to know you’re not alone. Yay for procrastination.  The next reader comes up, a man named Tommy who will be reading us a few of his poems. Now until three months ago I had never really appreciated poetry. And while this quarter has changed my impression quite a bit, I was still shocked at how much I liked this guy’s poetry. He writes about the most profound things – the imprisoning feeling of small towns or the ubiquity of love in all aspects of life – and the most commonplace – masturbation and the sadness of losing your favorite chicken and waffles restaurant. His work truly showcased the potential for story and poetry in every moment.

            Tommy was soon replaced by prose writer Kendra Fish. I definitely caught her name because I thought Tommy had said ‘Fitch’ in his introduction of her. He did not. He said Fish. She was also very impressive. She read excerpts from a story entitled “Both, Sister, mother, More.” The narrative was difficult to follow because of how much she jumped around during her reading, but from what I gathered, the story was about a gypsy woman and her daughter trying to live a normal life in Belgium. The story dealt with heavy issues like self-identity and sexuality extremely well, never trivializing or demonizing them. It is a story that I can see coming together to be a masterpiece examination of character growth and the mother-daughter relationship.

            At this point my back was beginning to get tired from standing in the same position for an hour. But luckily the last person, a woman named Megan, began reading her poetry just as I was becoming uncomfortable. I did not like Megan’s poetry. Perhaps my mind was tainted with the pain in my back and odd smells emanating from my dried sweat, but I found very little intriguing or strictly poetic about her writing. To be fair to Megan, she is a phenomenal writer; she handles imagery better than most I've read. However, I found her poetry to be lacking in any strictly poetic qualities beyond vivid description, which should be a quality of all good writing. I thought her descriptions were beautiful and well-conceived – I just wouldn't call them poetry.

            And thusly the night ended. My classmates and I ushered up to the front to get Tommy and Megan’s signatures and we were off for long bike rides home and whatever else awaited us in the night outside – now armed with the knowledge that beauty and more can be found in every second we are living.