First Blog

from Billy Collins “The Trouble with Poetry”…

“I thought to myself/as a cold wave swirled around my feet/and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,/which is an image I stole directly/from Lawrence Ferlinghetti-/to be perfectly honest for a moment-”

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION:-          4 stanzas with 5 lines-          All lines are capitalized, no variation in length or indention-          ABAAB-          Iambic, 4 meters, some anapests

-          Strict form, narrative or lyrical poem- able to relate to the reader, reader becomes the narrator

-          Use of imagery and description to place the reader-          Rhyme scheme plays with idea of straight roads/paths-          Poem is about choice of paths in life and decisions

-          Use of capitalization in the first word

-          Very steady sound and use of words

-          Lot of punctuation at the end of lines very little enjambment

The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands; eyes feel all the coldness.
Words become harsher as I clutch
all the pane and try to regress.

The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands, eyes try to grasp kindness
outside; the wind carries in its clutch
a leaf letting it fly aimless.

So far julianna baggott’s collection has been one of my favorites. I love the perspective of the poet she gives us. The question and answer poems I feel is one of the most interesting approaches to poetry I have seen in a while. The poem we read in class, “Q and A: How do your children affect your work?” really hit me hard. My seminar poetry group discussed the impact and purity of children. It is amazing how children can create a sense of an epiphany within us. I feel children are the purest of the pure because they have not had society’s impact on them. In this Baggott poem, the pureness of the drawing stands out even though it is just stick figures, which shows something like this doesn’t have to entirely resemble a person. I really appreciate how Baggott opens her mind and heart with poetry and life in general to her readers. She is an excellent example of a writer who creates metapoetry, but in my opinion she goes beyond this to a positive effect.

Going over the New York poets and trying to make some comparisons to the other poet genres we have discussed. My group went into more detail about O’hara and felt that he was similar to the confessional poets because some of his poems have the narrative tone as if he was just telling us his daily routine or his emotions about his life. Confessional poets do have more intense emotional subject matters, which the New York poets have more of a process over product angle to their works. O’Hara’s writing in particular has more of a stream of consciousness flow, with no punctuation and steady constant rhythm. I’m just wondering if the New York poets ever really broke the boundary of their writing and confessional poet’s writing and went more in depth with their inner relationships and emotions?

Silk In the Forest 

Through the woods, I caught a glimpse of scarlet

silk weaving, and dancing a piroet. 

The grumble grinds deep from within myself.

Silk like apples laced with sweetness and health. 

I caught a glimpse of juvenile face,

approached the young cautiously just in case. 

Her hair was enclosed in a burgundy

hood her youthful voice sang sweet melody 

She would taste so luscious to me I thought

 so innocent, pure and what I sought.  Pleasantly spoke about her ailing kin

visit was vital not to be forgotten. 

The house was set simply over the hill,

I would race her there and beat her still. 

my witty self played well, hoax the old

woman, her body felt filling yet uncontrolled. 

Dressed in her gown, I waited for the girl,

my hunger still struck hard, beneath my fur 

the moment had come my dinner grew near

she opened the door, I told her to adhere 

she came closer the moment was present

I had what I wanted and finally went. 

saw this while looking at postsecret.com, it reminded me of our discussion of voice within a writer’s works. It’s interesting because everyone thinks of physical parts of a human, when in reality a person’s voice is one of the most important to me.