quatrain revised #2

26 11 2007

Storm

The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands; eyes feel all the coldness.
Words become harsher as I clutch
wooden pane and try to relax.
Times of happiness and love
seem never to unfold again,
I am left waiting for the dove
to make its mark on all humans.

As a child, I am so young
my parents’ fury and dismay
hits my soul constantly sung
as the leaves outside decay.

Sounds of anger and betrayal
echo along my neck, I grasp
the pane with strength, my all.
The last sound I heard was a gasp.
Thundering yells shake my small mass
my mind stripped of innocence.
Outside the wind carries in its clutch
a leaf letting it fly aimless.



Quatrain- revised

5 11 2007

Storm-revised 

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.

Times of happiness and love
seem to never unfold again,
I am left waiting for the dove
to make its mark on all humans.

As a child, I am so young,
my parents’ fury and dismay
hits my soul constantly sung
as the leaves outside decay.

Sounds of anger and betrayal
echo along my neck, I grasp
the pane with strength, my all.
The last sound I heard was a gasp.

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.



2nd chosen poem- Frost

28 10 2007

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



first draft-quatrains

28 10 2007

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.

Times of happiness and love
seem to never unfold again,
I am left waiting for the dove
to make its mark on all humans.

Sounds of anger and betrayal
echo along my neck, I grasp
the pane with strength, my all.
The last sound I heard was a gasp.

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.



first draft couplet poem

9 10 2007

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. 



Blank Verse Prose

26 09 2007

My sister sat there on the water’s edge, her toes stroking it over the dock. It was almost dusk and the sun was making its way down. The crickets create the percussion of the music outdoors, the sounds of rocking, chirping back and forth.  The fireflies add illuminate the scene. She sits there as thick air wraps around her. She stares towards the falling sun with its beautifully aligned colors of red, yellow, and orange. Like a painting on a fresh canvas it caresses the sky. She falls into a trance, into another place. A campfire in front of her with its screeching sounds. She envisions him, every aspect, his smell, his touch, his perfectly tanned body. He was hers, for a short time, but at least she had him at all. They were perfect for each other, inseparable. The memories she has are playing silently through her mind. He left just a few days ago, so stereotypically and cliché. The usual college transition summer. It wasn’t fair to her, the memories of the boats gliding on the water, and sitting on Uncle John’s rusty dock holding each other.  It was as if she was caught in his hazel, and comforting eyes. She was stuck in a moment of euphoria and didn’t want to let go; nothing went wrong when he was around.  A gust of cold wind crawled along her back; her feet hit the water as she flinched.  She stood up and bit by bit pried herself away from the dock. As she was walking she glanced back towards the water. She watched as each little ripple, each line faded into nothing. She realized now it was time to let it all go.

 



blank verse…revised

23 09 2007

She sits there on the water’s bank, her toes

caressing  it calmly through the smoothness.

The tiny crickets strike double drums hard.

She sits there, thick sky blankets her around

as dusk pulls her into a trance with its

canvas of pottery red and pale orange.

A Fire, its screeching sounds, she pictures

A man, every aspect: his smell, and touch,

Perfect, complete; they are together, built

for each other and inseparable, but

then He left, clichéd She thought. It wasn’t

fair to her, She was left, memories strike

of cigarette boats gliding over it,

antique, and brittle dock, the right support,

 just holding Him. Relaxed and carefree, it

is difficult with His calm, entrancing hazel eyes.

A  breath of wind stings sharp along her back,

the feet break mirror image, stands up right,

pries herself away, she glances back

as each minute ripple disappears.



1st chosen poem

23 09 2007

The Tyger by William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water’d heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb-make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Topics for discussion:· Trochaic tetrameter- lines of 7/8 syllables · End with masculine rhymes (except the first stanza…slant rhyme)· Strong and steady meter· Alliteration forces the harshness which matches the imagery· Endstops throughout the poem force questioning and inhibiting the flow· Repeated first and last stanzas· Imagery and allusions to satan and darkness· Symmetry- ends the first and last stanza which shows the actual symmetry



Form Essay

11 09 2007

It’s amazing how our society tries define everything some simplistically; form is was of these things. When we don’t know what something is we go to a dictionary, there it is layed out in black and white. But how do we know this is true? Form can be looked at so many different ways; according to the black and white it is; “the essential nature of a thing,” “orderly method of arrangement,” and “established method of expression or proceeding.”  When discussing form as a personal idea I relate it mostly to nature and science. Something’s form is what people see, although sometimes it can become deceiving. The deception with form is what makes it so mysterious and fascinating. One object can easily be seen as another just by the different views, focuses, angles and various perspectives people have. The shadows street lamps make on the sidewalk create forms that can be mistaken for animals, insects, or even a human. When in reality the shadow holds its own form. It thrives all around, especially in nature. Form is the way the river flows and creates smooth structures along the banks.

 A whole poem or sets of poems can be based off of one particular form. There is no limit to how much a writer can write about a form, especially one they are passionate about. It is amazing with poetry how someone’s emotions and deepest feelings can be expressed by discussing how the wind shapes the trees for example. I had never thought what form actually means to me or how it influences me, especially in a writing sense. It has always been seen as guidelines or strict rules a professor requires. When writing, free verse is what I am usually drawn to because I was never good at being able to write what I want but still keep the strict form. Because of this I tend to view form in a negative light and as restraining. Poetry in itself heavily involves form. A poet writes on the piece of paper which grabs hold of the ink trying to stay true to each line. The words on the paper flow and give substance to the poem. Once finished a writer looks at their work and realizes that the poem itself has its own form which has a whole new meaning. Poets and writers sometimes think extensively and worry more about how the poem will look on the page, than the content of the poem itself which shows how much of an impact form has in writing.

I read the chapter in Purpura before I began to truly thing about form. She discussed the game show and how it is made for people who want strict rules, and not people looking for forms, which is ironic since strict rules can define form as well. I interpreted this as some people believe there is only one true answer for things. Purpura uses the example of star-bright , and how it can’t be “bright as frost.” When words and concepts are looked at from different perspectives anything could make sense. Form is unable to be completely defined, yet we try to. We try to give a meaning or definition to everything but in actuality this word can mean something totally different to someone else. Form is defined as well as undefined which makes it so complex.