Poetry Throwback

I just found this poem nudged somewhere in my journal. I wrote it in August, but it seems quite applicable now.

there are some sticks
that, when put in a mason jar of water,
leaves from them grow;
they are on the coffee table in my apartment,
and they were uprooted once.
still they grow.
and why? because that
is what plants do; they grow.
and how are we so different?

Poetry love. btwfyi: the sticks with leaves featured below, at present day, still doing the plant thing, aka growing.

Sometimes I write my thoughts down in poetry form.

Peace - the glass of day
break: the composure;
I am on the wings
of eagles - I rest;
I wait.
I feel all types of unforecasted
weather - and I give
it all away.
Abide here: I must stay.
Change me, over
and over. I will
become clay somehow. I act
in thy confidence:
the very breath I breathe
is thine.

The Symphony of Snow

Alright all you snow haters, I have to confess, I love snow. I love to see it falling, lighting up the night. I love to feel the safety blanket it lays over the city. I love how it gathers light, making ordinary things more beautiful. I even like driving in it, at least on small roads with no other cars around. Untouched snow - innocence. And snow with footprints and bike tire tracks and the remnants of a snow angel - the beauty of human experience, how we mold and change because of the influence of one another, reflected right there in the snow. And it melts; like other good things, it passes away, leaving us with memories, teaching us to treasure.

It took me four snowy winters  to come to this realization. I mean, how's a girl to know when every complaint is about the wretched snow. I almost thought I hated it just because every else talks about how much they hate it. I do absolutely hate being cold, and that is why I chose to be born during this modern time of electric blankets and hot running water, so I could enjoy the symphony of snow and only be cold a little bit. Rejoice, there is snow.

More Poetry for Annasophia

Today in English 7, those kidlets were supposed to write poems using literary devices - simile, metaphor, symbolism, personification, alliteration, hyperbole, onomatopoeia - are the ones they learned. So I decided while they were writing, I would model for them and write under the doc cam. Herez it is:

My sister's smile caught me for a moment;
Just at the park on any other nippy November afternoon,
We'd been tossing our wishes and secrets in the air
like bumbling a beach ball around at the park.
That smile could have lit the whole neighborhood,
the whole city, the whole entire Clark County.
That smile was talking to me:
Saying something as beautiful as the sunset that painters try to paint
or as gentle as the movement when light touches a wet pond.
Her smile said: I am Sophie,
your sister and best friend
for as long as the mountains snow
and the sea waves crash
on the beach we always go to in April.

S. P. E.

The trick is to never let anyone know you are stressed, and have a billion things to do; make everyone feel like you have all the time in the world for them.

This is Sarah's secret rule number 243, which refers to the rules of how Sarah lives her life without even knowing about it. She doesn't even know about the rule book.

I have been thinking about that lately because recently, my life has felt so out of balance. In fact, right now I am sitting on the floor, next to a pile of unfolded laundry, with the Bible open to James on my left, and my nature poetry notes on my right, my phone open in my lap, and my running shoes over in the corner, wagging their tail, begging to go out. I am supposed to be heading out to take that midterm, but instead, I am blogging.

And thinking about Sarah. I am glad I have really cool friends. The kind that would jump in front of mucky-snow splashes for you, keeping you dry.

And since I am about to take my poetry of the natural world from Romantic era to present midterm. Here is a poem by Robert Frost.

Dust of Snow

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of the day I had rued.

Bye-bye Winter! Welcome Welcome SPRRIINNNGGGG!

Stanley Kunitz

In my poetry of the natural world class we were studying the nature poetry of Stanley Kunitz, and this quote stuck out to me: "to be human is to know yourself to be living and dying at the same time." I am not sure what I think about this quote, but it definitely made me think. One of my American literature professors would always say that each breath that we breathe out is an exhale closer to death, but breathing is also one of the most fundamental things associated with life.

A good friend of mine is a deep thinker and has quite a reflective blog. When he graduated from college, we wrote about his lament of all the things, mostly the people, he left behind. He said that we wishes that he had begun these relationships knowing there was an end to them.

Is there an end to our relationships?

I have a particularly hard time with losing people, but I don't think that I want to start every relationship knowing it will end. Cherish the moments together, yes, but always be anticipating when things will end? Are we always dying? Are relationships going to end? Honestly, I am not sure. So I might as well always live and love as if living and loving are never going to end, and even if they do, I don't think I would change my mind.

When Hamlet said, "To be or not to be?" I like to think this is what he was talking about.

Haiku Craze

Okay so I seriously have written so many silly Hailkus in the last week or so. This one is not about anyone in particular, just the idea and the feeling. Here ya go:

There is a frame here
in my head, and you don't fit
perfectly, of course;
so it is the frame or you
as far as I can tell.

I am obsessed with Haiku

"Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backward." - e e cummings

Just because I like to, I decided to write a poem. Then I transformed it to Haiku version because lately, I have been obsessed. 

If the sea catches

fire maybe it will burn the

entire ocean

between us, but if

the sea catches fire and it

doesn’t burn anything I

am going to tell

you that I forgot to swim,

I think. Because when

I put my foot in

the water I get beached. So would

you please unharbor

Your docked boat and come

across the water to me,

If the sea catches

Poem a Day

A Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.

 - Wallace Stevens

This poem has had a huge influence on my own poetry.

Illuminated Texts: These are unreal

My brother left on a mission, so I wrote some poetry

The Curbside as I remember it

He was dressed in his black suit;
His silly smile jumping around his face -
Nervous? He said he wasn't,
Just talking about our cat and trying to lick my hand whenever it was near him -
My brother. Sitting in the backseat of the car as we pulled up to the MTC.
"Remember that lick for the next two years."
Shuttled up to the curbside, he got out
Pulled his bags from the back of the car
Hugged Mom; hugged Dad -
Then it was my turn:
He stood up on the curb -
Like a banner -
All six feet and six inches of him.
I was a step down, on the road
As I reached to wrap my arms around him,
He was so tall up on that curb that I pulled him down to the street with me.
We laughed, and I let go.
He turned around and walked,
Walking away from us, but toward -
A step toward Boston, MA
Where he would shape his heart a bit,
And write messy letters to tell me about it.

In the LDS church, young boys and girls leave on missions for two years. My brother is eighteen and he will be serving in Boston preaching the Gospel and helping people find the love, happiness, and peace only Christ can offer.

So then I wrote more poetry, just sloppy, right out of my mind, unedited poetry. This next one is about a friend.

crossing the waves
(chop, chop waves)
In my mind you are setting the table
for dinner and company
in your basement apartment
in September,
but really, where are you?
Get all this water out -
(chop, chop waves)
There's an ocean between us

And then just for sweet Sophie, a silly little verse because I miss her.

Sister's Sonnet replays in my thoughts.
What are you doing three hundred miles away?
She Lives for Hugs,
Lives on.

And then a little modified Haiku because I realized recently, I actually love this form.

I miss you because
I know you are really gone
But I love you like
I hope you'll come back to me.

Poem a Day: Haiku

I am here, always,
and if you should disappear,
I will stay for you.

By Tyler Knott Gregson

Poem a Day

"Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens.

What I have been reading (and writing)

English 362 - American Literature from 1865-1914

Today we read some Dickenson. Poems number 5, 28, 39, 48, 637, and 1425. Check them out if you are interested. Then I wrote this shabby piece.

In Dickenson’s water whole

My soul estranged

Breathes

—Sometimes water—

“What and if indeed

There were just such a coffin

In the heart instead?”

Don’t die, little bird, I cry

For there is no coffin in my heart

So if you die, there will be no place

To put you. It will be empty

And I will be treading

For shore, as you fly

Fly, fly

Your melodies

you once gave to me, but no

they’re thine

First piece of poetry on the blog. No judging. Just sappy-should-be-studying-too-many-people-in-the-library type of poetry. 

Let's all make a little more


       "Concord from Discord"

Maybe all I do is run, but that is not all I think about.

Halloween Caterpillar?

What would you do if you saw one of these inching along?

Saw this up Provo canyon today. Didn't even know it existed. 

Still not sure what it is.

Life, is like Never Before.

Each new moment is a surprise. Each new second is unlike the one before. What will the next moment bring?

As much as I should be keeping up with literary current events, let's just say, well, I haven't. But, the other day I was listening to NPR and heard there is a new poet laureate, Philip Levine. After a quick internet search, I discovered his poetry to be quite good, although a little dark. Maybe after I have sampled more than two or three, I will be able to give a better analysis. But for now, long live the poet laureate! I absolutely love poetry, and I write a bit of sappy poetry myself. Not anything worth the screen, but it is all about love, not fame or publication, anyway, isn't it? Some of my favorite poets that come to mind: e. e. cummings, Billy Collins, John Keats, Wallace Stevens, T. S. Eliot, and maybe Yeats.