Exercise 12

     She stood a moment, admiring the ebony handle, adorned with twists and carved roses.  Taking a deep breath, she gave the door a few hard raps.  A few moments later, a little girl in a white dress answered the door.  She look, wide-eyed at the beautiful mess in front of her.  The girl standing outside the door looked wild, her expensive garments torn, somewhat wet, and twigs in her long, dark, flowing hair.  Still shocked at the sight in front of her, the little girl in the white dress remained silent, gaping.  Then the beautiful creature outside spoke.  “Can I see Henry, please?” the girl asked anxiously, looking over the little girl into the house.  “Wha..what’s your name,” asked the little girl, who was still shocked.  Most people who came to the house were terrified, but this girl showed an eagerness to be inside of it.  “Oh, I’m Anna. Sorry, I forgot my manners. I’m looking for Henry. I have something quite important to tell him.”  The little girl nodded, motioning for Anna to come inside.  Once she stepped in the house, the door banged suddenly behind her.  But Anna did not jump or appear squeamish, even as she looked around the dark foyer.  Candles glowed on the wall, giving the room an eerie feel.  The house was not especially dirty, but felt damp and smelled of must.  

Critique 12

Christmas Sonnet

The Christmas berries hang, a gentle case

of forgotten holiday memories 

that sway about amidst the frosty fog.

The smell of cinnamon baking rises, 

towers above the wilted Christmas tree

complete with faded ornaments swaying,

decoration for its browning branches

covered in last minute silver glitter. 

Cars arrive, escaping bitter chills despite,

Sleepless nights in crowded houses musty

with a hint of an old woman’s perfume; 

husbands hide in rooms smelling of tainted

cigar, and children run until they fall 

asleep waiting for the first drop of snow.  

Exercise 11

Part of a story 

The sound of faraway rain and muffled thunder rang in her ears.  The sharp gusts of wind cut through her black fleece jacket, causing a chill to enter her bones.  She silently looked behind her.  No one was there.  Sighing, she began to walk towards the opening to the forrest behind the house.  She ignored the incoming rain drops that dripped into her eyes, creating a blurred vision of the upcoming pathway.  She began to run.  Pushing branches out of the way, avoiding tree roots, she ran, despite the burning sensation growing in her legs.  It had been dark before; now the air turned black.  She could see it in the distance and it strengthened her drive to reach it before the height of the storm.  The building, notorious for its macabre demeanor, finally stood before her.  Tears threatened to join with the raindrops as she discovered she was near.  Giving her legs a final push, she sprinted up the hill, using the winding path to reach the door.  

Critique: ghazal

A ghazal of the meadow 

I want each blade of grass to sway with the passing sun. 

And the breeze to relive its movement again.  

I want the river behind the oak tree to be mine,

and the tree with the copper leaves only in the fall. 

If I lived where sun glitters in between branches,

a blue-feathered bird would hum my name. 

I want the crumbling wooden cabin to fall,

so I can rescue it, paint it white and yellow.

I can see the meadow’s future through a scope,

it browns and it yellows, but will remain the same. 

I run through the lengthy grasses, they itch against my legs.

And I am smiling too wide, a crazy person perhaps mad. 

But I won’t stop running until I hear your footsteps,

following behind me, trying to catch up. 

Don’t abandon a girl running free in the wild

or she might find a reason to never stop, never lie

Exercise 10

A country landscape lost 

Slightly burnt, the grass so green,

dewey with sunshine, subtle with rain,

shimmers in the pasture with a faraway gold.

So little to lose they say but so much to gain 

from the miniature forest awake in the rein

of twenty old horses roaming the land.

A brittle old farmhouse stands its ground;

paint chipped, its life ceasing to exist,

but the rust colored bird sits on the roof

singing a song so sweet, so uncouth;

a lullaby for the ancient wood creaking floors

sing the land to sleep, sweet bird.

The farmers are losing their will to survive;

hold on, hold on, to the riveting rhymes

of the solemn river holding your hand

across the acrobatic bridge and into Fall.

We’ll dance as the summer evenings slide

beyond our imperfect little countryside.

So dance, dance until the morning;

we will do away with all this sorrow.

Holding hands - tight - until tomorrow

when the leaves will fall and we will crawl

into the sparkling city standing tall. 

critique 10

That Night

The picture hangs on the beige wall
edges fraying
aging with time

no longer a clear memory
but foggy and far
a recent goodbye

we are laughing with anxious smiles
young and restless
happy and denied

wearing red dresses as we spin into the night
calm but ecstatic
as music glides

hanging onto our adolescent times
we dance away
avoiding goodbye

as we go back home, ears ringing, faces tingling
it's nonstop chatter
competitive smiles

and now the only reason to remember that night
is one photograph
hanging through time

Exercise 9

Replacement poem

Picnic

She understands the person sitting in the little meadow,
the sparkling legs thinner than the other girl,
the sunlight, true sunlight- her gaze is over.
Presently, the hands will become far in thoughts
of her adoration and countless exaggerations.
Presently the new country will stroll with an unhappy twist
in and beyond the lovely statues.
Presently the walkway will discover the windows
and the overjoyed pedestrians will close their picnic baskets.
Presently the park will open its luscious grounds
and keep, for the forbidden lovers, close to the people
lacking restraint.

Critique 9

The Colonel by Carolyn Forche was an interesting piece of writing.  It is very hard to distinguish it as a prose poem because it looks like a short story.  Personally, I can't help but think of it as a story.  I think it reads more as a story, due to its paragraph form and normal looking sentences.  It does have a more poetic sound towards the end, but not really overall.  I did enjoy this the story within this poem, though it was not what I expected.  The imagery of the human ears was somewhat vulgar, but it did add intrigue to the story.  There is a lot of simple imagery, yet I could clearly picture the scene.

Exercise 8

Forest 

Save yourself instead of standing

along the river’s edge,

smelling rotten berries - crimson red.

Hold a thought within those weakened lungs;

nature’s air is too strong to bear your feeble 

weight and all that stands beside.

Beside your mitten covered hands

that freeze- they shiver in the moon’s light;

so strong, so translucent, so ennobled

By the giant canopy of blackness above.

The light, it shines revealing shock and despair

that sits on your sunken shoulder like a crime.

Caught red-handed; don’t look so blue.

The night will hide that shameful look

that illuminates your frost-bitten face.

No longer a crook of the evening’s glare,

stand up, stand up;

delight in all those fervent treasures 

that catch one’s eye in earth’s own heaven.

Puncture the ground as you lie back down

where you belong, on the ground.

Don’t come back to the forest’s lair;

it’s too dark for your lightened heart to bear.

The sunlight calls your name for days

so stay away, stay away. 

Critique 8

The Female Body by Margaret Atwood is a very unique piece of writing.  Made up of six parts, it lists different things about a woman and her body.  It remains general, thought the narrator is in first person.  Atwood uses many lists; for instance, the third paragraph consists of a list of accessories of the female body.  She relates the female body to a barbie doll, which basically objectives it.  I am not sure what the author is trying to convey in this piece of creative nonfiction.  Perhaps she is showing how the world objectives the female body.  

Exercise 7

(Exercise from “Her Lips are a Copper Wire”)

Concrete Kiss

The clouds don’t move around us

creating a perfectly still- moment

where dusty trees softly sway

to Moonlight’s incandescent glare 

Yellow lights intrude the place

shining streaks upon your face.

The remnants of construction lie 

behind silver lines- dulled and denied

No noise, no noise, but human chatter,

faces that fill my life with laughter.

No more, no more, tonight is born

It’s you and me, there is no more. 

Engines of cars spreading lies

Bringing calm to its quick demise

Revving up the foggy air - between 

My concrete lips and your brick smile

The parking garage light flickers,

a sign perhaps- from nature’s law 

The background noise no longer alarms

now it’s urgent - calling, calling 

My marble heart reaches for yours

Bring me in - compromise. 

My cellphone light reflects

gold specs in your glowing eyes

Bodies moving, denying time, 

Closer, closer, until stone met brick,

And that is how our lips caved in 

Critique 6

The poem A Story about the Body by Robert Hass does not appear as a typical poem.  Hass wrote the poem in the form of a paragraph; without reading the genre was poetry I would have guessed it to be fiction.  My favorite thing about this piece of writing is how much the author was able to convey in such a short paragraph.  It’s basically a love story gone wrong, and the reader can easily sympathize with either of the characters. In the first sentence, the rising action catches the reader’s attention by displaying important details.  The next sentence, “She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her,” creates a problem.  The reader knows the woman is older than the young composer and that he was in love, or felt in love with this woman.  The only dialogue appears at the climax of the story, when the woman tells him she had a double mastectomy, and then he admits he cannot be with her because of this.  The author emphasizes this important part of the story by making it a direct dialogue between the two characters.  

Exercise 6

My lines from “I Live Where the Leaves are Pointed”

The life-filled vines beckon out to me.

But the coldness and hostile machinery

Interrupt the spellbound mood of the meadow.  

The air is much smoother out there,

It’s just me and the subtle breeze saying hello.

Answer, answer, I can live without one,

The ruffling grass and translucent sun will do.

Not that someone who could certainly cure me, 

so prim, so proper, like the newest rosebush.

Reminding me of the rigidness he put me through

But, no I wouldn’t really have the nerve to cut him off. 

While I hide from his beck and call, refusing to fall. 

Critique 7: One Art

It is harder to critique a work of writing when you read the first draft and then the final.  The first draft of the poem One Art by Elizabeth Bishop shows many differences from the final.  It almost becomes an entirely different piece by the end of her revision.  The first draft is more scientific and less poetic.  She puts the words “misplaced” or “mislay” in quotes, probably because she knew she had to change them eventually.  The final draft is much smoother.  Its lines are more even, and the language is consistent.  Her repetition of the line “The art of losing isn’t hard to master” really brings the poem together.  

A poem based on One Art: 

Lost

The art of losing isn’t hard to master

It creeps up and brings on disaster

cunning, cunning, clever thing

what have you misplaced today?

You lost your heart, for one

and perhaps the function of an ear   

for listening no longer 

are you and your lost patience, my dear  

What I have lost today?

Your agreement and concentration

on the matter of misplacement 

For the art of losing isn’t hard to master

Take in the seas, the land, and the rivers

They’re here today but gone tomorrow 

For your vision is cloudy and hazy so

Only I can decide what to loose 

And at this moment 

That is you 

Exercise 5: Pantoum

Pantoum from "Nude Interrogation" and "Good Morning, America"

The skyscrapers throw their lengths of walls

sandlewood incense hangs a slow comet of perfume over the room

In the evening there is sunset sonata to the cities

The night was too big

Sandlewood incense hangs a slow comet of perfume over the room

There is a march of little armies to the dwindling of drums 

The night was too big 

I don’t want to look at the floor 

There is a march of little armies to the dwindling of drums 

Have you killed anyone before?

I don’t want to look at the floor

or at black bastions on the red west

Have you killed anyone before?

I was scared of the silence

or of black bastion on the red west

Where the skyscrapers throw their lengths of walls 

Critique 5: Red Sky in the Morning

Critique 5

I enjoyed reading the creative nonfiction story Red Sky in the Morning by Patricia Hampl.  It was not typical nonfiction, in that it appeared as a fiction story.  If I had not read that it was a true story, I would have assumed it to be fiction until she strayed from the story with talk of memoirs.   Though her mention of memoirs seemed a bit random, she managed to give her opinions concerning them without preaching or boring the reader.  She says that we like first person narratives because, “we want a voice speaking softly, urgently, in our ear.” She touched upon the personal aspect of it and then went right back to the story.  I still see the memoir talk as a little out of place but I admire how she transitioned back to the story so quickly.  She uses meaningful imagery such as the “red morning” to connect to the passion and love of the farmer’s wife on the bus.  I also liked how she started and ended the story.  The beginning does not mess around; the first action is perhaps the most important.  Then, she ends the story with natural imagery that connects to the current actions in the story.  It obvious that the author has a lot to think about as she stares at the “slow river.” 

Critique 4: The Day Lady Died

The Day Lady Died by Frank O'Hara does not appear to be a typical elegy.  If you do not read into the poem, it basically describes the narrator's day.  At a closer look, you can tell that the poem is about something more important.  The last sentence of the second to last stanza, as well as the last stanza are filled with a sense of panic and drama.  Even so, I never would have guessed that the poem is an elegy about Billie Holiday.  Once you figure this out, the poem's meaning is elevated.  It is no longer simply a narrator recounting the events of his day.  Despite the elegy's famous and unattainable subject, the poet uses realistic language.  The lines, "and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of / leaning on the john door in the 5 spot," reveal the physical and mental state of the narrator.  This realistic way of writing invites the reader to experience the narrator's feelings in the poem.

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critique 3: tattoo

"Tattoo" by Ted Kooser

On the surface, this poem describes a elderly man with a tattoo looking at tools at a yard sale.  However, there is more to the story.  Kooser uses language that is simple and clear, but also elegant, to describe the man.  The reader first sees the old man with a tattoo that has faded into a bruise.  The poem reveals a glimmer of his past life.  It is obvious that he was once a very tough man. So tough, in fact, that his tattoo depicts "a dripping dagger held in the fist of a shuddering heart."  The intensity of this image, along with the personification of vanity punching him in the spot of his tattoo, suggests that he may possibly regret the selfishness of his younger ways.  But he also misses it.  He wears a "tight black shirt/rolled up" because of his yearning for the return of his youth.  The last image of the poem is of the man's heart.  It has "gone soft and blue with stories." The poet cleverly brings together the imagery of the man's old and weak heart and his faded tattoo.  It tells that what was once strong and vibrant turns feeble and forlorn.

Exercise 2: Syllabic poetry

under the 

crippling bridge 

laughter lies

the heart broke

n’ shambles

of the night

before last

when broken

bottles tipped

resting in

rainbow shards

catch the light

glistening 

among the 

lifeless rocks

sinking slow

into the 

rusty river 

Critique 2: Metro Station

In the Station of the Metro

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black bough.” 

Each time I read this poem, I enjoy it.  Though it gives off a sad feeling, it also creates an artistic image.  I picture an abstract painting, with petal-like faces and a blurry metro passing by.  The relation of the people in the metro to petals adds to the poetic feel.  By adding nature to a manmade place lacking in nature, Pound creates contrast. This poem is only one line, but it still draws the reader into one specific image.  I feel like I’m back in Paris, standing on the platform in the metro. The word “apparition” adds to the mystery of the poem.  It brings to mind ghost and holograms, things both blurry and fake. Standing on that platform, I feel alone though in a crowded metro station.  

Critique 1: Mallarme

"It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things." -Stephen Mallarme 

This quotation may only be one sentence but it is powerful. The adjective "word-clogged" is a clever combination that makes the reader think.  He could have written a whole sentence explaining that the world is full of an excessive amount of words, but instead he narrowed it down to one word.  The personification of poetry gives it a larger importance, highlighting its place in the sentence.  In this sentence, poetry has a job, it cleans, and it creates silences. This quotation could have more than one meaning.  The author is probably pointing out the peacefulness of poetry. Its simple language gives people a break from the "word-clogged reality." However, I think poetry should evoke an array of emotions such as excitement, fear, or sadness.  "Silences" contradict the loudness of emotions one often feels when reading something that a provokes strong feelings. 

a poem is a machine

“A poem is a small or large machine made out of words.” -William Carlos Williams

life is a mighty machine raging forward

the delays and pauses are unnumbered 

the rush, the hurried moments

the vacant smiles of passing strangers- 

man is a clever machine always moving

thoughts and emotions are prevalent 

the glee, the overwhelming joy

the sadness and anger of an average life

a poem is a small or large machine 

taking life’s words and repositioning 

the emotions, the troubling feelings

someone’s private thoughts and situations