I wanted to post some more of my poetry on my blog, so here are three more of my favorite poems.
“Aftermath” was written as an in-class assignment. It’s a pantoum, which has a bit of a funky rhyme scheme. Once you get it, however, it flows pretty quickly.
Aftermath She stood by the window, Glass covered the floor. Her hand traced the frame and her memory returned. Glass covered the floor, Making every step an adventure. Her memory suddenly returned and fear clenched her heart. Every step was an adventure as she tried to make sense of it all. Fear clenched at her heart. She nicked her foot again. She tried to make sense of it all. The wooden door opened. She nicked her foot on more glass As she turned to see him. The wooden door kicked open and he nonchalantly walked in. She turned to face him; he smiled, startling her. He nonchalantly walked in, holding a hand out as a peace offering. His smile startled her. She carefully took it. He held out his hand like a peace offering. "I'm glad you're okay, Kailee," he said. She hesitantly took it and let him hug her tight. "I'm glad you're okay, Kailee," he whispered. "This time, I'll protect you." She let him hug her as he told him everything. "This time, I'll protect you." Taking her bandaged hand into his. She told him everything and he quickly prepared to leave. Taking her bandaged hand into his, he swore to return. He quickly prepared to leave, so he could help her from afar. He swore to return, so he left her something precious. He could help her better from afar. The door shut behind him. He left her his precious ring. She stood by the window with it. The door shut quietly behind him, while she collapsed crying against the shattered window.
“Lock and Key” was written in about twenty minutes for a spoken word poetry slam that was being held on campus when I was at University of South Florida. I’d just really started putting my life back together after my friend group exploded (again). This was my mental response to it all. It’s better read aloud, at least I think so.
Lock and Key I still remember the door, the one with the big window cut out of it, where I could see everyone sitting around laughing and talking, just like any other day. That door, that locked door, the only thing separating me from the people I thought I knew, that I thought I could trust. The people who kicked me to the curb at the drop of a hat. "What did I do!?" I must have yelled a hundred times. "Silence" was my answer. These people - they knew my secrets, they knew the darkest corners of my mind, my thoughts and fears and dreams. They took everything I was - everything I wanted to become - and showed the world. It was meant to be a joke. They didn't care just how much it hurt. It was fun for them. They set out to destroy me. They nearly succeeded. As I sat against that locked door weeks after they threw away the key I decided to push back. I wouldn't be their doormat. Not for another second. I picked the lock. I stormed into that room, the room that held so many memories, and took my life back. I picked up my fears, gathered my secrets, carried them all to safety. I finally stood up for myself. I freed myself. Now others sit on the that side of my door, wanting to break it down. Again. It's not the same people, but it's the same idea, the same plan. This time - I'm the one throwing away that key.
So, “Irony of the Poet” was a response poem I wrote against my Creative Writing teacher in college. She’d gone on this rant about poetry that just kinda grated on my nerves, especially because I was talking her class for the prose aspect (we did both, as well as playwriting). She’d asked us to write a poem about our feelings towards poetry. I kinda snapped. (Also, there’s references to an old fanfic-turned-original-fiction right in the middle, but I’m not editing this and it’s a kinda fun little tidbit.)
Irony of the Poet Teacher, you imply that poetry is the best, And that writing it is even better, But I must disagree. I need the prose, the flowing sentences, The paragraphs, the pages. The ability to write my way With colors and descriptions and characters, Sci-fi, fantasy, mixed as one. A young girl in the middle of a war; A teen with nothing more to lose. Adults trying to steer them right, And villains trying to stop them. Sentences of dialogue and description, Characters taking a form of their own. My way has no room for poetry, And there is no lost love. Writing a poem may be what you want, Dear teacher, but I must stick with what I know. Prose is my life, the way I breathe, And poetry will never fit in.
I’ll be posting more of my old poetry, including a sestina, one of these days. I don’t want to completely show my hand too soon, right?
[This post is a make up post for missing four earlier in the month. 4/4]
Until next time!
