In my introduction at the beginning of the semester, I laid out the things I expected to dominate my poetry in the class: My move from NY to the South; How difficult it is for me to coincide an adoration of my friends here, while missing my best friend in NY so much; My hate-hate- relationship with obsessive compulsive tendencies.
I fully expected my poems to be laden with these themes and though, on several occasions, I started to write about these things, the poems never made it past a couple of stanzas. You all know what my poems ended up being centered around this semester.
I was rocked by the death of my aunt in February. It was expected, because she'd had cancer for over a year and a half, but she moved to GA, finally had her own apartment and then her health deteriorated suddenly, and she was gone in two months.
In a way, I'm glad I focused on this poetry now, because maybe it'll allow me to write other things in the future. Sure, I'll always feel the things that were instilled in my poetry, and sometimes a poem about it will likely surface, but I want to be able to write about things other than death. That wasn't the case this semester and in a sense, I'm really sorry about that, too. I wish I could have shown everyone that I could write about normal things, too. It got a little depressing, I'm sure, to pull out my poem each week and say, "Oh, Jenna's writing about death again! What a surprise!"
Nothing I said about my views on writing (in my introduction) has changed. I still believe you write for yourself first, then edit for other people later. In fact, this class likely strengthened that belief, because of the process of writing and then being workshopped. I loved that. I love editing and if it wasn't for my other classes, I probably could have easily spent hours on each poem I was given to critique. I adore this kind of work.
However, not everything is exactly the same as it was in January. The title of my blog is "Organized Ramblings of a Prosaic Poet." I don't know if, now, I would still classify myself that way... sure, I love prose, I plan on getting significantly better at it so I can utilize that love in the future but... maybe poetry isn't so bad.
It was exhausting to write a poem every week, absolutely. But... I have to admit, I didn't hate it. I didn't love it when this activity was taking place at 1am and I was exhausted, but, even if most of the time I was unhappy with the product, it was nice to be actively producing again.
(Ignore following cliche:) I learned a lot in this class, I'm happy to report. I don't hate forms, like I initially thought I did, and I don't hate writing poetry. I've become a more apt reader by reading every one's work every week and it's further instilled my love of editing. Workshopping was always my favorite day, so long as I wasn't the one being workshopped!
I enjoyed this class a lot, and I'm sorry to see that the workshopping is coming to an end. I hope everyone else enjoyed it, too!
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
30. What to Do... with my Haiku! (haha)
Alright, so the haiku exercise we did for class...
I really want to use it for my final binder. A few times now I've tried to rewrite it into a poem, trying to use some sort of form, if not a strict one, but it just isn't cooperating. There is a lot of superfluous stuff in my original assignment, which I plan on cutting out/re-writing/re-placing, but the problem primarily is figuring out what kind of form to wrestle it into.
My original work:
Jenna Harvie
Haiku practices
closed bedroom door --
her shadow darkens
the crack of light
--Penny Harter
While sitting in class: the Haiku seems rather harmless. It’s a homework assignment, a nicely simple image, but nothing more than a poem in a form you don’t particularly enjoy.
While watching television, a crime series: the Haiku seems like it fits perfectly in that world. It’s a scene in your head and it flashes in to be part of the episode. You have to remind yourself later that you made that part up.
While walking from your car into your house, at night, alone: the Haiku is suddenly very sinister. There’s a person waiting for you, now, hiding just out of sight. You don’t notice the small details that would give away their hiding place. You are afraid. When you get inside, you lock the doors, and wonder if you locked the stalker inside with you.
While sitting in the living room talking to your parents: the Haiku is slightly silly, but still heavy. The “her” is now your sister, standing just around the corner, listening to your conversation. She misunderstands the context and becomes upset. Again, you have to remind yourself this did not really happen.
When playing with your friend’s baby, in her room, with the door slightly open: the Haiku is foreboding. In your mind, your friend watches through the crack and sees how happy you are tickling her beautiful baby girl. She worries why she can’t keep that happy attitude all of the time. Later, she will contemplate walking out and leaving the baby alone, with your smiling face as the goal and guilt in her mind.
When watching television, a comedy: the Haiku is funny. You imagine the door is open rather wide, but a large man in a Hawaiian print shirt still manages to block out all light. Joey and Chandler exchange rude, but funny, remarks at this man’s expense. It is all in your head.
When sitting alone, in your bedroom: the Haiku is a painful reminder of the death you’re still reeling from. You are alone, with a dark shadow that lurks over you always. You try to find the light, but it is snuffed out with every memory, happy or sad.
I tried it already in my own created form (a convoluted but excitingly challenging form that consists of quatrains and tercets, with a rhyme scheme and a series of repeating lines), but it was much too strict for this form. I gave up on stanza three. The same was true of a pantoum.
Should I write this just in stanzas, should I write it freely, is there a form I'm missing that might work? Maybe some level of anaphora?
I'm very open to suggestions, thanks!
I really want to use it for my final binder. A few times now I've tried to rewrite it into a poem, trying to use some sort of form, if not a strict one, but it just isn't cooperating. There is a lot of superfluous stuff in my original assignment, which I plan on cutting out/re-writing/re-placing, but the problem primarily is figuring out what kind of form to wrestle it into.
My original work:
Jenna Harvie
Haiku practices
closed bedroom door --
her shadow darkens
the crack of light
--Penny Harter
While sitting in class: the Haiku seems rather harmless. It’s a homework assignment, a nicely simple image, but nothing more than a poem in a form you don’t particularly enjoy.
While watching television, a crime series: the Haiku seems like it fits perfectly in that world. It’s a scene in your head and it flashes in to be part of the episode. You have to remind yourself later that you made that part up.
While walking from your car into your house, at night, alone: the Haiku is suddenly very sinister. There’s a person waiting for you, now, hiding just out of sight. You don’t notice the small details that would give away their hiding place. You are afraid. When you get inside, you lock the doors, and wonder if you locked the stalker inside with you.
While sitting in the living room talking to your parents: the Haiku is slightly silly, but still heavy. The “her” is now your sister, standing just around the corner, listening to your conversation. She misunderstands the context and becomes upset. Again, you have to remind yourself this did not really happen.
When playing with your friend’s baby, in her room, with the door slightly open: the Haiku is foreboding. In your mind, your friend watches through the crack and sees how happy you are tickling her beautiful baby girl. She worries why she can’t keep that happy attitude all of the time. Later, she will contemplate walking out and leaving the baby alone, with your smiling face as the goal and guilt in her mind.
When watching television, a comedy: the Haiku is funny. You imagine the door is open rather wide, but a large man in a Hawaiian print shirt still manages to block out all light. Joey and Chandler exchange rude, but funny, remarks at this man’s expense. It is all in your head.
When sitting alone, in your bedroom: the Haiku is a painful reminder of the death you’re still reeling from. You are alone, with a dark shadow that lurks over you always. You try to find the light, but it is snuffed out with every memory, happy or sad.
I tried it already in my own created form (a convoluted but excitingly challenging form that consists of quatrains and tercets, with a rhyme scheme and a series of repeating lines), but it was much too strict for this form. I gave up on stanza three. The same was true of a pantoum.
Should I write this just in stanzas, should I write it freely, is there a form I'm missing that might work? Maybe some level of anaphora?
I'm very open to suggestions, thanks!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
29. Marge Piercy
A free entry on a few poems I like by Marge Piercy:
For the Young Who Want To
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.
The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
Marge Piercy
I think this poem is really true, and something English people can relate to; "What are you going to do with an ENGLISH degree? You gonna teach?"
That last line really drives the rest of the poem home, too--the idea of not having a plaque to hang on the wall, etc.
A beautiful poem on female opression:
A Work of Artific
The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creaturesa
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.
Marge Piercy
For the Young Who Want To
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.
The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
Marge Piercy
I think this poem is really true, and something English people can relate to; "What are you going to do with an ENGLISH degree? You gonna teach?"
That last line really drives the rest of the poem home, too--the idea of not having a plaque to hang on the wall, etc.
A beautiful poem on female opression:
A Work of Artific
The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creaturesa
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.
Marge Piercy
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