Umbrellas

It's raining. Actually, a better word for the wet disaster outside my window would probably be pouring. It's pouring. And no, no old man is snoring. It started raining around two and a half hours ago, and hasn't stopped since. At 3:15, I had to walk to my piano lesson, which is four houses away. I took an umbrella, because, as I mentioned before, it was pouring. Now, I almost never use an umbrella. I live in Seattle. For all that I know, nobody uses an umbrella. It's just always wet or raining, so nobody bothers with them. Half of the time, I don't even know that I'm getting rained on. Anyway, the rain was bad enough that I took a little black umbrella we purchased in Paris at a crappy souvenir store for 6 euro (we were waiting in line for Notre Dame, and it started to drizzle on us. We had a while left to go, so we decided to buy an umbrella). Standing under the covering clutching my books to my chest, I felt strangely invincible. I'm not going to be stopped by some damn rain! I AM INDESTRUCTIBLE! I valiantly sloshed to my piano lesson, tried my best not to fall down the stairs when my "shield" caught on the overhead trees. I marched to the covered doorway, folded up the black umbrella, and placed it next to the entryway. I was no longer invincible. My vulnerability seeped back into my soul like spilled milk soaking a paper towel. I shook the feeling, and went into my lesson, missing my carefree days of umbrella-hood.

This may seem a bit silly (okay, a lot silly), but I am seriously in love with umbrellas now.

EDIT: Wow, what a weird first non-poetry related post.

A Reflection on Poetry

Poetry is

A churning sea

Crashing onto the shore.

Poetry is

A delicate flower

Waving in the wind.

Poetry is

A soaring eagle

Mighty, majestic, beautiful.

Poetry is

A golden wind

Sweeping across the land.

Poetry is

A dance under the midnight moon.

A song as old as time.

Poetry is.

I’ve always enjoyed writing poetry (after all, I did write an “All About Poetry” book in third grade), but this year I think I have really blossomed in poetry. Rhyming poems have never been my strength (I’m decent at limericks and couplets but mediocre at everything else), but I’m actually proud of my nonsense poem “Where I Like to Be”.  I still enjoy writing non-structured poems more than structured ones, but I made huge leaps in my skill.  Surprisingly, my favorite poem of mine is “Loud Talkers”.  I didn’t even know what a bitterness poem was until the day I wrote it! It’s a very different kind of poem that I’ve written before, and I love it. Should I be worried that my bitterness poem is my favorite?

Sometimes, poetry is too flowery for my liking. The occasional metaphor is great (it adds depth and is wonderful for emotional expression), but when everything is a metaphor it gets a little convoluted. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I almost want to say to the author, “You know, it’s great that you have these deep emotions that can only be expressed through confusing poetry, but you REALLY need to lay off the figurative language!”

Something that I love about poetry is that it’s a creative outlet for bottled-up emotions. Instead of hitting a pillow or even just typing angrily, you can write poetry. Because of the figurative language, it tends to be much more expressive than other forms of prose, and because grammar isn’t a top priority is can be more artistic. Overall, I adore writing poetry and hope to improve in later years.

The Survivor (Analysis #3)

The Survivor

By Marilyn Chin

Don’t tap your chopsticks against your bowl.

Don’t throw your teacup against the wall in anger.

Don’t suck on your long black braid and weep.

Don’t tarry around the big red sign that says “danger!”

That you have bloomed this way and not that,

that your skin is yellow, not white, not black,

that you were born not a boy-child but a girl,

that this world will be forever puce-pink are just as well.

Remember, the survivor is not the strongest or most clever;

merely, the survivor is almost always the youngest.

And you shall have to relinquish that title before long.

The first thing that caught my eye in this poem was the title: The Survivor. I was immediately intrigued. Surviving what? At first, the poem seems to be a parent gently reprimanding a child about bad habit (Don’t tap your chopsticks against your bowl…), but as it progresses it reveals more and more of the author’s self and it almost seems like illeism, like she’s talking to herself about herself and her identity as an Asian in America (I believe that “puce-pink” is representing the tainted perfection of the American culture). As I read into the last stanza, it seems like she’s learning to let that go and become her own person without being defined by “girl-child” and “yellow” and “youngest”. As the poem ends, she breaks free of the bonds and relinquishes her old identity and the words that once defined her.

(Stock photo)

If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking (Analysis #2)

 If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking

By Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain

This poem surprised me. I read it once, and dismissed it, thinking, “Oh, it’s just another one of her depressing poems.” When I was looking through the book (Poetry Speaks Who I Am) and picking out poems to analyze, I found this poem again. I read it, and immediately scribbled its title down in my outline. How did I MISS this?! I thought. It’s such a simple poem that it’s easy to skim right past it. It’s seven lines long, which is only a bit more than a third of the requirement we have for one poem in English class. How can such a short and simple poem have such deep meaning? It’s because it has such a lovely theme. Just from the title, it’s beautiful. If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking. Very poetic, no? Another thing that I like about the poem is that the rhymes are so natural that I didn’t even realize it was a rhyming poem until I read it a second time. It’s not a very popular rhyme scheme (A-B-A-B-C-B-B), but it definitely works. This lovely poem touches my heart because Emily Dickinson is basically saying that you find true meaning in life by helping others. So, the meaning of life, the universe, and everything is selflessness, not 42? That works for me.

Image © Gabriella Camerotti 2007

Caroline, by Allison Joseph (Analysis #1)

Caroline

By Allison Joseph

In the eighth grade, we teased that girl

as much as we could, mocking

her clothes, her stringy hair

her flat, pallid face that revealed

little protest. Used to being

the one white girl in our class

of blacks, Hispanics, she endured

our taunts on her lack of rhythm,

on her stiff, flat-butted walk.

How we pitied her—brown hair

parted straight, pulled back

in a dull ponytail, her jeans

or corduroy pants in washed-out

shades of gray or blue,

her homework neatly done

in pained, legible print.

How weak it was to be white,

we thought, not able to dance

or run fast, to have skin

that peeled from too much sun.

We never let Caroline forget

that she was white and we

were black, that we could

swing our hips and snap

our fingers without trying,

privy to street-slang rhythms.

But she was our white girl,

and if anyone else dared

to touch her or call her names

we’d be on them in a second,

calling them ugly right back,

slapping offenders if necessary.

With one of us by her side,

she could walk the school

safely, knowing she was ours

even if we didn’t let her in

all the way, even if we laughed

at her white speech, thin lips.

(Whoa, that was long! For the record, that was not done by copying and pasting)

I really don’t know why I am drawn to this poem. It doesn’t relate to me at all, and it doesn’t particularly resonate with something deep inside my soul. It’s not very emotional, so it doesn’t stir up some sort of profound feeling. I don’t know what it is about it that I love so much, I was just immediately drawn to it. I guess I just like it because it’s a great poem. It’s well written, delightfully constructed, and has an interesting theme that hasn’t been approached very much in modern poetry. I was especially pleasantly surprised when it took the sudden turn to “But she was our white girl…” The first time I read it, I did a double-take. What? They WEREN’T mean to her, but they were? How does that work? Another thing that I like about this poem is its beautiful language. Allison Joseph uses a different type of imagery that’s very satisfying for this poem. Instead of using flowery, formal language that’s typical for imagery, she uses awesome words like “peel” (say that out loud really slowly… peel) and “privy”. It suits the tone of the story, and I feel that the author is being real with the reader. I feel that she’s being herself.

Image © Anders Hald

Where I Like to Be (Poem I Wrote #5)

Where I Like to Be

I like to be

Out on the sea

With sailors

Who tailor my suits by the shore.

I like to stand

Feet in the sand

While they mumble and bumble

Doing my chore.

I like to fly

Up in the sky

With a bird

Who is heard

All over the world

I like to soar

Looking for more

While he tweedles and twiddles

His winged arms curled.

I like to think

Writing in ink

Could bring me away

From this very grey day

I like to wish

That with a swish

Photo © Sarah Ann Loreth 2011

This world could whisk me away.

A Snowy Grave (Poem I Wrote #4)

A Snowy Grave

He came upon

A snowy wood

The light from the dawn

Trickled through the canopy.

It peppered the shadowed land

With sprinkles of gold

Reflecting off the snow.

This is where

He would dig his grave.

He grasped the shovel,

His fingertips pale and numb.

Digging it into

The frosted earth,

A tear trickled down his cheek.

It fell,

Dancing in the still air,

Until it landed

In the divot he dug.

It lay there,

Serene.

He dug again.

The tear was no more.

Midday sun

Shone above the treetops.

He kept digging.

The warm colors of dusk

Poked through the trees.

He threw down the shovel.

It landed with a clang

On a nearby stone.

He pulled a slip of paper

From his dirt-caked pocket,

Clutched it against his heart,

And collapsed into the hole.

Night fell,

And the wood was silent.

A passerby

Saw the shovel

Saw the pile of dirt.

She hurried to the scene

And saw him,

His lifeless form soaked with snow.

She pried the note

From his cold hands.

It’s for you, my darling,

It read.

It’s for you.

Image © jdnpics 2012