B.

Poem 36

Here’s my villanelle for poetry class. Very specific form, very challenging to write. Editing still to come.

Never Wait Too Long

Had she said yes that bitter night in Maine,
the country filled with snow and barren trees,
he would not be consumed with naked pain.

They might have merrily toasted sweet champagne
and honeymooned through sunlit amethyst seas
had she said yes that bitter night in Maine.

Croissants and riding past châteaux on trains,
holding her delicate hand was just a dream,
but now consumed, he feels the naked pain.

He hears a young child’s laugh up on the lane;
it makes him shrivel up in winter freeze—
if only she said yes that night in Maine.

From cracking fireworks to candy canes,
he planned to hold her, sharing each season
instead of being consumed with naked pain.

The years passed by, though she returned one day,
but he had found a wife and said, “Go, please—
though you said no that bitter night in Maine,
At last, I’ve shed consuming, naked pain.”

Poem 35

Here is my sonnet that I had to write for poetry class last week. I will be working on revisions soon, but here’s the first draft! I wrote it in the Elizabethan/Shakespearean style.

To the Aspiring Artist

A chilling autumn day brings budding red;
Against your neck the troubling wind seeks day
instead of lonesome nights inside your head,
perhaps will blow a chance that wants to stay.
Forget about the people who are blind
and cannot see your worth, your fiery heart;
The petty thoughts that dwell inside their minds
do not compare with music, poems, or art.
And if the stage is where you do belong,
beneath the heat of burning red and blue,
then cease the lonely thoughts and show them wrong,
and bloom as yellow leaves in autumn do.
It may not be an easy path to take,
but travel there and see for your own sake.

Poem 34

Here’s my sestina I wrote for poetry class. I used an idea from one of my earlier poems to create this new poem about my uncle’s death. The form is very specific, which I’m sure you’ll pick up on. I’ve submitted it for workshop this week— so improvements still to come!

My Uncle Lies Still

Wind strokes the grim faces of my family,
bristles of hair illuminate with sunshine,
our heads bow politely in prayer
with small quiet tears dabbled on our cheeks
as we wear black dresses and suits by the church
where my uncle will now lie.

Well, not him, but his ashes will lie,
ashes held by my aunt around our family,
one aging hand resting on the columbarium by the church,
the other caressing the urn bathed in sunshine;
the minister’s wrinkles bulge on his two moldy cheeks
as he murmurs quiet prayers.

My uncle played his guitar with lyrics like prayers
though he was not a religious man, I will not lie,
and my aunt sung along and kissed his cheeks
as his loves were music and family;
on Sundays he wrote songs about sunshine
instead of attending church.

Yet he was polite to every little old lady churchgoer,
and when he was sick, they shut their eyes and prayed;
his smile, a spark felt like arcs of sunlight,
with a gleam in his eye that he laid
upon each face of friends and family
as his friendly mustache met his cheeks.

Rouge suddenly floods my cheeks,
my tired back against the cold stone of the church,
and I glance at the dying trees surrounding my family;
where the first red leaves fall I pray,
but to not cry, I trick my mind into a lie—
suddenly I’m among oak trees in sunshine;

our dogs leap as high as the sun;
I feel gentle pink upon my cheeks—
but placed in the columbarium, my uncle lies,
rushing quickly back is the church,
and though in my daydream I did not pray,
I now shed silent tears with my whole family.

In morning sunlight, I gaze at the church,
drifting from lips and cheeks is quiet prayer;
unable to escape anymore in lies, I join hands with my family.

Poem 33

As heat melted the delicate skin layering my cheeks
in those first steps I took on hot pavement in August,
a familiar creature inside me stirred and shook.
Filled with anticipation for late nights huddled naked
soon became walking over the bridge with the moon
mesmerizing me, leading me to restless, clothed nights.
Deep in the woods in a room with bad light
I tried more to feel alive, but my tongue uttered lies
while your heart beat faster, and none of them understood.
A night became nights and a week became weeks,
and when it was finally over none of them asked.
The girl who cried goodbye said Turn it off—
when thoughts of those days pop in my head, shut it out;
if only they knew, maybe I wouldn’t cling to April bloom
but would have been free long ago, if they were there
instead of you, ready to tell me anything.

Poem 32

This week in poetry class we had to write an acrostic poem, so here it is.

Fighting against remembered days of a burning flame
aches in the pit of the stomach; a swarm of bees
reaches the heart to sting, and you remember
each raindrop that sank and melted into gravel
while tears on my eyelashes blended in, tears
eating away caresses I thought only I could feel,
lies you insisted about those nights, and
love that died with slow, reluctant pain.

Jealousy ate your skin like leprosy and
opened you up so you spilled out on my floor.
Hypocrisy and deceit pooled at my feet;
never again will I be swayed to believe.

Poem 31

soft gray smoke like dust fizzles
from a candle in a glass jar
fusing vanilla smell into the rug,
couches, coats, hair on scalps;

the flame resembles a raindrop,
like the rain that sank and melted into gravel
around my front porch in June heat,
like tears on my eyelashes blending in.

Poem 30

In milky pools of midnight puddle
I waded into my silky sea
of pink and blue bed sheets,
stained with the scent of nights,
nights with little sleep
and sweat that creeps on legs,
nights when for those hours
my mind actually didn’t drift,
but I stayed right there
in skin seeping and melting,
my body and mind in synch—
stench tattoos my neck and hair
so I smell it the whole next day—
unwashed hair until evening
that brings another night
that brings another day.

Poem 29

sunshine stroked the grim faces
and illuminated bristles of hair
on each head of my family
wearing black dresses and suits,
our heads bowed politely in prayer.
we stood on an entire staircase
one warm autumn morning,
and my aunt closed her eyes
beside the columbarium,
her aging hand caressing the place
where her husband would now lie
as the minister murmured to us.
the wind blew gently against our cheeks,
dabbled with small quiet tears,
but my aunt calmly smiled,
keeping us all strong and close
as his ashes molded
into the wall outside the church
where the first red leaves fell
and the sunshine overwhelmed my eyes,
creating beauty through tragedy.

Poem 28

He brushed my small smooth hand on the cool sheets
while the moon winked high in the sky
and the April air began to warm;
He laid down on his elbow, strong light cheeks
beaming with color, and his mouth
moved in round O’s and wide ovals,
his fingers, long and large, continuing to graze mine;
As we shyly got close (we were so new),
I could feel a soft thumping against my ear,
and my chest thumped against his ribcage—
I was unable to pay attention to the screen
while our still bodies exchanged heat,
but I let that moment be as it was;
With no expectation or agenda,
I simply felt that flutter.

Poem 27

Sigh. My poetry class has been making me feel terribly inadequate. The professor tore my last poem apart (the observation one- haven’t gotten the comments from the catalog one back yet). Everyone in the class writes such beautiful poetry (well, not everyone). I realize all of my poems can’t be perfect, and criticism is perfectly fine— but sometimes I just wonder, am I that good of a writer? I love writing, but do people even like it? I guess I’ll find out at my first workshop submission this Thursday… (and please, anyone, let me know your own feedback here. I’d like to know what works and what doesn’t)

That being said, here’s a poem I just wrote. 

I hear echoes of every past word spoken
from those days at the beach when I felt life begin
and the red and yellow stripes we painted together;
sand still stains the white of my fingernails,
drops of paint trapped on buttons,
and those gold earrings remain dangling—
forever imprints are left on my body, in my life,
always blessed with those beautiful months.
I went through the motions blindly—
continuing to live felt empty and pointless,
but every day I shed one less tear;
you grow more distant to my senses—
I feel a tug to you until I am pulled in to the present,
where our feelings remain the same
though newness enters in to my days,
begging me to treasure but let go of the pain,
telling me that time is over and so much more awaits