Frequent Flier

This is the first piece I wrote for a college creative writing course and, incidentally, the first piece I ever tried revising. The revision process didn't go so well for this one, but another poem I wrote later that semester transformed immensely. It went from a weird, right-aligned poem about my first kiss to a circle shape filled with thoughts of "there has to be more than this world". It was definitely a proud moment for me, because I discovered poetry is as mutable as clay, and you always have your original draft so, why not? On a side note, this poem, Frequent Flier was published in my IU's Honors College Literary magazine, also my first publication. Enjoy!

suitcase packed full of useless memories

gloves for when there are no hands to hold

and the lines of poetry that never found the paper;

zipped up tight so airline attendants can’t read

so nobody can read

wrapped in polka dots I pass security

my words are not weapons

I am tagged with a return address

to which I may or may not return

but these red eyes are worth it

so long as there are no tears

I will carry on

I’ll get lost in luggage claim or picked up by a stranger

so I can see the world

be there, do that, say that I did

terminals with foreign faces, I sleep soundly

anywhere my little wheels and zippered dreams will land

Portraits

Sometimes it's good to go outside your "art of choice" and look for inspiration in other places. Looking through my old photos is a good way to go about that, and I have compiled a small group of them (themes are fun). Sorry they are so huge when you click on them!

Portraits

Tuesday

This is the first of 4 stanzas I wrote in the Spring. It is my favorite of the four, and although relatively short I am very proud of it : ) it was my first intensive revision project, as well as the first poem I wrote on my typewriter!

Tuesday (excerpt)

I. BIRTHDAY

I remember the day Tuesday was born;

a thousand pounds of cloud fell in on the hospital

and doctors spoke in tongues of thunder.

Nurses in canvas-white scrubs shuffled through the halls

and finally pressed the raisin body into my arms,

wine red, new with oxygen

and screaming like a sailboat in a storm.

Vices

I love to write about sunshine and sand in between toes and butterflies and nature but tonight

I'm feeling rebellious. One thing about writing is that you can become whoever you want to be, or, rather, slip out of your own life for just one second and enter into someone else's. It's nice, right? So poems that say fuck are never out of the question. Never, ever turn down an idea because it's too risqué.

inhale.

mom hates cigarettes.

but, fuck it after this one

there'll be another one.

then another after that.

and maybe, drink, drink

until the sun creeps it's

cheery fingers through

the hole in the wall.

and maybe stay out

and no, don't tell her

where you've been or

who you've slept with.

mom hates cigarettes.

and alcohol and sex and

everything that might

just take her baby away.

fuck it.

exhale.

Falling

I am reminded every day that walking

is just a constant state of falling

and that progress is nothing more than

the cliché one step at a time

but falling is just returning

to our natural state, to the earth

and when we rise again from the ground

it's a consumption of our own

energy, our own muscles

and the air contributes, too, to

our forward falling across the earth

by putting the red in red blood cells.

So, while gravity fights us, earth loves us,

and air urges us on

we fall into our next step almost

by accident but a world of elements

says otherwise.

Sonnet

I am a newfound fan of the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke  and I just finished reading his Sonnets to Orpheus which I highly recommend. This collection inspired me to reintroduce structure and rhyme back to my poetry, since I have for so long avoided rhyming like the plague. My theory: if your rhymes sound like a hallmark card or Dr. Suess on drugs, then stay away from rhyming : )

Birth

How long it's been since I first left

to see the sun outside your womb;

there, buried in your depths

I built a rooted room.

And I could sing the blooms in Spring

then cry the leaves in Fall

I sent my praise to all of Things

amongst whom I was so small.

But I no longer rest inside your caves

I live within my own

where every day I wake up brave

with steps that make your skin recoil

until, again, I lie under the stone

content, I'll sleep within your soil.

Transformation

I wrote this poem a while back and found it interesting, but I knew it needed some big work. Just like myself, it lacked focus and it was rather sloppy. I'm always big on poems that look good on a page, and this one was not organized to my standards. Revising this poem, I selected my favorite lines and composed a new one. Then, I realized that some lines didn't fit anymore and took those out too. That is why I call revision a destructive process, because I am constantly removing lines and ideas that don't play well with others. But I always keep my first drafts because sometimes revision calls for removal of some favorite lines, and those can always come into play later on when you're looking for new material to use. Oh, yes. I recycle.

This:

I can hardly wait;
riding my bike down
3rd (sweet line break...)
no pedals, because the (no pedals???)
click-click-buzz of coasting (i like this sound!)
makes me smile.
The man next to the face
of a ticking moon inhales cheap tobacco
sends a smoke signal billowing,
billowing towards a cloudless black sky (these lines make no sense and have no purpose)
and I can hardly wait.
The tall grey shadows of
short grey women in slacks and
rusted orange pea coats
stripe the sidewalk, cast upon me (i like the stripes)
like they stand for some
deeper heartache. (i like this too but it's not relevant)
I can hardly wait. To see
what shapes these lines can hold
and what people I'll find behind
the ink. (oooh mystery i like)
I can hardly wait.

Turned into this:

Hardly Wait

I can hardly wait
for this symphony of words
to hit their greatest chord
and to shatter into the perfect celebration
I have always seen in them.

And delicate men and women
will applaud like rain
and the stripes of their shadows
will somehow seem to grow.

And I can hardly wait
to see what shapes this pen can make
as it cuts through the airwaves
conducting this symphony of space.
I can hardly wait.