For my final project I'd like the make a chap book. The image is that it will be small, with each poem spreading across two pages, so each has its spread. I plan to create collage images that either surround or wrap around and through the poem to illustrate the images that are in each poem. For words that I want to stick out, I was going to replace the typed look with collaged letters, just to make that word more noticed. The poems in the book won't have a general theme to follow, they will just be my favorite poems of this semester.

I mostly want my poem book to have a lighthearted, very visual feel to it. I want colors and images to draw the reader into the poem and be able to hopefully visualize what I'm saying.

Today I went to Ed Bok Lee's poetry reading at the Southdale Library.

The first poem he read began with a comparison between the sea and desert and a line that caught me was "Tonight, the desert and sea are arguing, the desert wants to know, who took all of it's clothes." He then transitioned the comparison of the two opposites to the idea of a persons identity, whether they are the desert, or the sea. He spoke of how every person has their own identify, molded into their hearts, but what people don't know very well, is that it can be changed. I was a little confused when the poem suddenly became about how a predator can be beautiful, but what he was trying to say was very poetic and thought provoking: he spoke of animals helping each other, all to warn each other of a looming predator, but how the entire time, none of them knew that the predator was something beautiful in itself.

The next poem was un-named but I actually found it really moving. The first four poems, to be completely honest, made me a little bored, but this one made me really sit forward in my seat. He began it with saying that the thoughts he speaks about in this poem are from when he was 17 years old, which I found cool because I felt I could relate a little. It began with names he used to be called when he was bullied, and how he always wanted to fight back but couldn't. He describes the anger, depression, fear and helplessness he constantly felt with scenarios he went through and he spoke of his best friend Andrew, who was in the exact same place as him at the time. He uses the comparison of throwing vs. flying to describe how in some people are thrown by the pain and depression, and never come back from it, while others use that anger and pain to fly higher: "Between throwing and flying, not everyone comes back. I did. Andrew didn't." He speaks of the luck he feels to have been able to come back while his best friend Andrew wasn't so lucky, and let the hurt "propel" him downward. He describes the legacy of depression and hurt the pain and spiral of depression can leave by describing Han, the little son of Andrew, being called names for doing what he loves, playing the piano. Not only were the words Ed Lee used in this poem moving, but the way it was presented, almost yelling at the audience how he felt in the hardest of times. It felt like everyone listening could feel the anger he felt simply through the way he spat out the words into the microphone, which made the poem very engaging.

Overall I enjoyed Ed Bok Lee's reading. With the first few poems, I wasn't exactly moved, but by the time he read his poem on bullying I found his way of writing  really striking and thought-provoking. I liked the every poem had a clear contrast between good and bad, light and dark, and that he didn't just show support to one side or the other, but gave the sides and showed the beauty of both.

Video poem:

Photos

A small rectangular photo of my Grandma Clara and I.

I am four years old, curled up on her lap in her favorite rocking chair.

A picture of my Grandma Daphne and I.

I am six, standing next to her at the table on Thanksgiving.

A snapshot of my Grandma Sharon and I.

I am eight, sitting at her kitchen table on Christmas, with the scarf she’s knitted me.

I wonder what picture would come to mind if I knew my Grandma Doris.

Where would we be?

How old would I be?

I clasp her necklace around my neck every morning,

Thinking of her when she wore it, the gold heart resting on her collar.

I try to imagine that she looked like me when she was younger.

I try to picture her as a teenager.

I think of my grandpa, sitting next to me,

Too old now to recognize the necklace of his wife.

I want her back,

Even though she was never there.

I want to hand her the necklace,

And thank her for letting me borrow it.

I want to sit with her on the porch looking over the water at her house,

Side by side on the couch,

Smiling towards my Grandpa as he snaps a picture of us,

For me to keep.

Are Meanings Necessary?

The epitome of irrelevance,

What is it?

A sinister bumblebee?

Crystalline daylight?

Isn’t anything made-up irrelevant?

Serendipitous madness,

Murmuring gladness.

What is a human

Made out of cumin?

What is irrelevant are the meanings,

People believe each word is an imposter,

For something bigger

Hidden behind big words and rhymes.

Meant to sound important and meaningful.

But they mean nothing more than

A Dorian elephant,

A grassy tryst.

If I we’re reading the works of a renowned poet

Or even anyone who seemed confident in what they were writing

I’d think the nonsense had a deep

Unspoken meaning.

It’s okay for a poem to have words put together like

Mysterious Singaporean

Maybelline lassie

Bumping locks.

We’re all just human,

No poet needs to write with meaning.

A poem can mean nothing less than funny words,

Put together onto paper.

They can even be as meaningless as a

Veggie tragedy.

The Inevitability of Becoming a Senor Citizen

I am afraid of age.

I’ve watched my grandparents turn

Arthritic and dull,

Numb.

Unable to get up on their own,

Go to the bathroom,

Answer the phone.

I do not want that life.

When I was younger

I used to tell people

I never wanted to live past forty.

I dread the time where my skin will become wrinkly

And my bones sore.

I do not want to become tired at 6 p.m.

Nor have to wear glasses to be able to read words on a page

I hate the idea of my children putting me in a nursing home,

Or not having my parents and family around.

I like my skin soft and un-speckled

I like staying up until 11 because I have energy

I like having my parents take care of me

Watch over me,

Take care of me,

Guide me.

I have a special connection to the elderly,

People always tell me I do.

I’ve wondered why,

But now I think I know.

I can sympathize.

I pity them.

I understand how awful it would be in their place

Eating pureed food,

Watching TV day in and day out,

Nurses taking care of you,

Everyone you know and loved

Gone.

I saw my Grandpa Lee,

A very agile and energized old man,

Breathless as he moved boxes,

Into his new home.

Every few times he lifted something

He had to sit on the couch to rest.

I can’t take the knowledge that that is as good as it gets

At that age.

In elementary school,

One friend asked my group

“Would you rather die young in your sleep,

or old by a painful murder”

Everyone was stuck,

Unable to choose their answer.

They wanted long lives,

But they wanted to die peacefully.

Everyone was shocked when I answered immediately

“Die young of course.”

Surprised by the fact that I didn’t care that I’d live a short life.

I am young now,

I do not know how I will think in the future,

If I will find a job,

A husband,

Or have children

That will make old age worth it.

Although almost everyone does.

But for now,

I want energy,

Freedom,

Independence,

Family,

Memories.

But most of all,

I want youth.

After searching awhile for a suitable poetry journal I found My Favorite Bullet. Initially the name intimidated me a little, but after reading a poem or two I was intrigued. The website offered a long list of poems to choose from by over ten different poets, all of who's writing styles were similar.

The first poem I came across was "And may be unbearable" by Gary Lundy which spoke of what everyone's lives comes down to. I found that the structure and wording he used was very similar to the short-lined, sometimes confusing poems of Chris Martin. For example:

Smoke through

the open window

ink stain

on new briefcase

dried out glue stick

these particulars

like cut outs

of unimportant figures

from fashion magazines

His listing of thoughts tie in Martins style with bleak images that evoke what are possibly feelings of frustration. All the ideas and feelings he speaks of comes down to the idea of his frustration at the fact that life lacks true meaning.

I then read "Magic" by Carrie A. Reilley which like "And may be unbearable", was also pretty dim. The poems speaks of how the narrators grandfather used to make "magic" when she was a little kid by using a magnifying glass to light paper and ash on fire. She transitions the image to her brothers urn, holding his ashes, and makes clear to the auditor that she yearns for her grandfather to use his magic with fire and ashes to make something of them again. The story is very powerful, and through it being told she, like the other poem, uses the same short lines as Chris Martin, although in a lot less confusing way. 

Generally the vibe and tone I observed in My Favorite Bullet was dim and bleak. Most of the poems follow short lines similar to Chris Martins with listing images and ideas. Even the poems I read that could be seen as neutral had a darker message buried behind it. For example in the poem "LA Trendy", Matt Randall talks about the idiosyncrasies performed by the average person living in LA like trying to look "cosmopolitan" and eating "sushi and tempura". Although the poem could be taken as simply a commentary on people living in LA, in the end it is drawn up in a way that makes them sound fake and lifeless. I don't know if My Favorite Bullet was meant to be a collection of darker poems, but that's definitely how I took it. Still, that isn't to say i didn't enjoy the poems or find them good. In fact, I found most of the poems to be very moving and I appreciated that there was a clear message to each one. 

The poem "Football" by Louis Jenkins shows repetition of words like "I've" to start phrases or "The same skin, but not the same". They repetition offers a type of beat/ hint of rhyme, even though there isn't any.

I really loved the poem "The Afterlife", narrated by the dead looking back at their lives and feeling unaccomplished, told as if they had just seen an unsatisfactory movie. It's often something I think about. That is, the purpose of my life and what it will even all come down to. The poem reminds me of my neighbor who I am very close to who will be turning 108 this year. She often says things like "I should have died long ago, I'm not sure if this is worth living," which makes me very sad and worried for my own life. The questions and statements made in the poem really trigger the sentiments people have towards their lives, even people as young as myself.

I found that Jenkins poems were all very different and didn't have any general theme. The poem "The Fishing Lure" differed a lot from the others because it had a humorous, joking tone while ones like "The Afterlife" spoke more of a serious conceptual matter. The poem "Some Things to Think About" simply spoke about the questions people unfamiliar with snow and cold whether would often ask about clothing. Poems like that were difficult to uncover. What meaning could be behind whether you wear heavy duty mittens or gloves? However, I enjoy that he samples different tones and topics rather than sticking to one general form or idea. He offers a variety of poems that induce different emotions and thoughts, which kept reading each one interesting and unique.

Japan

"It'll be so foreign we'll become closer as a family."

The first thing I glimpse when I step off the plane is a Starbucks.

I wanted traditional green tea in a bowl.

Not in a plastic cup like at home.

Why is there a McDonalds

Right across the street from a fresh sushi restaurant,

The fresh shrimp swimming in the window.

It doesn't belong there.

Through the narrow streets of Shibuya

all I see is H&M and Gap.

I can get those at home.

Is the world slowly becoming the same?

What about 20, 30, 40 years from now?

Motives have switched from appreciation to greed.

From preservation to money.

They need to change,

Or we will all blend into one.

The Big Decision

"It's all about how it feels to you."

"Could you see yourself here?"

"Did you like it?"

"Are the people ones you could be friends with?"

How should I know

From a 45 minute tour?

How can I say I'd be happy there,

When all I really learned

Is that they offer a "multitude of majors"?

I change my mind every week,

of where I want to go.

College to me is like an outfit.

Some days I want to wear blue,

others I feel like red.

"Where do you want to go?"

"What are you leaning towards?"

I don't know.

The structure of Chris Martins poems is very different from the poetry I’m used to reading, with longer lines and a more clear idea and direction. The thoughts and topics he brings up in his poems switch without any clear sectioning or transitions and sound like little bursts of different ideas. However, different is good. Martin provides a new, more modern take on poetry without the confinements of structure and rhyme schemes. I noticed that his ideas and words are more images and actions that occur on a regular basis than complex poetic devices and lengthy imagery with deeper meanings that you have to analyze and hunt to find. The poems structure is short and the three to five word lines naturally cause the reader to read it choppy and broken up. When I did so with the first few poems, they were confusing and I couldn’t find the meaning or follow the sentences. But when I went back through and read them straight through, disregarding the line breaks, I could follow what he was trying to say. While it is still difficult to understand truly what he’s trying to say without thorough analyzing, in the poem “Time” he continuously comes back to the idea of hands, fingers, and the simple act and memory of holding hands with someone and what it meant. In the poems I read, he focuses on one main act or idea, incorporating different ideas and images around that topic. Martin brings up simple, everyday acts, helping to illustrate that the little things can be just as meaningful as big, important events and ideas that many poets stick to.

Edina.

Full of happy families and cute kids walking down France Avenue.

Boys ride down the streets on their bikes

Talking,

Laughing.

Preppy girls, like Laura Jasper, who wear Sperry’s and Ralph Lauren,

Ride into the country club lot in their Beamers and Jeeps.

The man down the street, Mr. Sonny,

I’ve never spoken to.

But still he waves to me as I drive by every morning,

On my way to school.

At D’amico, people in line want to talk,

Ask you what you plans are for college,

Ask where you live,

What you’re interested in.

At Barrio I run into at least five people I know,

All of which want to chat,

And compliment me on how much I’ve grown.

It’s an oasis of happy people and safety,

But that’s not all I see.

The brand new house of the sweet people down the street?

Someone unplugged their drainage system,

Flooding their entire finished basement.

The old, one of a kind Edina Gas Station

With its sign displaying inspiring quotes like

“Believe you can and you’re halfway there!”

Run to the ground by a large gas company.

The sign now reads

“Large drink 59 cents”

The Westerville’s dog always jumps its fence,

Attacking the innocent dogs on the block.

There’s barely a dog that hasn’t gone to the vet for stitches.

George Lagerstrom,

An eight year old boy I babysat for every Sunday,

Dound dead in his bed not yet a month ago,

Found to have had a bad heart.

The oasis is a mask for what lies beneath.

All the turmoil and tension,

Hidden by smiling faces and happy waves.

The Oppression of High School

My backpack sits on the floor next to my desk.

I should open it,

Pull out all the work I have to do.

Math, Science?

Ancient World?

Where will they take me?

How will they enhance my life?

Will they even at all?

I reach for the zipper,

But I stop.

I don’t want it,

I don’t want any of it.

I don’t want to sit in a classroom

or participate in a graded discussion

or turn in my homework ever again.

I don’t want it now,

I don’t want it later,

I didn’t want it yesterday,

I didn’t want it last year.

I want to scream those words.

Where will the quadratic equation factor into my life,

When I have dreams of being a designer?

How will drawing Lewis structures matter,

While I’m traveling the world?

Why do I need to know the exact duration of the Peloponnesian War,

While I am looking towards the future?

I am confined to stuffy classrooms,

Watching the clock,

Waiting for the bell as the teacher talks at me,

Droning about something that won’t matter in five years time.

I want to escape.

I dream of a Monday morning

Where I am hopping onto a place to San Francisco

Paris

Tokyo

Calcutta

Instead of driving myself to school.

I imagine myself at 1 o’clock in the afternoon,

Reading books to orphans in Tanzania,

Rather than walking to Physics.

But for now I can’t.

For now I wait.

For now I reach for the zipper of my backpack,

Pull out my Calculus textbook,

And open to page 64.

Life as a Rower

Get in the car,

Drive.

I don't even have to think about where to turn,

When to stop at stop signs,

Where to go.

Pull into the parking lot,

Walk down the hill.

My coach yaps out line-ups,

I'm five seat.

"All eight, one foot in!"

The coxswain screeches at us.

Back our blades in the water,

out of the dock,

put in my feet,

get ready.

"Pieces," my coach shouts through her megaphone,

we all groan.

Up and down

Up and down

Back and forth on the lake,

till our hands are torn and our muscles ache.

My hair sticks to my face from the sweat,

But I'm happy with how I've done.

We return to the dock,

spent,

but eager for the results.

All anticipating making the best boat.

This is an average day at practice,

This is my life.

Sonnet—To Science

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!

   Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.

Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,

   Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?

How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,

   Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering

To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,

   Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?

Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,

   And driven the Hamadryad from the wood

To seek a shelter in some happier star?

   Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,

The Elfin from the green grass, and from me

The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

The Frustration of Dedication

She walks down the hill to practice

Exhausted.

Not physically

Mentally.

She loves practice.

The people,

The coaches,

The boats,

The water

But she needs a break.

Time where he life isn’t structured,

Time to do what she pleases.

She needs a day knowing she can go home and paint.

She wants to leave school and go read her favorite book.

She needs a weekend morning to sleep in

Like most kids her age do.

But she can’t.

No matter how much she resents it,

It’s her life.

Without, she’d be different.

She wouldn’t know who to call when she was unhappy,

She wouldn’t have the relief of working off her anger

Or the pride in reaching her goals.

Without it, she doesn’t know who she’d be.

The very thing that frustrates her to no end

Drives her.