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.