I have my English teacher to thank for a lot of things; her class is the only reason I am exposed to many of the things I am and is why I have so much written in my journal to help me find a starting point.
I have several poems saved from class that I saved because I enjoyed. I can't quite say yet what drew me to them, but here they are nonetheless.
I have several poems saved from class that I saved because I enjoyed. I can't quite say yet what drew me to them, but here they are nonetheless.
Ars Poetica by Archibald MacLeish | Although probably not the most clear advice on poetry, Ars Poetica is definitely the most, er, poetic. What I'm getting from it is that poetry should resonate quietly with the reader or listener, and shouldn't have to be explained or discussed for one to understand the beauty and intentions behind it - pretty ironic considering what I'm doing right now. Ars Poetica translates roughly to "the art of poetry" so I'd say it's pretty safe to assume that's the main focus here. |
This made me feel great <3 But seriously, it's nice knowing whatever I do doesn't have to be perfect. I don't have to be somebody important or influential to be involved in things. Sure, there might not be a reaction to anything, but that's not necessarily required to have succeeded in what I was doing. I think I'm attracted to the descriptions of nature here. The natural world isn't trying to meet the standards of a social group or imitate what it thinks it wants to be; it just is what it is, and is beautiful in and of itself. That's the problem with humans: as soon as we identify ourselves as something we feel the need to conform to the generally accepted notion of what that thing is. I'm not talking like, large group conformity, but in any group of people. Oh I'm pretty artistic, I guess that makes me an artist, but now I have to live my life the way an artist is expected to live, dress the way an artist is expected to dress, etc. Oh, I happen to like Sherlock, Supernatural, and Dr.Who. Does that make me a Superwholockian? I guess not if I'm not actively part of the fandom on tumblr, show my geek pride in my clothes, freak out anytime I hear anything mentioned related to any of my favorite fandoms, watch every episode of everything religiously, and condescend anybody who doesn't hasn't met these standards as well. nO tHIs Is NOTT THe WaY it WORkS So can we stop acting like it is and just be genuine? | Wild Geese by Mary Oliver |
To a Daughter Leaving Home by Linda Pastan | Aghkhkhskhgkag too many emotions for me right now. This'll be me in a year. I think what I really like about this poem is the relatability of it. It's written in first person so it seems personal, but also comes off as a message or a letter that is intended to you, whoever's reading it, provided you're leaving home soon and probably a girl as indicated by the title. So just relatable for me. But hey, whatever . Still, the extended metaphor throughout is greeeeat. If the poem didn't have the title to tell you what it meant, there'd by no way of knowing it was about leaving home specifically. You might be able to tell with a lucky guess, but there are other things it could've been a metaphor for. The metaphor of learning to ride a bike just adds to the relatability; most people learn to ride a bike with their parents' help as a bonding experience of sorts that is not soon forgotten. Whether or not you're a daughter leaving home, you've probably learned to ride a bike with your parents' help, and could still read this as a letter to you. You learn to ride when you're young and fragile, but you have a safety net that you soon won't need as your short legs take off on their own. You also learn resilience and tenacity during that time. Ahh I don't know what I'm talking about anymore. I love humanity I hate people, but I love humanity I also love it when parents take time to bond with their children. Nature + Humanity |
The Writer by Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.