Week 4: Reading Response

 The Music of Poetry

Chapter five, The Sound (and Look) of Sense grabbed my interest early on. On the first page, it is stated that "Today we are more accustomed to seeing a poem than to hearing it, and we must remind ourselves to read poems aloud lest we miss their essential music." This idea that the poem itself is more than words to read to yourself, but an entire experience, like music, is an interesting concept. Poets can utilize words, their length, their sound, their connotations in very specific ways that make the reader feel a certain way or better understand what the poem is about. But to have this 'full experience' with poetry, I now understand that reading poems aloud is absolutely essential. To me, it seems by doing this, you are not only able to hear the flow of the words and the 'music' of the poem, but you are also able to connect with another sense. Reading poetry connects with sight, seeing the scenes that the words paint for you, smell, strong descriptions of smells can link you to a specific scent you are familiar with, and lastly when you read a poem aloud, you connect with the sense of hearing. Your mind will respond differently to words when they roll off your own tongue, which will only enhance the senses' reactions to the poem.

Week 4: Memoir

"Nothing can make you feel something as quickly as music can. It's the most immediate source... Like a shortcut." -Zooey Deschanel

Last year, first semester, I was in Calculus I. Not for long, but long enough to hate myself day after day for choosing such a terrible class. I am horrendous at math, so I was at war with myself every morning of the week at 9am. But there was one thing that made me feel better about my troubled mathematics situation. And this thing was a song. A song called "The Best Day" by Atmosphere. I would listen to it at least twice on my longboard ride to class. Usually right when I left the house, just to make sure I got out the door, and then about halfway there, just so I wouldn't turn my lazy rear around and crawl back into bed. The bouncy piano, upbeat tempo, and easy lyrics made it the perfect solution for my bad attitude. As I rolled down the cracked sidewalk toward class, the cold fall air slapped against my cheeks and blew my hair back in defiance. The sky above was gray and sad with the fleeting summer, and the trees were crying away their dying leaves, which one by one, floated down to the cold hard earth. My heavy backpack, filled with knives and hatred (aka my Calculus book and notebook), weighed me down as I pumped my leg on the sidewalk. One thing kept my mind from a serious meltdown. The words "I had a rough day. But that's life--it happens. Woke up on the dark side of my mattress... Everyday can't be the best day, do what you can right now--don't hesitate," rang in my head, encouraging me to keep on keepin' on. This song kept me positive in the midst of miserable Calculus and ended up being the sole reason I didn't drop after day two. Thanks Atmosphere.

Week 4: Hangover Poem

The Real Hangover

I am here.

Only to escape the shouting inside.

With a pounding head, an angry liver, and a spinning world, 

It's really all I can do. 

I lay down hard in the cool grass, 

The sharp blades poke my hot skin harshly.

I recall the expectations and let-downs of the night,

What I can remember of them, anyway.

An oblivious ant scurries across the mountain of my arm,

I don’t feel enough to care.

I close my eyes, shutting out the sunshine,

trying to forget the pain behind them. 

Week 3: Reading Response

I found chapter two, which went over the role of how the poem is arranged, to be surprisingly helpful. I've always thought of poetic meter and particular line/syllable requirements as a mess to spend my time worrying about. However, what I took in from this chapter ended up making me think twice about the importance of line and meter arrangement.

In terms of balance and rhythm, both my thoughts and how the poem is perceived by the reader are aspects that need to be kept in consideration. Using balance, rhythmic phrases, or their counters, imbalance and nonrhythmic phrases, your poetry can take on a completely new identity. Even though I still find some other aspects of Poetic form to be nauseating, I am definitely one step closer to realizing the potential in mastering all it can do for my future poetic works.

Week 3: Memoir

"I Dream of Latte"

It was Youth Nationals 2003, and I was riding in the 13& under Half Arabian Hunter Pleasure class with my mare Cafe Latte. We only made it into one final that year because Latte, in a bout of unpredictability, decided to kick out at a horse and break from the canter in the other section's cut class. Funny how mares can be isn't it? But luckily we made it into this final and all was well so far. I kept a considerable distance from all other horses in an attempt to keep my tempermental mare from blowing a gasket. My head was a swivel, constantly scanning the ring in all directions. 

The announcer called for the last trot and then, finally, for the horses to line up. Whew! We made it through the entire class blow-up free, an excellent feat at the time. The judges completed their final tallying and the class of half Arabian hunters were excused from the arena. Waiting in the paddock, my nerves were at their peak, anxiously waiting for the coveted "call" of results from Tingley to the outside announcer. My heart skipped a giant beat when the loud ring jingled with intensity, and every rider's eyes glued to the paddock announcer as he picked up the phone and jotted down the lucky numbers who would be receiving a top ten. Trainers sped over to the list, hoping to see if their rider on the elite list of the class. My trainer, Deb, took part in this mad rush, and upon scanning the list, her facial expression had no change. This had me prepared for bad news, however, when she looked up at me, she gave me a big smile and two thumbs up in approval. I let out a huge sigh in relief and patted my chestnut mare's neck in appreciation and awe.

The top ten horses formed a line in numerical order outside the arena, preparing to reenter and receive their top ten ribbon. When the announcer called my number, I came in proud, hearing the resounding cheers of my family and friends yelling from the stands. Upon reaching the far end of the arena with the rest of the top ten, I parked in the middle so I could get a good view of the reserve and champion when they got their picture taken. The announcer's booming voice overpowed all other sounds in Tingley as he called out the reserve champion. A big, striking bay took the title and trotted to get his roses. And then it was time for the champion. I glanced around at the other horses, placing bets inside my head on who would take home the roses. But, then something unbelievable interrupted my thoughts. A very, very familiar song started playing: "the Feather Song" from the movie Forrest Gump- MY pattern song. I couldn't believe my ears! In complete and utter shock, I threw my arms around Latte's neck and began to cry in pure astonishment.  And as I shakily rode over to the picture area, I could see everyone was crying in amazement and joy- my family, friends, and trainer. I had won my first National Championship, a moment that I had dreamt of since my first Youth Nationals 4 years before. I rode out of the arena on top of the world, trying to take in every detail of the moment, as I knew it would be something I would never forget. 

Cafe Latte

Week 3: "I Am" Poem

I am a bass guitar
Strumming smoothly to a rhythm so chill.

I am California
Reclining on my back against the ocean, taking in the beauty of what lies ahead of me.

I am peanut butter
Smooth and easy going, making friendships with nearly everyone I meet, even the unlikely members of the pantry.

But wait.
I am an evergreen
Serene, gentle facade from a distance, but complex and guarded when you get close enough to see.

Week 2: Reading Response

Metaphorically Poetic

As I read the chapter on Metaphor, I began to really contemplate its purpose in poetry and how I respond to it as both a reader and extremely amateur poetry writer.  The purpose of metaphor is simple. It allows the readers take in the subject of the poem in an interesting, thought provoking way. Having the ability to make  the reader reevaluate how they think of something either ordinary or complex is an incredible ability to have.

  The purpose of metaphor also led me to think about my favorite poetry. The poems that completely draw me in, forcing interesting and odd images to form in my mind as I read on. I am reminded how the words spill off the page and funnel into my mind like grape juice, filling my mind with complex sweetness, quenching my thirst for words and symbolism. The art of metaphor is something that great poets have mastered, and something that I would love to achieve as a writer. Turning something that seems to be incredibly ordinary or mainstream into a flood of articulation and poetic beauty is a beautiful thing. And this can only occur when the right poet gets a hold of it, making something incredible out of nothing at all.

Week 2: Memoir

"Ice Cold Iron Infusions"

Last year around this time I was forced to have IV iron infusions at incredibly high doses in order to get my iron and hemoglobin levels to a more "normal" level. At the time, it seemed like a necessary evil that simply had to be done. Which was true. However, what I wasn't aware of was the fact that IV iron is one of the most painful things to have infused. Don't worry, I found out eventually. 

I ventured down to the lowest level of the hospital building, a low ceiling-ed, dimly lit annex where many elderly people surrounded me, somber looks taking upon their faces. As I checked my name into the receptionist, I was awarded a large cup of clear liquid that I was to "drink very quickly, and then come back for a second, and third serving". Yum. Only it wasn't so yum. I raised the cup to my lips and the chalky liquid coolly slid over my tongue, fighting with tonsils as I forced down the faux water drink after drink. Little did I know that this beverage portion would turn out to be the most enjoyable part of the day.

I was in the adjustable hospital bed, clean white linens attempting to comfort me in my sour and nervous condition. The long IV needle, silver and angry, poked into the soft skin on the inside of my elbow quickly and then slowly, finding the right vein to lodge itself into for the next five hours. Yeah, that's right. Five hours. Apparently IV iron is so thick that it has to be infused at a very slow pace to lessen the amount of pain induced. Plus, the nurse was kind enough to inform me that I was receiving the highest dosage that she had ever heard of before. Comforting. But I was pleased to hear that I could watch "Pay Per View" movies for free during the duration of my stay. The nurse hooked up an alarmingly big IV bag filled with a dark brown liquid, making my face purse in disgust at first glance. "Ahhh! That whole bag is going in?" "Well this, and two more bags." Lovely, I thought.

I saw the brown liquid climbing down the tube, making its way toward my unsuspecting vein. Upon reaching entry point, I felt the iron slide in and up my arm, like a cool syrup, making my arm feel like a giant ice cube on the inside. Out of curiosity, I felt the skin above the IV spot, thinking that the exterior of my arm would feel cool as well because the cool sensation was so strong, but my body was just playing a trick on me. Soon, as the infusion carried on, the ice sensation turned to burning hot, confusing my body with conflicting feelings of pain. My arm ached and longed for freedom from the silver needle, the iron syrup filled tube, and the blood pressure sleeve that inflated and deflated as it wished. This band of incredible tightness was forcing a  universal hard pressure on an arm that already felt full and tight from iron it was being force fed.

But this five hour party did come to an end eventually, only to be followed by two more treatments of the same story. Moral of the story: Just say no to Iron Infusions.

Week 2: List Poem

Things I'll Never Understand

Country music. 

Boys who ride crotch rockets. 

Hairless cats.
Miley Cyrus. 

Peppermint flavored alcohol. 

Tramp stamps. 

Mullet hairstyles.

Week 1: Reading Response

"To be free in writing... Now that's a special thing"

Writing for me has really become a mode of release in a world of uncertainty and chaos. I find solace and inner peace when I put pen to paper, or in this case, fingertip to keyboard. As I write, I can see the letters forming words in my mind, rummaging to get to the surface to articulate something bigger. Whether it is a personal journal entry, a literature review, or a short story, what I write is mine. My words. My thoughts. My inspiration. And the beautiful thing about writing is that you are able to share all that is yours with the rest of the world. 

My personal writing process contains many variables that I have yet to tackle. First is the factor of environment. I have found that the low lighting of my bedroom, a bright lit fluorescent office setting and  natural lighting of the outdoors all yield different products. Each setting makes me write in different ways and my work varies in each place. But one commonality is the sound level. I can deal with some background noise, but movement in my peripherals is not acceptable. Is it weird that I know so much about my personal writing process quirks? Oh well, best not read into it too much. Another huge aspect of my ability lies in the inconsistent element of my mood. Oofta, that can sure throw off a kid's ability to write to their full potential. Through this class, I hope to overcome my quirks and be able to write well, anytime, anywhere. To use language in interesting and innovative ways is an art form I would love to master. I hope that the exercises, writing assignments, and the textbooks of this class will help me get closer to realizing this goal.

Week 1: Memoir

Yum Yum in My Tum Tum

I've always been one of those people who seriously frowns upon "picky eaters." When I see a child with arms crossed, pouting at their plate full of vegetables, spaghetti, or anything that isn't a bag of M&Ms, I wish I could funnel the food into their mouth in an attempt to literally force feed nutrition--not to be too graphic. With this in mind, I really don't remember a particular food that I ever despised. I am a huge foodie (my new favorite term), enjoy experimental cooking, and I tend to go through bouts of heavy Food Network watching. In my 21 years of life, food has always been the highlight of holidays and what most my day was built around. But just over a year ago, my loving relationship with food changed exponentially. After months of miserable sickness, I went to the doctor, had some tests done, and found out I have Celiac Disease. Besides the increased health risks this disease presents, the dietary boundaries are what really changed my life forever. A protein called Gluten had been attacking and brutally murdering the small cilia in my small intestine for my entire life, causing me to absorb only a small amount of nutrition from the food I was ingesting. The funny thing about Gluten is that it's in just about everything. Bread, beer, pizza, cookies, cake, and so many other AWESOME foods. I was honestly heartbroken with this news and didn't eat out for probably eight months. It was awful. My friends would take drunken trips to McDonald's after the bar, order a greasy delicious pizza for dinner, drink beer straight from the keg, and never had to read labels to see what ingredients might be in the food they're eating. But since this beginning stage, I've definitely come a long way. And even though I am less bitter about my new diet, I still want everyone around me to seriously consider food as a thing of great appreciation. I'm sure this recent diagnosis plays a major part in my rally against picky eaters, because no food should be taken for granted. Eat up while you can, kitten. 

Week 1: Six Word Story

 Six Word Story. Short, therefore perfect.

Bought it. Used it. Sold it.

Good call. No, bad choice. Rats!

One down. Lost count. Passed out.

Graduation. Realization. Disappointment. Unhappiness. No hope.