Voting and Poetry

I haven't updated in a while, but for those of you still hanging around here is something to read. Yesterday I voted for the first time. I sat on my bed and dutifully filled in the little circles. It felt like I was taking a test to which no one has the answers. There was no surge of powerful feelings when I was finished and I certainly did not feel like more of an adult as some of my friends have. Ever since I studied government in my elementary years and discovered that the President is elected not by the popular vote, but by the electoral, I considered it a waste of time to fill out a ballot. Other than instilling fear in your representative of what will happen if they don't vote with the majority, what use is it? It tells us who the voting portion of the country thinks should be President but it has no real power to elect because, technically, the electors can vote for whomever they want. They generally don't, but it has happened. Anyway...

In my creative writing class, we are in the genre of poetry, the one I was most dreading. I have never professed to be a poet and dread writing the stuff so much that I don't even attempt it on my own. Irregardless, I am still expected to do the assignments. So if you would like to see what my creative (or not) genius has produced, read on.

Sound/Image Poetry:
With this category we listened to a piece of classical music and looked at a famous photograph of a shooting in Vietnam and then had to write a response piece of poetry to each. They didn't have to be explicitly related to either one and mine weren't. They simply needed to express what you felt and/or thought of when experiencing those sounds and images.

It's a warm room
with love everywhere.
It's a dim room
with low, yellow light.
It's a cozy room
with rough, comfy couches.
It's a soft room
with a black-bellied stove.
It's a country room
with wintry paintings.
It's a musical room
with classical notes.
It's a stately room
with a grandfather clock.
It's an open room
with large, paned windows.
It's a familiar room
with me in the midst.
It's a family room
with a feeling of Christmas.

____________

Imperfectly I love
So perfectly I fear

My capacity for change
Shrinks with every cringe.

Born not of punishment
Contemptibly of pain

Flawlessly He loves
So incredulous my fear.

Word Group Poems:
We were also given a choice of two groups of four words and we had to choose one set and use all four words in a poem. The first one has to use the words mother, folds, hands, and twilight. We had a day to do it. The second one was produced in class in less than five minutes and had to use evil, good, control, and choice. I'm not so fond of that one but I don't do well under pressure for creative stuff.

Night falling finds me scattered from the day,
Of things no one has taught me how to face;
But in she comes, my mother, here to do
That thing which only motherhood know how--
Smoothing out the wrinkles, binding up the tears,
And folding up the pieces that are me,
Gently with her hands, then I am whole.
Off she goes until another day
Has done its damage and I wish,
"Come Twilight, come once again."

Who controls who?
Who controls you?
Good has evil,
Evil has a choice,
But choice has lost control.

Ballads:
We also had to write an original ballad. After looking at one about the titanic, I decided to do one on the Oregon Trail since I knew that slightly better. People got really creative with these. I was impressed with the wide range of stories.

And the dust rolled in like a mighty wave,
The water rose up to take us away,
We held on to hope and tried to be brave,
But the trail said, "No, you won't find your way."

We struck camp at Independence
With families spread far as the eye could see,
Waiting like prisoners for their sentence
And looking for mules to make a team.

The air burned every last drop of moisture,
Drying us out 'til we cracked;
While suffocation, haunting each breath,
Reminded us of everything we lacked.

And the dust rolled in like a mighty wave,
The water rose up to take us away,
We held on to hope and tried to be brave,
But the trail said, "No, you won't find your way."

Ice-capped mountains loomed up in the distance,
Dampness rotted us outside, then in,
Cold gnawed on my fingers and bit at my nose,
Slowly wearing me down to give in.

The Reeper swept in while we watched,
His brazenness hard to believe;
He snatched her up in a fit of coughing;
That my sister is gone, I can barely conceive.

And the dust rolled in like a might wave,
The water rose up to take us away,
We held on to hope and tried to be brave,
But the trail said, "No, you won't find your way."

Six months, three days, and one minute later
We're here and we've finally stopped walking,
The houses are built; there's food in the ground
And yet, the trail is still mocking.

And the gloom rolls in like a mighty wave,
Our sunshine is gone, yet we still have to stay,
Hope has got us this far, but it's hard to be brave,
The trail's at an end, but we're still on our way.

Found Poems:
Our most recent poetry assignment was the most fun. For found poems you take words and phrases from other people and string them together to make an original poem. We were given a stack of a bunch of different magazines and told to go through them and grab stuff and make a poem. I got a literary magazine and this is what resulted...

Take the poet who lives in poverty and eats grass;
Maybe that's it.
Is there anything so helpless?
That poet should have written like somebody else
It is a fascinating idea.
Is it holy?
Is it boring?
And what about poets who don't want to smash people's heads?
As if there could be a world of absolute innocence

Hope you enjoyed it!