Dual response

Hi guys! The following is my response to "Ode on a Grecian Urn"... as well as "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." It just happened to work out that way. I'm not going to write a blurb! So if you're confused as to how this ties in with themes in the ode, feel free to comment and I'll get back to you.


Mommy’s friends

I
A repertoire of song–
Innate, melodious,
And clear:
It can be learned by human ears,
But never reproduced.


II
A bird on the nose
Is worth two in the hand.


III
Every morning,
When the sky is still deep blue,
Her hands sift seed
Upon sod.

She knows that they will come.

Poetry from outside the class

I just wanted to get your opinions on these... these are poems I've been having fun with outside of class.

R. and J.


In a town called Verona two households feud.
Not long into the fight the Prince did intrude,
“If anyone else decides blood should be shed,
Then he is awaiting his own deathbed!”

Later that night, a party, Romeo goes to.
He met Juliet and they said, “I love you.”
The next day the two became one.
And Mercutio and Tybalt were over…done.

Plans to marry Paris were all set.
But her parents did not know her little secret.
Since Romeo killed Tybalt he had to leave.
All Juliet did was grieve, grieve, grieve!

Tuesday morn Juliet goes to Friar Laurence.
She thought he could get her out of the non-sense.
He gave her a sleeping potion to take at night,
And she’d look so dead it’d give the nurse a fright.

The next morning Juliet was found “dead”.
Poor ‘ol Paris would not get wed.
Romeo came as soon as he could,
But he killed himself for he misunderstood.

Juliet wakes up a second later,
And in walks Friar, the instigator.
He asks her to come with him,
But instead she did herself in.

Lost Love

I drank your poison of love one day

And fell into a deep trance of ecstasy.

You made me feel like I was on a cloud;

To be your girlfriend, I was so proud.

They pumped my stomach; our love is at loss

My emotions feel like a game of toss.

To see that light, how the glitter fades;

It seems our relationship went down cascades.

But you wanted too much, my whole heart

When all I could give you was just a part.

I feel like this next poem was inspired by another poem.. but I don't know what it was... it was so long ago.

Nothing good to listen to

An American Idol, thats who I look for

In the poop section of my local record store

Ruben or Clay, oh which should I pick?

Its like choosing which puddle of vomit to lick

When I want something even more fruity and fake

I look up 'N' for N'Sync or 'T' for Timberlake.

So many skills Justins making a buck at

Does he rap? Does he sing?

He doesn't know what to suck at.

This is my favorite:

Litmus

What is litmus?

Why, it is me.

I am nothing but bland,

Ordinary.

Malcontents are thrown my way

And I react like fire.

Subsidence eventually occurs

Within my citric soul.

And I become blue.

Please tell me what you think! I have more to come...

buddy's response poem

Ode to an Urn in the closet

It's too bad you had to leave us so soon.
You had a lot ahead of you but now,
your in our closet, right next to the broom.
You should have dodged that bus but no....kapow.
You were too busy on your dumb ipod.
Brain too busy with practice, work and school.
So you were busted onto the thirsty sod.
So now you have plenty of time on your hands.
Stingy bastard have fun on celestial organs abroad.

Ode on a Sequenza

Pumping, it's pumping and living with breath
Human voice, saxophone,....human saxophone
Stable and unstable begin to merge
Sweet, soft, light, no conflict is desired
Harsh, grotesque growl is what most often is
Is this beauty disguised or redefined?

The buzz outside is one, the buzz within
Repeated notes, repeated thoughts, repeat
An internal insanity now is
Outside, cannot be, will not be stopped
By the imposing order, the structure
The structure is instability

A glimpse, a blink, a small part in time
So perfect, it becomes imperfection
It's living, breathing. Inhale and feel it
Touch it, live it, you are, there is no choice
Everywhere, usless attempt to escape
No characters trapped....unbound...

It exists before we can hear the sound
Living past the last note...what is the last?
Silence is, was, interwoven, tangled
Light pushes dark, dark-light, universal
Trying to catch up, just falling behind
Fourteen minutes of infinity...

Another response poem

Hello Poets --
I thought we would see what happened if we all responded to one poem. The poem I've picked is John Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn" http://www.bartleby.com/101/625.html.
Make sure you have a dyad in mind as your write your response -- I suspect everyone will respond in his or her own special way. Hint: if you really want to understand the poem well, read it out loud -- preferably with other people around. Try to imagine who is speaking and to whom that person is speaking.
I will have all of your poems back to you on Tuesday.

greetings everyone,
i figured i would post the burns poem and my response to get some feedback since time ran out during class. so here they are...

A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns

My luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
My luve is like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel, my only luve,
And fare-thee-weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten-thousand mile.


Ten Thousand Miles
by me

Behind me lies that winding road,
Which I have known too well.
My feet remember every step,
And snare by which I fell.
Ten thousand miles, I marked the length,
But still I stand, alone.
The Winter chill surrounds me now,
That hopeful Spring has flown.
And so the petals, faded, fall
From this, our wilted love.
You said "a while" but this is not
What I was thinking of.

To Win, Be Thin

Here's what I read in class today:

In response to: Fat is not a Fairy Tale by Jane Yolen (page 101)

To be pretty is to be blonde and thin.

At least that’s what they show on the TV

Mirrors will always say that you can’t win.

Dark California girls will tan their skin.

You exercise your butt off to lose weight.

To be pretty is to be blonde and thin.

You think that guys might notice you again

If you eat just one meal a day and run.

Mirrors will always say that you can’t win.

You lost some weight and bat your eyes at men.

A shame they did not notice you last year.

To be pretty is to be blonde and thin.

You look good and you show it by your grin

Sporting the clothes you always wanted to.

Mirrors will always say that you can’t win.

Too bad no one could see you’re great within.

I guess hard work does pay off in the end.

To be pretty is to be blonde and thin.

Mirrors will always say that you can’t win.

Ps: I wrote a new AUBADE for my poetry project collection and I set it to MUSIC!!!

...Flowers and Poetry Class...

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I really love this poetry class
Can we please have it next semester too??????????????

Lilacs are purple
Tulips are pink
I'll keep on bugging you
'Cause we pre-register next week!

The End.

Music Theory Poem

I did my response poem based on Walt Whitman's "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer"

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer

When I heard the learn'd astonomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
when I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tried and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wandered off by myself,
In the mystial moist night-air, and from time to time,
Looked up in perfect silence at the stars.


Now for my poem:

When I Heard the Learn'd Music Theorist

When I heard the learn'd music theorist,
When the cadences and set classes were in columns before me,
When I was told about modulations, muical forms and formulas to invent a piece,
When I sitting heard the music theorist where he lectures with a sense of accomplishment and self-pride,
How soon frustrated I grew tired and sick,
Till humming a tune to myself,
A simple melody, untouched by formula and organically grown
Realizing what was beauty.

Response Poem

Hey yall.

I did a response poem also. Here is the poem I responded to (you will hear my poem tomorrow in class hopefully):

Fat is not a Fairy Tale by Jane Yolen

I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Cinder Elephant,
Sleeping Tubby,
Snow Weight,
where the princess is not
anorexic, wasp-waisted;
flinging herself down the stairs.

I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Hansel and Great,
Repoundsel,
Bounty and the Beast,
where the beauty
has a pillowed breast,
and fingers plump as sausage.

I am thinking of a fairy tale
that is not yet written,
for a teller not yet born,
for a listerner not yet conceived,
for a world not yet won,
where everything round is good:
the sun, wheels, cookies, and the princess.



sooooo... hopefully you will hear the response tomorrow. My response poem title is " To win, be Thin"

Optional homework :>

Hey guys. I have decided to take Dr. Robbins' suggestion and write my response poem to Sylvia Plath's "Daddy." It is SO GOOD! If you want to get a head start understanding where I'm coming from this week:

Daddy, by Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

And here is a Wikipedia article about the poem. It helps clarify some things.

Teddy Bear (Blazon)

Your big round eyes

With a pair of big fluffy ears,

Your cute soft palms

And the puffy tummy.

All these cuteness of you,

Comfort me through sadness,

Walk me through loneliness,

How is it ever possible to give you up?

When I want to tell a secret,

You sit there still,

Looking at me straight.

When I want to sing a song,

You sit there still,

Listening to me sing.

I know you are nothing but a bear,

A toy bear who shares feelings with me.

Mom said a toy can never live,

But deep in my heart,

I believe

Teddy,

You are always my best friend.

Fresh Air

The breeze whispers children's giggles into my ear
Strokes my hair and kisses my face.
With deep gaze into each others eyes,
We understand each other without a word.
You're an angel from afar.
The sun outlines your figure with a glistening glow.
It shines on your hair giving you dark golden highlights.
You take off your coat and roll up your sleeves.
You are getting warm.
When I'm in the swing, the pressure of your hand on my back
feels so nice and the bustling of bees in the bushes and the chirping of birds become so loud
and I just want to hold onto this moment for forever.
But alas, the day comes to an end.
I breathe in the crisp ambiance of the happy day.
This leaves me with a tingling feeling with my whole being.
Fresh air renewed my soul.

Preface to the Fall of Daltarus

So here is my "blurb" as promised. I was thinking of using this simply as a introduction and preface to what will be my epic poem, telling the tale of this battle. Its basic purpose is simply to set the stage, and inform the reader of the events that lead to this point.

***

The 5th century, the Age of Nations:
The world of Tandara is inhabited by eleven separate nations. There has been a state of unrest since the appearance of a magical relic known as the Bracer of Shadows, a weapon that granted the bearer immense physical power. The bracer feeds off of the rage and anger of its host, which can then activate a state called the 'shadow phase' which can border upon invincibility. Unfortunately, this state quickly saps the bearer's willpower gradually causing him to lose his mind and become a slave to the magic of the Bracer. Essentially this weapon was created to wreak mass havoc upon the world of men by praying upon their natural pride and lust for power. With this great power loose in the world, it was not long before all of Tandara was swept up in a massive war. A was that became known as the War for Raelia, for it was the nation of Raelia that currently possessed the Bracer. This nation's ruler, Lord Arion would lead his forces along with those of his allies, Galdaria, and the Tribe of the Yellow Ax, into battle against all eight of the other nations, led by Lord Varcos of Krondar. Each of these nations entered the war with their own motives, but ultimately they all desired that the Bracer be removed from Raelian hands.

Thanks to the efforts of his father, the previous lord, who journeyed to the Far Side of the world to gain answers concerning the Bracer, Arion bears it into battle knowing full well how to destroy it. The Bracer can only be destroyed by the blade of the one who wears it, but in doing this, he will perish. So Arion now struggles with his own desires for what he believes to be the power to protect his people. Varcos also wrestles with his own thoughts as to whether or not he is right to destroy Raelia in his quest for justice and peace, for his mind has been heavily swayed by the deceptions of Father Sartanus of the Clan, who is in league with the mystical creators of the Bracer and therefore is also bent on the destruction of humankind.

As it stands, the forces of the Krondar-led Alliance stand ready to lay siege to the Raelian capital city of Daltarus, wherein Arion prepares both his Raelians and the Tribesmen who, being heavily outnumbered, can only hope to hold out long enough for the reinforcements of the Galdarian navy to arrive.

***

If you have any questions, just ask, I'll be happy to answer, and comments/criticisms are of course more than welcome. I'd like to see if this is enough to inform and audience of what's going on without confusing them.

Poem

my mail

keeps evolving and there is more
of it.
in the old days
many letters were from ladies,
often with photos.
I'd tell them to come visit
and I met them at the airport
and drove them
home.
then there was drinking and
sex.
most stayed two or three days,
then left.

there were also letters from
men in jail, some as far away as
Australia.
I answered these letters.
there were also letters from
poets, known and
unknown.
then there were a few mental
cases.
I answered these as well.
the problem was that they all
wanted continual
response,
a life-long correspondence.
when I would inform them
that this couldn't be done
I received some irrational
and foul responses
in return.

I found myself writing dozens
of letters a
month.
and my intention
as a writer had not been to
correspond with
any and
all.

I finally gave up
babying my
mailbox.

I read my mail but in
90 percent of the cases
I didn't
respond.

I heard a story about
Faulkner.
when he got a letter
he held it up to the
light.
if he didn't see a check
in there
he threw it away
unopened.

I read my mail
then threw it
away.

now much of my mail
is from college
professors.
some of them are
precise and pleasant
enough
but few are worthy
of response.

and there are a couple of
self-published books of poetry
a week,
few worthy of
response.

the ladies and the
convicts and the madmen
have dropped
away.

I still get letters from
people who announce they will
soon be in town to
"drink 8 or ten beers" with
me ...

my job
as a writer
is to write.
I am not a counselor
nor an entertainer,
nor am I interested in
reading books of
poesy
or bedding down
or giving blurbs
or recommending unsung
so-called geniuses
to my
publisher.

when I was an unknown
writer
I sent my work
directly to the magazines
and the publishers,
never with a cover
letter,
and I never knocked on
anybody's
door
and I never read my
work to my wives or
my girlfriends
or anybody.

when you are in a prize fight
you climb into the
ring,
you do it where it is
done.
and it's not done at
literary parties or by
writing Burroughs or
Mailer
or Ferlinghetti.

you sit down at your
machine
and fire it into the
unknown,
and if you don't have
a machine
you write it on the
walls or on the edges
of newspapers.
and you'll keep doing
it,
doing it,
and if you've got
it,
the guts and the
laughter and the manner
of saying it
you'll finally come
through.
forget everything
else.

the gods are good,
they only want to
make sure.

Charles Bukowski (1971), from Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems (1997)

Poets of Peabody Blog

Here we are!