A Childhood Memory

Warm evening, clouds dispersed and out of sight

The obnoxious and resounding beeping,

The beeping coming from the moving truck.
My younger cousins in hysterics, filled with joy.

I do not feel the same, rather the opposite.

I step into what I used to call home.

This is now a foreign place that I do not recognize.

Goosebumps arise from the feeling of emptiness

The feeling produced is unwelcoming.

The words I speak return to me,

As they echo and bounce off the walls.

That never happened before.

As I look around, flashbacks emerge

Images form of what used to belong

Memories of my childhood

All ten years overwhelm me at once

My cheeks radiate heat from my emotions

The mix inside, blended, but unexplainable.

The soreness of my arms from lifting packaging boxes

I wipe away what I believe is sweat,

Rather than tears.

I close my eyes, a few seconds later, open them

Justifying that this nightmare is my reality.

The truck is full and ready to leave

It will drive to a place I shall resent

My home is here, not there

I take my final look around.

I force myself to walk away

No longer the presence of continuity

I leave, longing for it all to return.

 

 

Family Secrets

From my room, I hear the shouting outside

I hear the sound of struggle and resistance

From the hallway, I hear arguing

I’m young and fearful, unsure of what to do

I look across the hall to lock eyes with my cousin

He runs to me, locks the door, holds, and comforts me

 

My older cousin was always supportive

He was always around, always cared

Kept a smile on the face’s of others

He made a few bad choices

But so does everyone else, right?

 

Throughout the years, he began coming home late

The smell of liquor and cigarettes filled the room

He’d snuck out, and returned in the night

Sirens from cop cars blarred as they drove by

The noise increased as they turned on our street

Then descended as they left

 

He became distant

Got into a lot of trouble at school

He moved out and didn’t pick up

The phone to call us

Something was wrong

 

The next time we saw him,

I couldn’t bear to be in his presence

This was not out of anger, but sadness

He was in a hospital bed, slurring his words

He had taken a bottle too many pills

Almost ending it all

 

As I watched him I wondered,

How could one who put me before himself?

Then I feel helpless as I watched?

I wished I could have gone backward in time

When he held me and told me it would be fine

At the moment I did not know if I could return those words

Through it all, I believe it opened his eyes to reality, I pray.

Scissors

Sharp to the touch, must be cautious.

Both of my legs can slice, open or closed.

I prefer to be used as a tool, never a weapon.

 

Phone Charger

You only use me when you need me.

The drainage and near-death feeling causes you to fear.

I come to the rescue, there to revive then left out again.

Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts.

Over time you can only pray for change.

Remember, one man’s trash

is another man’s treasure.

A few steps ahead, your life awaits

Holding you back is knowledge

Knowing that you must fight for what you believe.

As time passes, you grow.

Learn to depend on yourself, not others

You continue to run through life

As if there are no limits

Remember, it burns the pocket, pocket hurts.

Under the spontaneous moonlight,

The starlight portrays a vigorous silhouette

Sneaky. Similar to a raccoon.

Later retreating and recoiling as less light is present.

The sound it produces is blatant and tintinnabulous.

Mentirosa, I realize that it may be a soliloquy.

My thoughts are dedicated to exaggeration

Growing each second, similar to popcorn

It’s difficult to quiet these thoughts

Can’t get rid of them; flushing them down the toilet

Can’t heal them; ointment on a cut

Can’t pack them away; paper into a satchel

Can’t make them shapeshift; magician and a frog

Can’t you see?

I’ve let my thoughts veer me from the silhouette

The genuine and luxurious silhouette

The silhouette of my own imagination

       Poetry is both an abstract and concrete way of expressing one’s thoughts, emotions, and ideas. It is like a raindrop falling into a puddle. It is one drop that becomes an entire pool of them, together making it larger. You see the poem itself, but behind it, it’s a much larger picture. There is so much time, thoughts, mistakes, and improvements that went into creating the structured poem. No one truly understands a poem as much as the poet does. The poet creates the poem based off of their knowledge, background, current or even past emotion. It takes more time for the author to begin the process of constructing the poem than it takes the audience to read it.

      Poetry is a piece of the poet. It is something that speaks to them in a way, but it also speaks to the audience. Poems are constructed with poetic aspects that make each one unique. If a person calls a poem, a poem, I feel that it makes it poetry. For a poem to become a poem, the poet must desire it to be that style of writing. Poetry is poetry if the author chooses for that to be its purpose. Poetry can come in many forms, from many different people, with different opinions, different backgrounds, and different stories to tell. Without the poet’s consent, their writing cannot be called a poem. It is up to the writer to portray their composition in the way that they’d like. 

       In order to be a poem, it must consist of some type of meaning. It must have something meaningful behind it. Even if the poet wrote about a time they were eating a cookie. The poem still has a sense of purpose, because to the poet, that moment was significant enough for them to either remember or choose to write about. It makes a poem even more powerful when it is shared for others to view. The poet is sharing a piece of their life with others, that makes it so much stronger. Besides meaning, it should have emotions, or thoughts behind it. Something that mimics the poet as a person. Something that gives us an idea of who they are, it shows a portion of them. The poet may not choose to indicate themselves directly, but throughout the creation, there will be something that shows you. It may even be the title itself. 

       Personally, this is my point of view coming from looking at other poet’s poetry, and my own. In my poem, I Noticed, the meaning behind it, was to give others a perspective on what it was like to be a young African American child, then mature to notice things you see corrupt with society now and reflect on them.  I chose to write it because, at that time, that is what my heart and mind were set on. In my set of Twelve by Twelve Poems, I decided to talk about personal experiences. Personal memories, with strong emotions and details. These poems were all about me, and my life, but I still chose to put it out for everyone to see. I shared it with others and asked for feedback. Another thing that makes poetry so strong. Receiving useful feedback and making those necessary improvements. I shared those poems with other people because I chose too. Lastly, because the entire set of poems are about myself, they strongly give a sense of who I am as a person. Each one includes a different aspect of my life, little snippets for the audience to be drawn by. 

       Over the semester, from the poetry I read and wrote, I learned that no two people are the same. Everyone is unique and shows their creative minds in their own way. Yes, some people have poetic views in common, but each one sees something in their own perspectives. About poetry, I learned that it is all different, it comes in many forms, and that it can be simple, complex, or both at the same time. Poetry is its own genre but many different materials fit into it. About my writing and myself, I learned that I’ve grown much stronger as a writer. I learned that I enjoy writing, it allows me to express myself, and I learned that my pieces are mine. I can be inspired by another’s work but they will never be the same, and that is incredible to me. The most difficult thing for me, in the beginning, was discovering the topics I wanted to write about, it later became easier once I understand that poetry is what you make it. The easiest thing for me was sharing my work with others. I am already a talkative person, but sharing my work with my peers, friends, family, and teacher, allowed me to feel that I was sharing portions of myself with them. I truly enjoyed this class, and I’m taking a lot away from it. 

Tracy K. Smith answers with her honest opinion on the questions asked. She shares her thoughts with details and sophistication. Smith talks about certain subjects that I found interesting and truthful. Smith says, “And people notice so many things. They find ways of making poems, no matter the topic, useful to where they are as an individual” (Paragraph 4). This makes me think about how fascinating the brain is. It’s true that when you absorb information, it is easier to do so if you can relate to it on a personal level. As I think about it, whenever I read poetry, it’s easier for me to comprehend if I can relate to it and compare to it. Tracy K. Smith also said, “I really believe that the more you do that, the more you see the world as a place where there are multiple realities happening, and they’re all valid” (Paragraph 7). I also believe this statement. She later says that she thinks that it is a way of saying that there are many voices speaking out and each voice is saying something different but all the voices are connected in a way and stronger, as well as more powerful together. Each unique voice combines to create one persuasive one. This is important. It shows and portrays a sense of many becoming one. It tells us that no matter how many voices are speaking, they can come together and be more efficient as a whole. These are only two out of many things that I found interesting from Tracy’s responses. She is an amazing and powerful speaker speaking on behalf of poets all around. As she said in the first quote I recited from her, I found all her statements amazing and I could relate to them. I found a way to connect to them. She is incredible an I loved reading this article and report.

It is 9:31 in Austin Texas, a Thursday morning

I am following the well known, ecstatic, and delegate Ms. White

she is excited today, showing off that beautiful smile

the sun gleams off of her making her skin sparkle.

pretty warm outside but Ms. White hasn’t broken a sweat

 

Ms. White is graceful, making life seem like a piece of cake

the only time I thought I’d speak to her is when pigs fly

she tells me her story, saying that she is a writer herself

claiming that she writes but not as unique as Shakespear

Ms. White says that she is in love with life itself

 

Ms. White asks me a question, she says

“How do you feel about being a reporter in Austin?”

I reply, “I love it, Austin provides many opportunities,

activities, and it is full of new things every day!”

she agreed with me but said there was more

I looked out, saw the delight in her eyes and saw that,

life is what you make it.

 

 

 

 

Theme: Identity 

(Ghazal): A Lost Soul

A small soul, with a covered face, no name;
Peeping around the wall, they must be ashamed.

You call out to them but they don’t reply,
Their identity is something they don’t want to claim.

The sunlight reveals their clothes, tattered away
Now out of nowhere, it begins to rain.

Before you let them in, to care for the child,
You must determine that they are sane.

The small child says they don’t remember anything
You respond by reassuring them that they aren’t to blame.

A bright searching light, White, guides them from the shadows
From this moment on, a story of finding identity will have became.

 

(Rondeau): Treated Like a King

A newborn boy is treated like a king,
But at this time, he does not know a thing.
Relieved to see that he’d finally come out.
Mom was tired of having to push and shout.
Everyone rejoices, they all sing.

He’s only lived a while as a human being
And he has gifts, that people chose to bring.
That’s the kind of stuff I’m talking about.
Treated like a king.

They’ve picked out a name, it has a ring.
Something that really speaks and sings.
They have an idea of who he’ll be, he pouts
The family has it already planned out.
One thing’s for sure, he’s sharp, it may sting.
Treated like a king.

Identity Thief

Those thieves stole it from beneath me
My most prized possession, right when I wasn’t looking.
They began to mock me and copy me.
I just thought they were interested in me as a person.
I was extremely wrong, that wanted to BE like me.
The thieves took everything I ever had as if they cloned me.
I guess it was for the best. It wasn’t really mine, to begin with.
My skill is identity theft, I’ll do it again.

Finding Who I Am

Who am I?
I’m unique, I’m one of a kind.
Or maybe I’m just like the rest, average and all.
I feel something within, ecstatic to be released.
Trying to break from the inside out.
Every day I discover a new piece of myself.
Similar to a puzzle, I just haven’t solved it yet.
My personality becomes stronger each day.
That is what makes me, me.
I will never find myself because I never lost it.

Reality is Real:

The reflection from my mother’s eyes,
As the sun bounced off of them ever so slightly.

I looked into her eyes falling deeper and deeper.
I finally saw what I was looking for: myself.

Felt as if I was traveling to a place I wanted to be.
No judgments on who I was as a person.

I felt a tug, then a yank, forcing me back to reality.
Unprepared, I wasn’t ready to return.

She told me to be who I wanted to be.
To never change for anyone else in the world.

That moment, I realized that reality is real.
I realized that I am fine just the way I am.

Saving Myself:

The feeling is unreal, I’m lost in plain sight.
I can see the frown on my face, it’s all I notice.
A leaf falls and rests in the area my eyes are set.
It all goes blurry for a few seconds, I wait for it to calm.
The light blue water, and a bright orange autumn leaf mix.
Both touch each other, I reach down to pick up the leaf.
It all goes back to normal, I’m in the same position.
I’m still staring at my reflection in the puddle.
This time I see a smile staring back at me.
For some odd reason, I can see more clearly.
I can see myself, and I’m found.

20 Little Prompts: Prompts to an Image

To surmise is to theorize anything.

A unique belief that is as true as

a baby’s babble that you can not grasp.

The sound of nonsense to actuality.

Feel theory itself and it becomes stronger.

Tasting our thoughts on the tip of our tongue.

Watching the words continuously flow.

Sniff the source of distasteful elements.

It all brings you deeper to confusion.

Leonna Labirtha, from Tennessee.

“Why believe in those ‘fantasies?’”

She says. I disagree with her, it is very clear.

Those ‘fantasies’ are what keep us at night.

Compared thoughts to a whatchamacallit.

All because I said her shoe was untied?

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t.”

The intelligent hat of wisdom is:

guiding light to us all, so bright it’s dark.

Leonna tears apart the hat of wisdom.

Naya strongly disagrees with Leonna.

Soon, Leonna will start believing in dreams.

Leaves on Leonna’s tree fall, leaving it nude.

Her tree of negativity, no more.

Believers had come in 1700 on small canoes.

Siempre se abierta para nuevas cosas.

The water waves and encourages us.

Glistens as the sun touches it slightly.

 

Love Poem: The Remarkable Woman

 

From the hospital, sick resting, you still made it to my game.

Surviving off close to nothing, you still provided.

You weren’t physically or mentally great, but you checked on me first.

When I was low on confidence, you were there to boost it.

I cried and told you to stay away, but you stayed to reassure me.

You’re my biggest supporter, always providing me with the abilities of a celebrity.

Thank you for existing as yourself.

 

Even through the absolute toughest situations, you’re still there.

When we fight, you still remain correct.

You taught me how to appreciate myself.

You taught me how to appreciate others.

You taught me not to let go of things important to me.

You taught me how to be myself.

You taught me to appreciate myself, as well as others.

 

Thank you for existing as my best friend.

Thank you for existing as my partner in crime.

Thank you for existing as my only.

Thank you for existing for me.

Thank you for existing as such a caring person.

You’re so remarkable to me, Mama.

 

Social Justice/Witness: I Noticed, Didn’t Think Much About It

I didn’t understand when I was young.
Didn’t have the slightest thought that the word wasn’t a perfect place.
As I grew older, the screen from my eyes was lifted.
Gradually, I began to notice things.
Noticed the color of my skin, the texture of my hair, my background.
I noticed that I was different.

A young black girl, ambitious, with dreams.
I lived in a society where I didn’t see much representation of my culture.
Didn’t think much of it, but I noticed it.
Traveled to the store, a row of Barbies, none that looked like me.
None that looked like my mama, daddy, family.
Pale skin, thin bodies, straight hair, I still bought them, but I noticed.

Now that I’m older, I reflect on my past.
I compare my young eyes to my ripened ones.
Wish I could go back.
Wish I could once again be, that young black girl, ambitious, with dreams.
I can only imagine how life would be,
If I was that girl who only noticed, and didn’t think much of it.

One thing I notice all the time, is that I’m different.

Humument (2): 

Poetry Responses:

Biography:

Wanda Coleman (birth name, Wanda Evans) is an African American poet. She was born on November 13, 1946 in Los Angeles, CA. She passed away in November 22, 2013. Throughout her lifetime, she worked as a medical secretary, magazine editor, journalist, and Emmy Award-winning script writer before she decided to turn to poetry. Anger, unhappiness, and violence are often her essential themes in her stories and poetry. Coleman began her poetry at the age of 5. She published her first few poems in a local newspaper at age 13. Coleman attended several colleges and did not receive a degree, but she taught and constructed workshops at a university level. Many of her poems have been translated to Spanish, French, German, and Hungarian. Coleman’s talent has brought attention to many readers. Besides poetry, Coleman enjoyed, music, visual arts and a passion for theater and public speaking.

Poem 1: Bedtime Story

bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room
trying to ignore them

in the morning, especially Sunday mornings
it will not let me up. you must sleep
longer, it says

facing south
the bed makes me lay heavenward on my back
while i prefer a westerly fetal position
facing the wall

the bed sucks me sideways into it when i  
sit down on it to put on my shoes. this
persistence on its part forces me to dress in
the bathroom where things are less subversive

the bed lumps up in anger springs popping out to
scratch my dusky thighs

my little office sits in the alcove adjacent to
the bed. it makes strange little sighs
which distract me from my work
sadistically i pull back the covers
put my typewriter on the sheet and turn it on

the bed complains that i’m difficult duty
its slats are collapsing. it bitches when i
blanket it with books and papers. it tells me
it’s made for blood and bone

lately spiders ants and roaches
have invaded it searching for food

Response to Poem 1: Wanda Coleman’s poem, Bedtime Story, is written about her bed and her moments with it. She describes the bed and refers to it with personification. Coleman’s personification provides us with a sense of understanding. It allows us to make more in dept connections between Coleman and her bed. What makes the poem more interesting is that the poet describes to us her only having a negative relationship with it. She talks about how the her bed never wants her to leave, and how it causes her to always be consumed by it’s wanting. The fact that we can relate to Bedtime Story as we know that a bed does have a strong force when someone is tired and needs to rest. Coleman’s choice of word usage is powerful as she constructs her poem. I found the format of her poem interesting, the way she had all of her “i”s lowercase, periods in a non sequential order, and the first letter after a period being lowercase. I feel that this format changes the way the audience reads the poem. The way it was constructed personally made me reader it in a softer but more stern tone. Bedtime Story really shows how powerful word, word usage, and formatting in poetry can be.

Poem 2: February 11th 1990

Response to Poem 2: Coleman writes February 11th 1990 on behalf of Dennis Brutus, a South African activist, poet, and refugee at the time living in America, no longer being banned from South Africa. Brutus was banned from teaching, writing, speaking in public, and attending social or political messages under the Suppression of Communism Act. All of his work was banned in South Africa, some of his writings made it past the South African sensors as he wrote under John Bruin. What I took away from the poem was that, as it’s a new year. The leaves change colors, becoming a symbol of freedom. She recognizes Brutus’ band being lifted as she related it to a prison door opening. Behind the door is a nation accepting him and the work that he’d done. She states this as she says that a nation’s heart is released. Wanda Coleman makes specific and strong connection that relate context to each other, still containing the message behind them. Coleman bases her entire poem off of another poet who went through something that affected his entire life, occupation, financial situation, what he enjoyed, and many more. She wrote a real uplifting poem based off of a real situation that didn’t begin well.

 

Poem 3: Dear Mama (4)

when did we become friends?
it happened so gradual i didn’t notice
maybe i had to get my run out first
take a big bite of the honky world and choke on it
maybe that’s what has to happen with some uppity youngsters
if it happens at all

and now
the thought stark and irrevocable
of being here without you
shakes me

beyond love, fear, regret or anger
into that realm children go
who want to care for/protect their parents
as if they could
and sometimes the lucky ones do

into the realm of making every moment
important
laughing as though laughter wards off death
each word given
received like spanish eight

treasure to bury within
against that shadow day
when it will be the only coin i possess
with which to buy peace of mind

Response to Poem 3:

The relationship between a mother and the poet. She starts out by talking about how their friendship began immediately, without recognition. How she thinks that it began once she went into the world alone and failed causing her to turn to her mom for guidance. She soon realizes that she made a severe mistake that cannot be altered and the thought of not having her mom around scares her. As children who want to only take care of their parents get older, they start to gear off and have more emotion such as love, fear, regret, or anger. Making their decisions and choosing how they used their time. Advice given to them is no longer listened to. She ends with talking about how she’d only want a piece of mind. This is how I annotated the poem. I felt that this poem was a bit difficult to comprehend but some parts came together for the reader to understand. I like how you it makes you use common sense and thinking about the real word to make connections throughout the poem. It’s how you understand it. Coleman’s writing format remains the same, with her lowercase “I”s and letters after the period, as well as periods in a non sequential order, the ending mark is not always present.

Poem 4: In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Forever

we were never caught

we partied the southwest, smoked it from L.A. to El Dorado
worked odd jobs between delusions of escape
drunk on the admonitions of parents, parsons & professors
driving faster than the road or law allowed.
our high-pitched laughter was young, heartless & disrespected
authority. we could be heard for miles in the night

the Grand Canyon of a new manhood.
womanhood discovered
like the first sighting of Mount Wilson

we rebelled against the southwestern wind

we got so naturally ripped, we sprouted wings,
crashed parties on the moon, and howled at the earth

we lived off love. It was all we had to eat

Response to Poem 4: Wanda Coleman tells memories of herself and another, together at the time when they were still in school. I know they were in school at this time because Coleman talks about professors. Her memories are about when they partied, smoked, worked odd jobs, not listening to the warnings of adults, speeding, laughing, young, and not having a care in the world. Then Coleman says that they both find woman and manhood, meaning they mature and are growing up. She then begins using references that are not humanly possible to describe how freely they were living. She ends with saying that love was all that had. Coleman continues to keep her writing style throughout the poem, her lines don’t end on the end of a sentence. She continues her sentence throughout the line. This poem, to me, provides a sense of nostalgia, as they are both coming of age throughout the poem. I think the part I had the most trouble with was the line about rebelling against the Southwestern wind. I didn’t understand how that line fit into the poem or why she rebelled against it. Maybe it is simply because of her coming of age, maybe she’s talking about going against the area itself? I’m not sure but she also talked about the Southwest in the beginning, saying that that’s where they smoked. We know she either lived or often visited the Southwest.

Poem 5: American Sonnet (10)

after Lowell

our mothers wrung hell and hardtack from row
     and boll. fenced others’
gardens with bones of lovers. embarking
     from Africa in chains
reluctant pilgrims stolen by Jehovah’s light
     planted here the bitter
seed of blight and here eternal torches mark  
     the shame of Moloch’s mansions
built in slavery’s name. our hungered eyes
     do see/refuse the dark
illuminate the blood-soaked steps of each  
     historic gain. a yearning
yearning to avenge the raping of the womb
     from which we spring

Response to Poem 5: From the poem, I took away that Coleman is talking about the past, what her mother had been through. What had shaped her into who she was. Her mother having the background she did, gave her specific habits and a unique personality. Coleman talks about having to work hard, leaving Africa in chains, pilgrims following Jehovah’s light, the mansions showing only shame as they were built during the time of slavery, they were hungry, then what once took the most work to make a difference is looked on through each historic gain made. Wanting the avenge those who were rapped? But then she says, that’s the way they were brought out into the world. This poem shows and tells us how far we’ve come. It lets you picture the tragedies and issues in the world that led us to the lives we have today. I find it interesting how Coleman tells us about this and lets us know as she also provides examples. I had to look up a few things to understand, this is what I looked up: hardtack (hard dry bread or biscuit, especially as rations for sailors.) and boll (the rounded seed capsule of plants such as cotton or flax.). She used these words to describe what her mother used to do.

Conclusion: I’ve repeated this throughout my responses but Wanda Coleman does indeed have a strong and unique writing style. Throughout each of her poems there are common writing formats. Coleman never capitalizes her “i”s, or the first letter in the first word after the period. She also never places periods on the last sentence at the end of a stanza. She places them in non common places. Wanda Coleman is a strong poet and you can see the common themes of anger, unhappiness, and violence. The best thing about her writing is that her poems are never over confident with her essential themes, she always has a strong and powerful message behind each poem. Coleman does not write just to write, she writes to make the blurry clear, the over viewed obvious, etc. Wanda Coleman speaks the truth and she uses personal connections to make her poems even stronger. These connections allow us to view and understand her poetry on a deeper level. It helps us to be able to see what Coleman is talking about, and be able to relate to it all. I don’t that Coleman’s poems had a connection length wise, because she wrote both long and short poems. There was no strong correlation in length, between them all.

Mimic of Bedtime:

phone calls. i attempt to finish my homework

trying to ignore them

 

after school, on weekdays

it distracts me. you mustn’t finish,

it’s a waste of time, it says

 

on the desk

the phone makes me type and type

i know i should be working but it

won’t let me

 

the phone sucks me into its screen

when i think of my work. i leave

to the kitchen, from the hypnotizing phone

 

it begins to buzz violently,

yelling for me to come back

 

my work sits on my bed and i go

to it. it starts making loud

noises to distract me. i set my

work right next to to give it some

comfort, maybe it’ll stop

 

the phone is upset,

yells at me when i pay no close

attention to it. i try to rarely even

give it a small glance

 

Lately I’ve just given up on

fighting it. the phone has a strength

i believed i was strong enough to fight

maybe one day.

 

Epigram:

We lived off love.

We were young, we didn’t want to grow up.

We didn’t question anything you told us, we trusted you.

We never worried about where our next meal was coming from.

We never worried about not having a roof over our heads.

We lived with what we had.

We didn’t ask for more, nor less.

We knew it could all be gone at the snap of two fingers.

We know you had our backs, we never felt fear.

We lived off you.

We lived off love.

 

Quotes:

“usta be young usta be gifted – still black.”

“we got so naturally ripped, we sprouted wings, crashed parties on the moon, and howled at the earth(,) we lived off love. It was all we had to eat(.)”