Response to Concept: 11/4/19

Even though I already wrote about negation in my previous post, I wanted to focus more on how silence affects negation. Silence is the key to negating all outside distractions and focusing on the important. Zapruder states, "It is the silence that draws me into speaking." (202) I can empathize with that greatly. When it comes to everyday situations, I tend to open up more around typically "shy" people. I feel more of a sense of comfort around those who are demure and quiet and allow space for my voice to shine. It is not to say that I am completely in my shell around loud people, but it definitely takes longer for me to open up around this kind of person. When it comes to writing, I feel the same way. It is much easier for me to be drawn into writing when it is completely silent. It is through the silence where I feel I can finally breathe and pave my thoughts onto paper.

Poem Response-"Women's Locker Room" 11/2/19

I will try to focus on the aesthetics of this poem such as the visual appearance and also focus on the actual content. On paper, the poem has such a beauty to it. The stanzas are all the approximate length with the exception of one seemingly shorter than the rest. The way it is formatted sparks the allusion of storytelling. While reading the actual poem, it feels like the readers are being told a story, one of which is uncomfortable and obtrusive. As someone who hated locker rooms in high school, I can contend with this uneasy situation. I remember specifically trying to find a bathroom in which I could change rather than changing in the dreaded locker room. Besides the point, there are phrases that call back these uncomfortable memories. Phrases like "childhood taunts, branded ears" remind me of the annoying teens who shuffled in the locker room after health class. Not only does it depict the emotion so accurately, but it also paints pictures in my mind which I would never have imagined. The phrase "divide like an amoeba into twin rages that stomp around" is quite simply remarkable. The way it flows off the tongue is beautiful, the lyrical sound rings in my ears, but it is also the imagery which is wowing. I can just imagine an amoeba dancing trying to find its twin. The poem does a great job of making a connection between completely unrelated things, and I loved the format of telling the story.

New Poem: "Ode to the Rose" - 11/4/19

Oh thy rose

as red as ripe wine.

Your succulent taste stains

my teeth with your floral aroma. 

Oh thy rose 

with such petals that

fly to meet men’s pink thighs.

How your sweet touch 

makes men believe.

Oh thy rose 

with spirits that waft

into one’s senses.

Intoxicating, enriching the young mind.

Oh thy rose 

with an edge to

such gentle nature 

that pricks wavering hands.

Oh thy rose,

You are melted sin 

that heats my supper and burns

my raw lips, yearned to be smoothed.

Oh thy rose,

Your sweet kiss stains

my lips with red ink and I taste 

your tongue curling in me. 

Oh thy rose,

You are open like a blossom

waiting for its bee to sprinkle

yellow feathers onto soft skin.

Oh thy rose,

You whisper kindly 

cloud dreams drifting

down to touch wet earth.

Your soft skin,

delicate at the touch,

when rubbed too firmly,

tatters to tiny red babies

that yearn to be touched once

again. Oh thy rose with such

beauty and prose, you are the

symbol of red lust. Your name

a reminder of the flower between thighs.

How it must be cared for gently. 

You are pure as snow but tainted with blood

that is rich, thick syrup. I nuzzle my nose in 

your center and find such a smell unique to 

all men. Why it is not sweet nor bitter. My nose

tastes your gentle hand pushing me further.

Oh thy rose with soft petals. When rubbed

your sweet color stains my white hands. Your

touch is gentle and fresh. You are everything pure. You are

everything, my pure desire. You are the heart of

all romantic pursuits. You are the love

which I dream. And when my lover opens thy door,

I will greet with your blossom of beauty. 

Poem Response: 10/28

Negation is eliminating something to focus on something else. It is a sort of meditation where we eliminate things to extend our possibilities. We alight something new out of the void. I have often felt this in spiritual moments. When I still identified as a Christian, I would oftentimes take great joy in praying or participating in adoration. The room would be empty, words lacking, with only a light to fill the room. In this emptiness, I felt the most whole. I focused on the interior and eliminated-for the time being-the exterior: the sounds constantly distracting from the important. I focused on what was important, myself. I would think of what needed to be improved. At the time of my first adoration, I prayed about my alcoholic father and narcissistic, abusive aunt. I focused on how they hurt me and how I no longer wanted to hurt. I felt a sense of tranquility by indulging in my pain and felt like I came to a general consensus within myself- something needed to be fixed and it could be done by analyzing each and every hurtful experience. I thought about how I could grow as a person; how I could help others even more. The room was empty, soundless, but my mind was loud and full. As a non-believer, I reflect on those times and realized that what was gained was spiritual, but, not in the holy sense. It was a sort of spirituality of delving into my innermost thoughts, gaining more possibilities, by eliminating the distracting. When I read "Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour", I could empathize with the situation for the very same reason. We both gained a spiritual sense through negation. We both encountered something beautiful by alighting endless possibilities and by honing in on the important.

Poetry concept: 10/28

Negation is when "the poet conjures a vacuum into which other possibilities can unexpectedly rush." (Zapruder, 5) The imagination fills in the emptiness; we, as poets, push everything away and focus on the real or imagined.Itis a way of emptying our minds like meditation, making us focus on a single word or concept. We at times begin our poems with negation or end them with negation. Zapruder provides examples of both in the chapter "Nothing Is The Force That Renovates The World" When doing this, we open our minds to the "what ifs." What if we decided to take the road on the left instead of the one on the right? What if we decided to not take any road at all? These questions may have been very well asked by Robert Frost when he wrote "The Road Not Taken." We open our minds to the"what-ifs" f our imagined decisions. As poets, we are gifted with intrinsic creativity often not found in the logical world. We are gifted with something many can not understand because it is beyond the physical reality. With this gift, we can fuel our creative juices and see different ways of negation.

"Dream Test Subject": New Poem: M, 10/28

Mommy is my best friend.

She plays with my brown

curls and prays with me. She reads stories

about little men feeling lonely

and tells me to never bully because

everyone is special. Her hands

are soft like air. Her breath cold like

water in winter. She loves to sing

Christmas songs and always mentions how

granny sang along. Her eyes are blue like

the Pacific Ocean. Mommy used that word

in a haiku once. It went like this:

Pacific ocean

undiscovered water

see how its life sings

Mommy is a scientist. She is an o-cean-o-gra-pher. 

I like to write haikus about her swimming in the ocean.

Mommy tells me to be careful though or

else I'll drown. When she is not teaching

about the ocean, she likes to watch me sleep.

She tells me you're a paralysis patient. 

She injects me with green liquid, and when I open my eyes

her eyes turn brown. Grandma stands in the corner

and hums a lullaby. Mommy says everything will be ok. It is just

a dream. I tell mommy to stay but she always

fades. Then comes the angry man. He strips my blanket

and tells me to play with his toy. Grandma hums louder

while the blankets rustle and the serum fizzles. He leaves like

he came. Grandma faces the wall and my eyes turn black. Mommy wakes

me from my bad dream and holds me. She says it'll be alright.

But, my fingers can touch the pain. Mommy begins our new lesson

and I watch the tick-tock go by. 6 o'clock rings and mommy injects me. 

Results must be accurate. I try to close

my eyes and dream it away. Grandma smiles while pain sings.

Response to Poem: 10/21/19

Zapruder included a poem of his own that is meant to explain the symbolism in poetry. The way he used eggs, something so simple, to explain something different was interesting. I made a connection with something relatable and something less relatable. His poem was simple yet deep. The egg, as he mentions, holds different meanings. You can not find one meaning for one object. There are so many ways you could explain what it symbolizes. Zapruder does exactly this with simple food. His poem is short and simple for a reason and it adds food for thought. It connects with his message, and it makes me see symbolism more clearly in poetry. It is a tool for something much more than hacking one meaning out of test-takers. No. It is meant to create a world of meaning. The egg, although seeming simple, is much more complex. Zapruder made it complex by tying in multiple meanings. We see how it symbolizes anxiety from asking simple questions. We see how it ties into writing poetry.

Response to Concept: 10/21/19

Symbolism is not meant to be taken so literally in poetry. There is not one meaning which can be derived so easily like a multiple choice answer ready to be bubbled. It is fluid in poetry. There is so much to do with one word and its meaning could be nothing at all. It could be everything. It could be every sense and be anything beyond its scope. A heart could symbolize a giraffe's evolution; it could symbolize the brain of a preacher. Does this make sense? Perhaps not in such a simple sentence, but it could mean a lot more in a poem about human evolution. As Zapruder mentions, we are not supposed to designate one meaning to one object. To be poets, we must master this play with words, crafting stanzas of metaphors and symbols. We must become symbolists and do with the language that a scientist never could.

New Poem: "White Rice" 10/21/19

Yây remember when

cheese in the sky

looked so yummy?

Green stems soaked in 

water above our knees.

Mud crinkled in dead skin,

callused toes, squeaking

inside my new black boots.

How much was paid that day

for Khuṇ pū̀s’ brown hands?

Was enough paid for

the rumbling in Anurak’s

tummy when he ate rice

caked in blood? 

My own back hurt

like camels across

the Indian Ocean.

A circle of yellow 

blanketed by black night

could feed my entire village.

It stared when flesh reeked

in dirt and did not help

any village. I wanted to eat

it whole and say no to the day

my brown hands turned red.

Response to Concept: Wk 8; M, 10/7

In Why Poetry, Zapruder explains the concept of "associative movement." It is the association between different concepts, and it is the leaping between different subjects. It is all about making connections and including them in your poetry. Zapruder includes the poem "Meditation at Lagunitas" as an introduction to this concept. The poem makes connections between blackberries, which the poet must recite during his meditation, and making love to a woman. We see the relationship between these two subjects and how they intertwine through small moments. Even though we may not go directly from blackberries to sex, there are little connections that could gradually lead us into that direction of though. It is like a train with different parts adding together to create the whole thing. I enjoyed reading about this concept because it creates food for thought. It shows how my poems can be written, starting with the form and content.

"I am your Eve"- New Poem: Wk 8; M, 10/7

Kisses melt like butter 

in brown skin. My mind

wanders to lessons inside

white chapel on Bethany Street:

Now the works of the flesh are evident: 

sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality.

You’re a cartographer- 

tracing lines, sketching

the rivers that course

                                  down my small peaks.

My lip curls in my mouth, 

blood staining my teeth.

The pain a reminder of sin 

that feels so good. 

You lead me into your room:

a bed to the side.

Your warm hand tells me

this will be the night. 

Clothes, prey to gravity,

crash to the ground.

Our primitive form revealing

what I covered every Sunday night. 

Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, 

but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body.

I look into your eyes,

glazed with lust, and my

hands tremble like a sinner

in church. I whisper:

Go gentle, it’s my first time. 

Babble-merchants sold

stories of women crying

through the night. I was told

a stick would poke my insides.

You were different. I was open

like a clam showing its pearl-

luring you into my treasure,

and you took it, and it was warm

and wet inside my sea. 

My whimpers purred 

for your creamy milk 

to wash my mouth of sin.

I wanted you, back arched for more. 

A diamond did not glint on

my left finger. Your name,

property I did not possess. 

Your home, a stranger to my own.

Let marriage be held in honor among all, 

and let the marriage bed be undefiled, 

for God will judge the sexually immoral. 

Yet, we were one. And my body

was married to your Cuban

flesh which glided on

bright sweat, lit by the yellow

lamp above our heads. 

I bit the apple and let

the snake ravish my body.

My soul will never

be cleansed of the mark

you made inside the Garden of Eve. 

Poem Response "The Lost Pilot": wk 8; M, 10/7

When I first read this poem, I was stupefied. I kept drifting, trying to find the meaning. It wasn't until we went over the title and dates that something seemed to click. I stared at the pages, my mouth agape. I was reading about James Tate's father; the man who died when he was only a baby. He included the years he lived alongside his fathers to show the timeline. "The Lost Pilot" refers to his father, a soldier lost at war. When he addresses him, he addresses a dead man who is lost somewhere to be found. He pretends he is still alive...orbiting somewhere we can't fathom. He pleads, "If I could cajole you to come back for an evening, down from your compulsive orbiting, I would touch you..." He yearns to touch his father, to meet the man who is in constant orbiting. Even though he has a curious, pleading nature, he also has a guilting nature: blaming his father for his death. I really loved how this poem made me imagine the fictional- a man orbiting in space while his son begs him to come back down to earth. It is a beautiful take on something miserable.

"Classroom Dream"-New Poetry: Wk 7; M, 9/30

Eyes fluttering shut, her mind pictures the constant drilling of Ms.Wordsworth 

spitting rhymes at a classroom of gaping mouths, ceasing to capture the buzzing of flies.

A tall glass of virgin Margarita sits to her left. Red hair, bright pink lips-

The sweet juice of ripe, succulent strawberries ready to be sucked. His father’s cologne trails

past her as he rescues wood falling from fingertips. Laser beams pierce his superman

tee. He notices. Turning to her- a cordial grin, a simple nod. Then, back to square one.

A sigh circles her head, breathing over her fantasy. Ms. Wordsworth comes to view

thumping the whiteboard “Ms. Greene answer one.” Heart beating, her lip trembles.

What was the question? Eyes and ears waiting on an answer scared to come.
“Uh, yes ma’am. The theme is to focus on reality.” Stiff, hairsprayed hair graces gray, leathered skin.

Red crusted lips turn up and say “ok.” Sweaty palms rub against tight denim like

sponges scrubbing dishes on a Sunday night. Glancing to her left, She catches a smile

red like love. Eyes fluttering open, white light blinds her view. A blinking cursor winks at her

as she gains reality. The title begins with only a dream.

Poem Response: Wk 7; M, 9/30

When did I come to understand the meaning of iambic pentameter? I do not think it has ever truly clicked in my head. I've written countless poems yet my mind still swivels at the mere word. I tend to forget the definition, searching it on Google for instant relief. It seems to always pass by me as an eminent fog. My guess is that I can never remember because it was never emphasized in my youth..or that may just be an excuse for my forgetfulness. I can say that I've found the key to somewhat remembering though...and it's reading and analyzing poems with iambic pentameter. Specifically, "The Lull" from "Meter, Rhyme, and Form" comes to mind. I sat down reading this poem about a dead opossum. I felt like I was in a trance watching these dressed-up adults "traipsing" down railroad tracks, watching this dead creature on the side. I loved the imagery but what was most notable was the sound. It all seemed to fit conveniently.  Not every line sticks super close to iambic pentameter, but overall it does and that's what makes it wonderful to read. Poems like "The Lull" help me understand concepts in a more relatable fashion.

Response to Concept: Wk 7; M, 9/30

 Reflecting on my younger school days, images of rhyme-filled poems come to mind. I remember reading nursery rhymes and poems that included end rhyme. I remember learning about ABAB-the constant pattern being drilled into my head. Since I grew up reading these poems, it's unsurprising that I expected most poems to follow a certain rhythm or sound. I didn't realize until my senior year of high school when I took my first creative writing class the diversity of poetry! I learned how much you could do inside a couple of stanzas, and I loved it! It wasn't until this year however that I was able to understand internal rhyme in such complexity. In the chapter "Meter, Rhyme, and Form" the author discusses this concept. They demonstrate how poems can rhyme words within a line rather than at the end of a line. It is something with which most poets can take home with them and use as a sharpened tool to craft any piece.

Response to Concept: Wk 6; M, 9/23

In my writing, I have always felt a difficulty in finding my voice. Everything always felt choppy and like a conglomerate of other voices: bits and pieces of authors shelved on my bookcases popped out awkwardly in my writing. A piece of advice that truly helped me find my voice was from Stephen King in his novel "On Writing". He states that we can find our writing by reading a variety of novels and by copying some of our favorite passages. We could start by copying passage and analyzing the tone, sentence structure, diction, and syntax. I tried following his advice and it proved helpful. A similar piece of advice is provided in "Voice and Style." The authors tell us to find our persona by reading more poems and by copying different techniques. This chapter gave me a similar relief as "On Writing" because it provided different ways that I could shape my voice in poems.

Poem Response "Skinhead": Wk 6- M, 9/23

Out of all of the poems, I've read thus far, this one definitely contradicts the expected. While reading this, I imagined a white supremacist angrily writing lines of fury. A man with such anger that he felt compelled to expel it onto thin sheets of white paper. Of course, there are some things which would go against this thought process. Foremost, the speaker would have to be uneducated and unable to write something so cohesive. I could hear the tone of an angry, racist man and I felt almost scared with lines like "I get hard listening to their skin burst" making my eyes widen from the image of blood splashing at the hands of a white supremacist. Immediately after reading this poem, I turned to my boyfriend (Alan) and asked him to read everything from start to end. He had a similar reaction, specifically pointing out the same line that stood out to me. I was amazed by how appalled I felt... all at the power of a black woman. It is amazing to see how we can change our persona while writing poems and create something which is utterly not ourselves. I was able to see this change in persona also most clearly in the poem "Cuba, 1962" written by Ai. The poet is a black, Asian woman who writes as a Cuban man. Some people may say that poems only reflect what the poet has experienced, but as can be seen, that does not always have to be necessarily true.

"Aquamarine": Wk 6; M, 9/23

Swimming through aquamarine

is like sucking 

refreshing gulps

of coolness that drifts

and glides, forming

chill bump mountains.

It is rain 

between fingertips

washing away

the grime 

beneath nails.

It is relief

condensed on dry

 tongues. The sweet, 

innocent taste of

mineral purity.

It cools the red veins

popping out of my 

eye sockets, pushes

me into a sea where

I'm swimming through aquamarine.

"La Migra"- New Poem: Wk 6; M, 9/16

Sweat like icicles
pierce cracked skin.
Tender from the scorching
star in space. A ball as big
as the knot growing

in your throat when you see-
men handing signature-filled
booklets saying: passport.
Madre always warned-

do not look back Ignacio
or else doomed to be
a pillar of salt. The very
thought reminds his

tongue to touch
crust like dried ocean
on his upper lip.

"Apurale hombre"
"La migra, Ignacio"
Madre always did say
men must run

when stupidity traps
rationality in a
lucha for survival.
Donde esta el coyote?

Trained on dens
hiding the unfree.
Where are these
brown rubble inns

filled with hope?
"Apurale, Ignacio"
Lights as bright
as a hooker blast through

men like dregs of coke
splattered on rocks.
Hands course as
a madre's eyes tear

at brown skin.
"Apurale, Ignacio
que ya llega la migra"

Response to Concept: Wk 6; M, 9/16

While we all gravitate towards familiar phrases, it is important to reach for the new. String together the familiar with the unfamiliar and create something oddly refreshing. One of the exercises in my intro creative writing class peaked my curiosity. We were to use a familiar phrase such as "raining cats and dogs" and switch out a few words. The intention is almost the same, but the execution is grandly altered. I read to the class my classic twist: raining men and hookers. I thought it was clever at seventeen. Although, I can't say much else at eighteen. I still laugh at it while simultaneously feeling embarrassment cloud my memory. Now, I took some something familiar like "men" and "hookers: and put it into a familiar phrase. Yet, the result was something new. The same can be said with similes and metaphors. You can use a familiar phrase, but replace the words. Or, you can add more to the phrase for a personal vendetta. Ah, yes, I will ruin you with my own personal touch you filthy, cliches! "Simile and Metaphor" expands on this piece of advice. It is important to use all sorts of interesting similes and metaphors in your writing to make it interesting! Or else, the writing would be taken more literally. At the root of it, do we want our writing to be taken absolute literally? Of course not. So, include similes and metaphors and idioms and other figurative language. Copy the old and paste something new.

Poem Response: Wk 6; M, 9/16

"Feared Drowned" has a lyricist novelty to it. To start off, both words end with "ed" and contain two syllables; easily flowing off the tongue. Images depicted simply with something relatable. Fear? We have all felt it. Drowning? We have seen some form of it. Connecting both words, connects both meanings. A different yet similar reaction in many. While reading the poem, the title proves its place at the top. The similes as mentioned in "Simile and Metaphor" make the imagery all the more clear, using relatable items in starkly, new comparisons. "Your suit black as seaweed" is fresh and rewarding. We are met with new phrases, sharing a catchy tune as familiar as "black like your soul". What also stood out was the urgency. The tone of it scuttling, shown by the rush of description coming from someone trying to identify"Too short, too heavy, clean-shaven." The enjambment in the fourth stanza is a nice, personal touch. The reader feels like they are truly near the edge. The first time reading this poem, I could'nt quite process what was happening, but the last two lines answer any questions.

Response to concept: Wk 5; M, 9/9

We are reminded in "Images" that "poets need to keep all five senses...on continual alert, ready to...reinvent it in language." Rather than focusing on one sense-usually sight- we should incorporate all senses into our poems. One way that we can do this as mentioned in the chapter, is by keeping a journal and jotting down sensations that stood out. It envelops us into a rich world where we are more aware of the particular details in our surroundings. We can include those notable sensations into our poetry and create something lively that also envelops the reader. An image in our minds can come to life and dance around to the soft sensations of description. A bronze saxophone can cut fingers from permeated rust and tinge the air with dust. Orange can travel from sweet cases of juice, from sweaty hands carrying brown lunch bags, from children's picture books. We can make these images come to life with simple description of all five senses.

Poem Response: Wk 5; M, 9/9

While reading the chapter "Images" in The Poet's Companion, I found myself wondering how I could include these rich images so skillyful inscribed in poems into ones of my own. Of course, advice was given at the end of the poem, but I learned best by reading the poems. The one that stood out the most to me was "Oranges". The poem used images of familiar items to evoke nostalgia and comfort. The imagery from the description of bright oranges, deep reds from rouge, bright yellows like the sun made my mind light up. The bright colors created a positive association inside my mind; the poem felt vibrant, energized. This lended a hand to the story being told inside the poem.

"Comfort the Unsteady": New Poem; M, 9/9

Plush arms wrapped around a quivering frame comfort the unsteady. They provide warmth
when the night is too
cold and the days
too frigid.
Tightness from chains strapped around the heart begin to melt. Until, a fortified memory may arise:
one of
taunts
from cruel children.
one of
the deaths of
9/11.
one of
belts slapping
bruised thighs.
one of
beggars begging
on streets.
one of
a globe of people
hurting.
Pitter patter of rain coursing down one's face is a reminder:
although justice may never be served,
although people are starving and dying,
although people are forever being haunted,
plush arms wrapped around a quivering frame can comfort the unsteady.

"Mobile-Home Fantasy"- New Poem: Wk 4; M, 9/2

Raking leaves,
I see the same grizzly man
staring at overgrown trees:
green, covering the view
of millions of mobile homes.
I wonder what he sees:
winding, cracked roads.
Windshield wiper stained
windows attached to
long, grey snakes on every
corner.
Garbage overflowing cans
marked with a city's sigil.
Fast-food wrappers taking flight;
landing on brown grass.

I wonder what he doesn't see:
Dirty laundry over pouring,
leaking against the aisles.
Wet dishes screaming
at yellow, soaked hands.
Carpet cleaner absorbing
last night's stains.
Paradise pinned against
the walls.
Fantasy paintings of
hot, sandy beaches
with seashells traveling
clear waves.

Poem Response "Home" : Wk 4; M, 9/2

While reading poems, some of us become accustomed to the same format: four lined stanzas evenly spaced out until the end. It is the familiar way that poems are written, but poems do not always have to be written this way. In fact, most times, the message of a poem is influenced by the way it is formatted. In Winner's poem "Home", we see wider stanzas with lines that aren't evenly spaced out. Instead, we see two paragraphs, with the first one being larger than the other. It is written almost like a story, and it engages us like a story. It wouldn't have made sense for the poem to be written in the comfort of the familiar four lined stanzas. And, because of the way it is written, it feels like I'm reading an interesting story regarding a man's sad home life in the Bronx. The description in the poem made it all the more engaging with words like "blighted","bleak","damp and dingy","bluffed", and "unremembering". This is a story about a desolate city, and we're made sure that that message hits home.

Response to Concept: Wk 4; M, 9/2

Familiar places influence the way we write. They may shape our format, thoughts, or inspiration. In the chapter, "Poetry of Place", we are shown that these triggers usually come in places most familiar to us; or sometimes normal places with odd things. Hugo often had these triggers when visiting towns. He had the inspiration to write poems about towns that had certain peculiarities that no one could quite answer. These poems were interesting because he answered his own questions; he provided a story and rich history for these "triggering towns". Whenever we sit down to write a poem, we may easily be influenced by our personal settings. And, when we can not find inspiration, we can simply use the places we have visited as content for our poems. I find it interesting that Hugo took something as simple as a tree and turned it into an object of interest in an intricate poem.

"95 Pounds"- New Poem: Wk 3; M, 8/26

Footsteps clattered on a green carpet floor
to the sound of extrinsic Latin fire
burning on a cheap princess radio.

The movements were easy to follow:
simply shake the hips, imagine
the tauntings of thin-lipped

children screaming explicit
obscenities on a cramped bus.
Imagine the feeling of lightness

creeping in as the scale
happily sighs 90 pounds.
Imagine, the metamorphosis

into someone accepted.
The beauty gained only
when someone keeps dancing to

the upbeat Zumba playlist:
coming from a cd placed
inside a child's favorite Gansito

cake snack box.
The temptation will be there
to pass out on the floor,

to give up, and say it's worthless.
to delve into a box of snack cakes,
instead of burning glutinous blubber.

But, a child wants to be accepted.
unfortunately, the sacrifice is their
health over an image on a magazine.

Sweat starts pouring
like rain on a Spic's back
and the labor pays

a decent wage.
How much is gained
from a cheap track

that is overplayed?
a leitmotif condemns
the naive girl.

Although the playlist ends,
the exertion is not over.
For a life of beauty

is one of pain.
Bruises on her back
taste the hardwood floor,

and her stomach
aches from skipping
last night's macaroni cheese.

A knock trembles the floor
and reminds her it's time for a
weigh-in.

-95 pounds-

Response to concept: Wk 3; M, 8/26

There is a part of me that yearns to hide behind formal greetings and forced smiles. That part of me is vulnerable and afraid. It is a part of me that I am not proud to reveal. I bury skeletons of the past Sandy; one who was weak and less determined. In those moments of fragility, I was not the strong, courageous person that I aspire to be. My actions weren't always valid; they weren't always excused or justified. In fact, most of my lowest moments were caused by my lack of reasoning and my desire to follow the darker sensations repressed within. A desire which lurches out at times of need.I don't like showing the world that I am sometimes in need. I always want to be strong, happy, and lighthearted. I want to fit the persona that I propagate to society every single day I walk out of my household. I crave being one hundred percent exceptionally sound. But, the shadow that lurks underneath the idealistic me grows larger as more light is cast upon it. And, even though I suppress those parts of myself, the healthy, strained version of me screams "let it out! expel those memories and don't latch onto them like a needy child suckling its mother's breast." So, I seek consolation and affirmation in reading chapters like "The Shadow" that tell me that I should write the forbidden, telling me to access what truly speaks to me in the depths of my personality. It is a concept that betters not only my writing but also my sanity, and although I do not need Addonizio to come to that conclusion, I do need the affirmation to secure the uncertain, insecure thoughts inside my head.

"From the Nursery" Poem Response- Wk 3; M, 8/26

While I can not relate to the sexual assault that Kenyon experienced as a child, I can sympathize with her language because of the feelings her poem evokes. The poem brings awareness to a difficult topic, and it makes the reader uncomfortable, something that is necessary in order to call attention to a matter. The reader can piece together moments where the poet felt oppressed, and that in itself is something most people have felt. For example, in the third stanza she describes the lessons her father taught her. He instilled a fear in her that the now didn't truly matter, instead, that the afterlife mattered more. He made the present insignificant and used god as an excuse for his immoral actions. It made her despise god and see him as a tool for people to throw away the present. I can empathize with her anger because I've been in a similar situation all of my life. The way she expresses those repressed feelings calls back negative moments in my own mind. 

Response to Concept: Week 2; M, 8/19

I have always struggled with writing about the things that truly pain me. My first year in high school, I was assigned a laws of life essay. The essay required each student to dispell their most personal secrets to a committee of judges for the possibility of gaining a $500 reward. I did not want my miseries to be seen as futile and less than compared to those of someone else. My past is valid. My pain and dwelling worries from a moment where everything was low would be cast in the spotlight in front of wavering, unknowing eyes. And, to be frank, it made me sick to my stomach. I would stare at my empty laptop screen for hours on end. Trying to muster the courage of opening sealed wounds. And for who? A group of men and women who would say- yes, your traumatic memories are worth third place. I couldn't do it. I opted out of writing something deep and broke the system. I wrote about a happy moment instead. While reading the Poet's Companion, a certain statement caught my attention. I was reminded of that fear from four years ago. It said, "...what you'll discover in your reading is that writing about the family is an American tradition, a way of knowing about ourselves." (Addonizzio,31) If we desire to write about something meaningful than we must first begin to understand our very own meaning. What makes us tick? What are our deepest worries? What inside us makes us most empathetic? The only way I'll be able to answer these questions is by continuing that story from a long time ago. Using our family as inspiration for writing is necessary. I was taught that important concept at a young age, but I shielded the lesson under foreboding circumstances. As an aspiring writer, I would like to pick that concept back up from the cobwebs in the back of my head. And say fuck it, let's begin.

"A Girl of Gold" - New Poetry; Week 2, M, 8/19

In the right corner

of a shoebox room,

is a twin-sized bed that

once held a girl of gold.

She was raised eighteen years

surrounded by the same

crayon stained walls

with peaks above her head.

Every night she stared

at the empty wall

which secured her bed 

wondering what if?

        inside, her, head...

So she turned that

shoebox room into

a girl of gold's dream.

What was once poor,

turned rich with memories.

Memorabilia filled the room

of moments dear to her.

When she graduated,

pictures decorated the wall

to replace

the once empty.

Her rewards gained from work

inside that room

were gradually placed over

the crayon stains.

Before her last day,

a new painting

faced the center.

One of a girl of gold

raised in a shoebox room

releasing into the sky

a light pink balloon

while staring at a luring

railroad saying: goodbye.