"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. 

Poem Response "What I Do" (Akers,25-28) Wk 2; M, 8/19

At the beginning of the poem, Akers focuses on outward things such as kangaroo rats, liquor stores, and birds. The descriptions were monotonous and spastic. They were presented as a group of jumbled, awkwardly juxtaposed statements, each with scarcely a connection to one another.  

While reading, I tried to find the connection and meaning behind these statements. The introspection wasn't revealed until the end of the poem, and by then I had lost interest. The connection was lost, replaced by a sense of boredom. 

The point of the poem was for the poet to desensitize themselves from the actual thing they were writing about- their depression, feelings of fear, and buried memories. Instead, Akers focuses on ordinary, everyday objects which take away from the larger feelings repressed within.

The poem's message could've been far more precise and engaging if the more introspective aspects of the piece were more cohesively organized and more specifically executed. The true essence of the piece, in my opinion, is in the masked feelings rather than in the jumbled details.