I found this incredible picture on Deviant Art. It is awesome. It was done by S. Gamze Guckiran. If you all get a chance go to the site and look at all the great pictures she does.

Well I really hope that I did this right. Oh well here I go!

1. I get all stressed out and angry, or sometimes hurt and sad, and in those gushing emotions my mind flows with thoughts that just won't be silent. These thoughts want to be let out, not bottled up in there. In this moment mind meets tip of pen and words are written down. These words flow onto a piece of paper, napkin, cardboard or whatever you have at the time. That piece of cardboard has scribbling of emotion and expression written all over it.

2. Writing down poetry is a way of, for a moment, being able to let go. You can say whatever you are feeling and you don't have to feel like you are talking someones head off. Writing poetry is relaxing and it feels good. When writing down something you are thinking it takes it from your mind and turns it into a beautiful piece of work.

3. Poetry can be seen in alot of places. Poetry is used alot. One place you can see alot of poetry is in a card section at a store. They have pieces for cards that say .... I Love you...I am Sorry....even Happy Birthday.

4. Poetry has many "ingredients" it just depends on how you feel in the moment you are writing. For me my main "ingredient" is usually stress, sadness or anger. I use poetry as a way to let things go. Poetry may have a bit of experience in it.... a family memory..... a break up..... a mistake.... a death. Poetry can be like a movie in a way...... a picture of life. Huh wonder what my movie would be called?

5. If someone could get in my head and hear my mind think it would probebly sound like alot of crazy mumbo... jumbo. But writing poetry feels like floating on the ocean. It is relaxing and invigorating at the same time. Poetry may not look like a perfect, straight paragraphed piece. It may not read like a book either. I have seen poetry that was like a bunch of words that I did not understand but when I read the last sentence it makes perfect sense to me.

6. There are even different types of poetry: Free verse, ballad, haiku, limerick, sonnet... well I like all of these.

7. I can't believe she wrote that and handed it out for people to read...... Oh my god is she like suicidal....I couldn't imagen that she really felt that way.... I never have...........ya, ok you get sad too and don't tell me you have never felt like you just wanted to let the whole would know how you felt.... Ya ok but I wouldn't let the world know I felt like that, she is too brave.

8. I my own experiences I have written alot of poetry. Though some of it still has never been see by anyone but me, I have been more open to letting people read at my pieces. The creative writing class I am in definitely has helped too!

going under

now i will tell you what i've done for you
50 thousand tears i've cried
screaming deceiving and bleeding for you
and you still won't hear me
don't want your hand this time i'll save myself
maybe i'll wake up for once
not tormented daily defeated by you
just when i thought i'd reached the bottom
i'm dying again

i'm going under
drowning in you
i'm falling forever
i've got to break through
i'm going under

blurring and stirring the truth and the lies
so i don't know what's real and what's not
always confusing the thoughts in my head
so i can't trust myself anymore
i'm dying again

i'm going under
drowning in you
i'm falling forever
i've got to break through

so go on and scream
scream at me i'm so far away
i won't be broken again
i've got to breathe i can't keep going under

Lyrics of Evanescence Written by Amy Lee

DREAM LAND
Christina Rossetti

Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.

We have been having alot of good writing exercises in class but I never feel like my stuff is really ready for reading. Well I am just going to put some of it one my blog anyway. This is my recipe for the subject I picked in class for our worksheets. My subject was death. It may not be completely finished but here it is.

~Recipe for DEATH~

To prepare add the following in a large pot:
1 cup HURT
1/2 cup STRESS
3 tablespoons MISTAKES
1 stick of NOT CARING
Heat this over medium heat until it boils.Once it begins to boil add in the following:
1 1/2 cups FORGETTING
3 cups TIREDNESS
3/4 cup LONELINESS
1 cup HOPELESSNESS
8 teaspoons GIVING IN

Bake for 12 1/2 years over SORROW and then pour over RAGE. Accent with a lite BITTER sause and garnish with a pinch of IRONY.
Then there you have it ~ DEATH

This week in our text we looked at chapter seven. When I was reading the chapter I was thinking ok I'm not going to be able to find an essay in our poetry book. But as I looked through the pieces I found an interesting poem that to me seems like an essay because it is descriptive and persuasive.

What the Living Do
By Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here, and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, th bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambidge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss- we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripping by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living, I remember you.

I just feel like this piece is trying to get us to listen to it and to show us a reminder of what life is all about. It is trying to get the reader to think about his or her own life. At least that is what i felt when I was reading the piece.

In chapter five our text described the Story. In The Autumn House Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry I looked for a piece that was like a story. The following piece I believe is a story of a journey. The protagonist I believe are the parents and in the piece they are missing a child who has gone to school. Then the piece shifts to a memory of the parents in their earlier years and how the only loss they knew then was the loss of each other. The piece is very interesting and I think the author was using a sort of story telling voice which made it even better.

The Empty Room

by Sue Ellen Thompson

Unable to sleep, my husband gropes
for his reading glasses and book.
He tiptoes into our daughter's room-
the bed freshly made in the wake
of her leaving for college, the windows
stripped of their curtains for washing-
and draws back the dinosaur sheets,
slipping into the cresent shape of her absence.
I think of him there:
middle-aged, the gray with its fingers
laced deep in his beard, little half- glasses
crouched low on the ridge of his nose.
Just before dawn, I go to him,
lowering my body into his
backwards, pressing my shoulder blades
into his chest, my hips
into the hollow of his, the curve
of my calves against his hard shins,
lashing my body to his as I did
in the tumult of our twenties, when all
we longed for was an end to the storm,
when all we knew of loss was to turn
in the night and find the other one gone.

TEARS, IDLE TEARS

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

~LORD ALFRED TENNYSON

Sonnet 060- Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crookèd eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
 And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
 Praising thy worth despite his cruel hand.

~William Shakespeare~

This is kind of crazy but I was goofing off at work and wrote this. It isn't very good yet but I hope to finalize it soon. Hope it makes some sense.

See this unemotional being
trying to be free from his forever living.
Searching for the power to feel some sensation
To cry, to fear, to be slave to exhaustion
he feels no love, no true desires
only that hunger for life he conspires
to remove from the life he longs to live in
but he will forever remain in this life he was given.

I was shopping the other day for a greeting card and saw a whole selection of cards by Maya Angelou with her poems on them. So I desided to look some of her pieces up and I found that they are very good. Here is one of them.

Alone
by Maya Angelou

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

I have been having such a horrible time this week getting my thoughts and ideas on paper. This happens to me every once and a while but usually I can get right back into the swing of things. Well I have written down some ideas but they are very rusty yet so they make little sense. I hope to be able to make it into something at some point.

Hope buries itself in her eyes.
Hiding in every corner
It holds on to her like a child holds its mother,
afraid to let go, to be consumed by its fears.

Her careful eye watches the doorway.
The footsteps outside pound on her thoughts.
Pushing out and playing back,
the happenings of just moments ago.

I found this poem in The Norton Anthology of American Literature. This was my literature book last semester. This poem is very interesting to me. I am not really sure what all of it means or what all of it is suppose to be symbolizing. I do however think it is very descriptive.

The Starry Night

The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.

The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.
~Anne Sexton

Hello everyone! I love music and when I heard this song I just loved it. I wanted to share the lyrics with everyone. The song is Right Here By Stained.

Right Here Lyrics
by Staind
I know I've been mistaken
But just give me a break and see the changes that I've made
I've got some imperfections
But how can you collect them all and throw them in my face
But you always find a way to keep me right here waiting
You always find the words to say to keep me right here waiting
And if you chose to walk away I'd still be right here waiting
Searching for the things to say to keep you right here waiting
I hope you're not intending
To be so condescending it's as much as i can take
and you're so independent
you just refuse to bend so I keep bending till I break
But you always find a way to keep me right here waiting
You always find the words to say to keep me right here waiting
And if you chose to walk away I'd still be right here waiting
Searching for the things to say to keep you right here waiting
I've made a commitment
I'm willing to bleed for you
I needed fulfillment
I found what I need in you
Why can't you just forgive me
I don't want to relive all the mistakes I've made along the way
But I always find a way to keep you right here waiting
I always find the words to say to keep you right here waiting
But you always find a way
To keep me right here waiting
You always find the words to say to keep me right here waiting
And if I chose to walk away would you be right here waiting
Searching for the things to say to keep me right here waiting

Hello everyone I wrote this poem a month ago and forgot all about it. Usually I write what I am feeling on anything available at the time so I sometimes come across a piece weeks later. Hope you all enjoy this piece.


Do you know how I despise you,
And the way you make me feel.
This battle we fight inside me
Is no game, it is so very real.

Why do you have to own me?
I can not hide or run.
You will always find me,
This battle will not be won.

All you do is push me,
and throw me to the ground.
In this corner all is dark,
I find no one else around.

Your hold on me is tighter,
As you gain more power over me.
Your voice is so loud in my head.
It is so dark I can not see.

If I lose this furious battle,
I want it to be known,
I fought with all my strength,
It was not my choice to go.

I was looking at some poetry online and found this poem. I liked it and found it to be written with alot of feeling. The poet, John Donne, wrote this poem with alot of power and will. When I was reading this piece I felt like a battle was going on between the poet and Death.



Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure: then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
~John Donne

I found this poem in The Autumn House Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry and I like this piece very much.

The Promise~ Sharon Olds

With the second drink, at the restaurant,
holding hands on the bare table,
we are at it again, renewing our promise
to kill each other. You are drinking gin,
night-blue juniper berry
dissolving in your body, I am drinking Fume,
chewing its fragrant dirt and smoke, we are
taking on earth, we are part soil already,
and wherever we are, we are also in our
bed, fitted, naked,closely
along eachother, half passed out,
after love, drifting back
and forth across the border of consciousness,
our bodies buoyant, clasped. Your hand
tightens on the table. You're a little afraid
I'll chicken out. What you do not want
is to lie in a hospital bed for a year
after a stroke, without being able
to think or die, you do not want
to be tied to a chair like your prim grandmother,
cursing. The room is dim around us,
ivory globes, pink curtains
bound at the waist-and outside
a weightless, luminous, lifted-up
summer twilight. I tell you you do not
know me if you think I will not
kill you. Think how we have floated together
eye to eye, nipple to nipple,
sex to sex, the halves of a creature
drifting up to the lip of matter
and over it-you know me from the bright,blood-
flecked delivery room, if a lion
had you in its jaws I would attack it, if the ropes
binding your soul are your own wrists, I will cut them.



This poem is very interesting to me. The setting of the piece follows along with setting as an action. The setting is in the background to the characters in this piece, but does peek out in the poem quite a bit.I my opinion it starts out in a sort of bar ,club kind of place. Then it switches to a bedroom, back to the bar( lines14-15), and then a slight turn to a hospital(line31-32). The poem itself is mysterious to me. While I was reading it over and over i felt like there was almost a secret message like a symbolism that was hidden inbetween its lines. Not really sure so if anyone has any thought I would love to hear them. I do really like the poem because to me it is intriguing.