Thursday, December 17, 2015

The Title (updated 12/27 to lengthen it as the comments suggested)

(disclaimer-*used titles of classic books to create a poem)

1984 was a chapter of war and peace
after a stretch of one hundred years of solitude.
People searching for a metamorphosis,
a pathway to a brave new world.
The sound and the fury overwhelming,
They asked-“Will the sun also rise?”

The call of the wild beckons to them,
hoping to escape the crime and punishment.
A farewell to arms seems inescapable
to everyone holding on to their great expectations.
Little women join the cause as well
as people scurry in search of lost time.

A tale of two cities in heated debate:
Will either successfully master the art of war?
Even the prince stares off at the sea,
sleepless for the thousand and one nights.
Gritting his teeth at the lost illusions,
the blooming roses now merely flowers of evil.

His secret garden grows untruth and disloyalty,
the warm scent replaced with the reeking strife.
His eyes as fierce as the leopard,
craving the urging that persuasion needs.
Sense and sensibility cannot be taught.
He leads the kingdom at the age of innocence.

He longs for an escape, a treasure island perhaps,
Desiring a time machine to come into sight.
Waiting, for the awakening from this dooming nightmare.
He asks himself-is he the man who would be king?
Kidnapped and starving children under his reign;
Where is the good earth we all once knew?




]

Thursday, December 10, 2015


Reactions to Srikanth Reddy’s Facts for Visitors

Srikanth Reddy’s first collection of poems, Facts for Visitors, was eye opening to me through his different forms of poems, borrowing from other authors and sources, various forms and lines, and other unique techniques. He is repeatedly extremely successful in letting his audience into his conscience and allowing them to feel his most personal emotions. Because he strays away from many conventional poems of poetry and did it with such ease, he helped me realize how much of an artistic license we as poets have the ability to manipulate language, and the extraordinary effect it can have on our audience.
It is not always very easy to understand his poetry as he often describes fantastical situations. I believe that in order to appreciate his work, it is definitely necessary to read each poem multiple times. I found that after my first and reading and last reading of each poem, I noticed new aspects each time and began to understand his purpose progressively more. More often than not, the voice he uses is in first person which makes his poems that much more relatable to his audience, and invites them to see the world in the way he wants to portray it
A recurring technique of Reddy’s is to use enjambments as he often does not finish either sentences or thoughts from one line to the next, or one stanza to the next. He often ends lines with a cliffhanger, that only makes sense to the reader once the next line is read.  When he does this from stanza, he creates a stimulating flow, with a sense of urgency to continue. I have tried to emulate this in class in the past and after reading many of his poems with this strategy, I realized that the more confusion or fragmentation there is at the end of the line, the more successful he was in employing the enjambment.
One of my favorite examples of this is form his poem On Difficulty:

Suffer yourself to know beautiful women.
Suffer yourself to learn many words
for one thing. Suffer yourself

to elope like a river, suffer yourself
to remain. Are there ways to kill time
without hurting eternity?

Me, I make seagulls from paper.
Once you've mastered the folds (valley crease,
rabbit's ear), everything

tucks itself in. How crooked rooftops
enfold sleeping souls under stars
seems so simple. Pagodas

in traffic lights, birds within birds
without end. When she left, she left me
this note on the table.

I can't make anything of it.

Even more surprising are the lines that seem like they could be finished, but then the next line causes the reader to take a step back and reread the line in its fullness. Generally, Reddy seems to enjoy keeping an aesthetically pleasing form by having the lengths of the lines in a single poem relatively consistent and even. Thus, sometimes he uses an enjambment to keep the balance to the reader’s eye. However, generally, it seems he desires to take advantage of the expectations of the reader’s brain as it recognizes patterns, and disrupt them by breaking up thoughts and emphasizing certain points, ideas, and themes.
Although the actual messages Reddy strives to share with his audience are not always clear, his ability to include phrases that are so visual, one can easily conjure an image in their head is quite impressive. He has simply mastered the “show, don’t tell” goal that all of us have been striving to reach since the beginning of the semester. He draws readers into a sensory experience by providing us with mental snapshots that appeal to the senses. In essence, his images often show his meaning, because we are forced to compare the images in our mind to our own personal experiences, resulting in an emotional connection the poem. Although his use of imagery is not new to poetry as a whole, yet his poems are generally brief and he is successful in creating an entirely new world in just a few short lines. A few examples are “the delicately-woven grass of the scarecrow’s upraised hand where it began to shine and give a little in the gentle unremitting breeze” (Scarecrow Eclogue), “they wipe rice paper flakes and charred moths from benches with a dripping rag” (Thieves Market), and “its eyelids so thin you can see to the pupils beneath, you can see the veins networking under the skin (Canisters). 
Reddy is able to inject new life and sentience into all the poetic forms he uses, which range al the way from prose poems to villanelles, exhibiting his versatility. The rhythmic qualities change throughout, as they are sometimes metrical, and even have subtle uses of rhyme. Although he is adept consistently, his prose poems are specifically striking, as it such is a difficult form to master. He is original by reaching his conclusions through his meditative calm thought process, sometimes almost detached. A few of the most emphatic ones to me are Prose, Acid House, and Corruption Raven and Eclipse.” 
Although obviously not a new technique, a strategy that I noticed Reddy repeatedly using is personification. Reddy comprehends that his poetry is not the easiest to grasp and he uses the personification to help his readers relate to the concepts that are presented, giving us more complete understandings. He is able to develop a connection between a distant idea or object so that we way me feel sympathy towards it. The fact that these lines stuck out to me makes me want to attempt to develop more of these phrases in my own poetry. A couple of my favorite examples are “moon scribbles white on a dark” (Chariot with Torn Bodice) and “ wind comes worrying the candle tip” (Waiting for the Eclipse in the Black Garden).
Although I enjoyed many of the poems, my favorite one is Fourth Circle:

Fig tree stamped
on the back of a 
coin. Sticky fig I
swapped for a coin
in my prime . O
coin I bought with
a coin in my age.

It perfectly displays Reddy’s prowess in being able to accomplish so much in so little space. He uses enjambment as discussed before, to surprise us in the entirety of the flow of words. He uses repetition in a way that keeps the reader wanting more, without being ineffective and overly tedious. In just three short sentences, Reddy left me pondering over the message he strives to tell us in the poem.

There is a constant sense of fluidity, full of visionary verses and dreamlike associations and wordplay, written in a conversational, yet masterful voice. Reddy remains generally optimistic on his outlook to the world, offering endless possibilities about love and companionship. He enjoys using poems to tell stories which helps makes them more accessible. He is able to gracefully approach topics such as politics, death, heartbreak, among many others, without pushing the reader away. Reddy’s originality, cutting-edge, expressiveness, and various resources are all showcased in Facts for Visitors.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

The Sideline (edited 12/24)

Sweat rolls down my slick curved back.
The blue cloth sticks to my determined hamstrings.
The twenty-one in white glares with menace.
Purposeful quadriceps cramping tight as I hurtle down.

An attempt to stay afloat in the sea of blue and white,
my pupils make sense of the waves ahead.
Furrowed eyebrows unwavering against the storm.
Four other pairs of purposeful eyes look to me.

The blue in my corneas detects an opening,
the defense allowing my sturdy calves to weave through.
The muscle memory speaks to my peripheral brain, 
as I leap into the air against solid bodies.

Landing on the painted wood in a contorted form.
Right away, aware of the striking pain.
Like a cat, resting on all fours, head down.
Struggling to rise up, I look to the bench.

Fingers motion in distress at my coach.
Shaking ankle lacking the desire to support.
Barely reaching the sideline, my knees collapse.
Laying on my back, only a slight whimper heard.

The scurry continues but I no longer take part,
now waiting impatiently for the sound of the buzzer.
Limping, I half-heartedly extend a congratulations,
my neck bent over, hands in my head.

“Ouch that’s bad,” all I hear the trainer utter the next day.
My ears close down as he continues to expound.
Already craving the adrenaline and rush,
A grin on my face, lips frozen and tight.

Mental torture as its finest, most clearest.
Every step a feat and a win for my aching tendons.
Missing that blue sweaty cloth so dearly,
as I strive to not portray the despair.

The game, my own personal escape from reality.
Now so near, yet completely out of bounds.



Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Writing a Sestina-fixed forced and unnecessary inversions that we discussed in meeting)

The beginning: always a blank page.
The white screen fills me with fear.
 The pattern is all too new.
 No rhyme seems too easy, right?
 I find many examples describing love,
 as my mind races about where to start.

Come on, you really must start.
I visit another web page
and read one from a poet I love.
I need to prevail over my fear.
Maybe if I focus, I’ll get it right.
The various techniques seem too new.

I decide to embrace all the new.
Mindset, now ready to start
I allow myself to not get it right, 
choosing to grin at the no longer bare page.
Slowly, I focus on conquering the fear,
knowing I will survive even without love.

I consistently crave the professor's love
When I fall, I start anew.
Crawling out of that pit is what I fear.
How many times will I repeatedly start?
Again, I crumble up a page,
and throw it violently to my right.

I embrace my creative license as it is my natural right,
hoping to share my thoughts with whom I love.
Skimming through a novel, I read more than a page.
Oh no, distracted by the television news.
These disturbance hinder a positive start.
Perhaps a bit of procrastination to ignite my fear.

Finally, I have crushed the looming fear.
I stand triumphant and upright.
I have found sight of the finale to my start, 
discovered a way to convey the necessary love .
I learn a life lesson-embrace the new,
as well as a naked intimidating page.

I do not fear my peers and I love my sestina now.
I strived to reach the right form and prevailed over what was new.
The start was a struggle, but I no longer bear an exposed page.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Madustex 

Having horrified youngsters all around the world and for as long as anyone can fathom, it is difficult to  identify the origin of the Madustex. However, it is worthy mentioning that although its presence varies immensely, there are unique characteristics that each sighting of this ever-present lurker have in common. It is attracted to dark and dusty, but cool areas where it can conceal itself until the inhabitants of the bedchamber enter, hoping to fall comfortably into blissful rest. Before sunset, it seems that the Madustex takes on a invisible form that does not allow for the bare human eye to see it, and only after darkness, does it become a tangible being. It expresses little interest in haunting humans approximately above the age of 12, as scientists have discovered that aging provides an immunity to the horror and fear that is has on younger human beings. Because of this immunity however, the adult eye does not have the capacity at all to catch a glimpse of it, while children have again and again suffered from its evil influence. The Madustex often causes minors to experience  long, desperately restless nights, eyes just starting to close as long, deep, droning breaths are heard from underneath the wooden boards of their beds. Parents have been woken up with anxious, sweaty foreheads staring up at them, begging for an escape from the feasting behemoth. Descriptions have varied from gooseflesh claws covered in horrible boils to emaciated wrists obliterated with aging warts to werewolf-like heinous toes. The more fear that a child exhibits towards the beast, the higher the intensity of the horror that the Madustex causes throughout the night. 

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Revised to work on twitter poems:





Pray for Paris





Running through the wind.
Two explosions heard by all,
families ravaged.





Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Video Poem


A simple luxury-REVISED



The forever yearned for time has come.
Crawling comfortably under the sheets.

Allowing her limbs to collapse underneath.
Finally, alone, or so it seems
but then everyone joins her at once.
That deadline is fast approaching...
She forgot to call her mother...
Was he insulted by her last text...
Recounting every second of the day behind her.
Rethinking her every move.

Her mind drifts everywhere, uncontrollably.
The long awaited tranquility now out of reach.
A scattered, confused, inquiring brain.
Tossing and turning, it does not stop to breathe.

Suddenly, it all comes to a halt.
Creating a dome in her checkered quilt,
as her head nestles into her down pillows.
Entering a world so intangible to the living
A place where questions are not asked
and nothing is dwelled upon.
Unreachable serenity for the conscious.
The luxury of a dream.
Complete and utter peace,
out of reach to the open eye.

The forever dreaded time has come, 
Stalling comfortably under the sheets.


A simple luxury

The forever yearned for time has come.
Crawling comfortably under the sheets.

Allowing her limbs to collapse underneath.
Finally, alone, or so it seems
but then everyone joins her at once.
That deadline is fast approaching...
She forgot to call her mother...
Was he insulted by her last text...
Recounting every second of the day behind her.
Rethinking her every move.

Her mind drifts everywhere, uncontrollably.
The long awaited tranquility now out of reach.
A scattered, confused, inquiring brain.
Tossing and turning, it does not stop to breathe.

Suddenly, it all comes to a halt.
Entering a world so intangible to the living
A place where questions are not asked
and nothing is dwelled upon.
A safe zone where war is unheard of
and hate is simply forgotten.
Unreachable serenity for the conscious.
The luxury of a dream.
Complete and utter peace,
out of reach to the open eye.

The forever dreaded time has come, 
Stalling comfortably under the sheets.



Thursday, November 5, 2015

The best (edited mainly for the last stanza)

The rude awakening. Her hand slams down on the button.
An hour to the second: styled straightened hair, blush in place, and flawless ensemble.
Strapped heels on, she marches out of her carpeted living room.
“Non-fat iced coffee, please” As usual, the barista winks at her.
Enveloped by the crowds, she briskly paces, anxiously nibbling at her nails.
8:30- not a second later, she waves cheerfully to the guard.
She is never late, she can’t be.
They expect the best.

The time has come. Twenty pairs of beady eyes stare with anticipation.
A week of long sleepless, caffeine filled, computer screen lit nights.
She takes her place at the head, sweat dripping down her back.
“Thank you for all coming”, she finally begins to speak.
Her legs quiver as she impeccably delivers her proposal.
Nods of approval throughout, and a round of applause at the closing.
Drained, she flashes a short-lived smile
She is never unsuccessful, she can’t be.
They expect the best.

6 PM. As expected, her phone rings as she logs off her computer.
“I’d love to see you. Can I pick you up at 7?”
A romantic candle lit dinner for two.
She picks at the greens on her plate, choosing the iced water instead.
Avoiding his gaze, she inquires about his day.
He looks at her with questioning eyes, searching for answers.
She grabs his hand, forcing a laugh as he holds her close.
She is never upset, she can’t be.
They expect the best.

It's way too late. The slam of the door, her hand shuts the wood behind her.
Raw swollen toes, hair at all odds, mascara running, wrinkled button down.
The emptiness of the room startles her.
She turns on the television, a weather report to calm her nerves.
Mind still racing, she crumples into her bed.
A dog barks, the sirens wail, and the drunkards celebrate down on the street.
Inside? Silence. Only her thoughts to keep her company.
They expect the best.



The rude awakening. Her hand slams down on the button.
An hour to the second: styled straightened hair, blush in place, and flawless ensemble.
Strapped heels on, she marches out of her carpeted living room.
“Non-fat iced coffee, please” As usual, the barista winks at her.
Enveloped by the crowds, she briskly paces, anxiously nibbling at her nails.
8:30- not a second later, she waves cheerfully to the guard.
She is never late, she can’t be.
They expect the best.

The time has come. Twenty pairs of beady eyes stare with anticipation.
A week of long sleepless, caffeine filled, computer screen lit nights.
She takes her place at the head, sweat dripping down her back.
“Thank you for all coming”, she finally begins to speak.
Her legs quiver as she impeccably delivers her proposal.
Nods of approval throughout, and a round of applause at the closing.
Drained, she flashes a short-lived smile
She is never unsuccessful, she can’t be.
They expect the best.

6 PM. As expected, her phone rings as she logs off her computer.
“I’d love to see you. Can I pick you up at 7?”
A romantic candle lit dinner for two. Can a girl ask for more?
She picks at the greens on her plate, choosing the iced water instead.
Avoiding his gaze, she inquires about his day.
He looks at her with questioning eyes, searching for answers.
She grabs his hand, forcing a laugh as he holds her close.
She is never upset, she can’t be.
They expect the best.

The slam of the door, her hand shuts the wood behind her.
Raw swollen toes, hair at all odds, mascara running, wrinkled button down.
Can I be late?
Can I be unsuccessful?
Can I be upset?
A dog barks, the sirens wail, and the drunkards celebrate down on the street.
Inside? Silence. Only her thoughts to keep her company.
They expect the best.

But is she?

Thursday, October 22, 2015


Edited for iambic pentameter: (Shakespeare sonnet)

I never walk to close to the sideline.
Lost in the vast crowds, I am just a sweat. 
The tourists flock ahead, they all combine.
The man in white, now stares at me with threat.

Each car, a devil so filled up with hate. 
Each little rover seems to be an ant.
One man, briefcase in hand, waves it as bait
As it stops, he gets in with a large pant.

 5...4...The red hand seems to count down fast.
The lights seem as if not in my favor.
Now I can breathe when all the haste has passed.
Bracing myself, I smell the strong flavor

I lie and order iced coffee for two.
Her eyes are all I see in this cold brew


Coffee anyone?

 I never amble too close to the outskirts of the sidewalk.
 Blanketed by the crowds, I sweat approaching the bend.
 Stalling, I allow even the tourists to surge ahead in a flock.
 The once familiar man in white, now the means to an end.

Every car, a menacing devil. Every driver, unaware of his power.
And every pedestrian, a victim, surviving like an ant.
One suited culprit, briefcase in hand, hails a bright yellow monster.
It roars to a stop, gravel spits as he scurries in with a pant.

5…4…3… A face-off against the red threatening hand.
The lights mock me, as if finally satisfied.
My breaths stabilize when I successfully reach the mainland.
Bracing myself and embracing the potent smell, I traipse inside. 

Ignoring the usual waves, l lie and order iced coffee for two
The brownness of her eyes is all I can see in the cold brew.


Thursday, October 15, 2015

Experience.

Different religious, cultural, educational. 
combines to shape beliefs.
Essential
Roommates upon moving 
communicate openly with one another.
No pre-conceived expectations.
Negotiating rules.
It is imperative the topic is discussed.
Conversation is crucial.
Met for the first time
or
your best friends.
No assumptions made.
Conversation evolving.
New situations arise.
Commitment to a positive tone.
Crucial for any difficult topic.
Speak calmly, directly, and honestly.
Understanding perspectives.
Help and support.








Thursday, September 10, 2015

Conquer the monster (revised accordingly)

Feet barely stretching toward the three golden toes.
Tears dying to plunge to the claws below.
A stinging bite.
Another.
Another.
The melody is being eaten away as the
clouded blue eyes beg for a breath.
Goosebumps.
The black and white teeth cackle.
The dark body towers over, shiny with sweat.

A dedicated soul approaches the creature.
Rachmaninoff's devils’ confident in their conniving schemes.
Abominable mutations black in color.
A fierce unsettling encounter entails.

88 teeth.
A set of paws, one on either side.
One damp lace shirt.
A lingering scent of deodorant.
Clear blue eyes size up the behemoth.
Striking chords.
A Yell.
Another.
Another.
A final stab.

The monster has been slayed.













Feet barely stretching toward the three perfectly aligned golden pedals.
Tears dying to plunge to their demise
A dissonant note.
another.
another.
The melody is lost,
clouded blue eyes begging for a break
“We’ll be here till you get this line”
Her skin has seen many years.
The black and white stripes laugh.

A dedicated soldier approaches her opponent.
Rachmaninoff's creatures’ confident in their strengths.
Intricate passages blacken the page.
A fierce unsettling encounter entails.

88 keys.
A set of weapons, one on either side.
One damp lace shirt.
A lingering scent of deodorant.
Clear blue eyes scan the battlefield.
Striking chords.
A final stab.

The monster has been slayed.

The solider saunters off. 

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

The Return (updated)


A regular sweltering day in my urban Texas
home.
The distant reverberation of the
garage door opening. 
The unmade bed
is back, even if for a fleeting moment.

I sit alone in my room and leaf through my books restlessly,

I hear my mother on the phone, "happy you landed"
Pondering if time will pass, it seems to lapse endlessly,
Patience expires like the words on my pages, I can't stand it.
I have been meticulously counting down these days
since the last visit. Craving that tangent smell
and contagious smile.

She gracefully walks through the door.
I prance towards her,
jumping into her arms. I no longer aimlessly
leaf through the book alone.

A regular sweltering day in my urban Texas
home.
The distant sound of the
garage door opening. 
The unmade bed
is back, even if only for a fleeting moment.

The Return

A regular sweltering day in my urban Texas
home.The distant sound of the
garage door opening. The unmade bed
is back, even if for a fleeting moment.

I sit in my room and leaf restlessly
through a book. I endlessly ponder
if the time will pass. I hear my mother 
on the phone- “happy you landed!”

I grow increasingly impatient. I have been
meticulously counting down these days
since the last visit. craving that familiar smell
and contagious smile.

She gracefully walks through the door.
I prance towards her,
jumping into her arms. I no longer aimlessly
leaf through the book alone.

A regular sweltering day in my urban Texas
home.The distant sound of the
garage door opening. The unmade bed

is back, even if only for a fleeting moment.