Poem for January day

[Finding IT]

Wallace Stevens is one of my favorite poets, though his work is often dark and brooding. He has an amazing facility with the relationship between language and imagery. Here is a somber one to consider on these cold winter days when Spring seems so far out of reach.

 

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The Snow Man

 

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

 

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

 

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

 

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

 

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

 

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Any thoughts?

 

[psionic11]

Bleak indeed. Chilly.

 

Hope winter warms up soon for you up there.

[psionic11]

I have a poem I wrote recently for English class. I think it uses imagery and language pretty creatively, wanna see it?

[Finding IT]

QUOTE (psionic11 @ Mar 3 2011, 09:38 AM)

I have a poem I wrote recently for English class. I think it uses imagery and language pretty creatively, wanna see it?

Absolutely!

[psionic11]

The professor *finally* responded today. I had made a few posts, as have other students, wondering why there was no feedback and few grades given so far in this online English class. We're already halfway through and the assignments and grades/feedback have been few and far between.

 

Anywho, I posted my poem for the rest of the class to see. I'm hoping others will also post their poems, if they wrote them. The assignment was to write either prose or poetry using the techniques of assonance, onomotopaiea, simile, metaphor, and personification, all from a different perspective than normal.

 

We could choose from either an ant, a wastebasket at work, food in the fridge, or an old sock. I tried to combine them all.

[psionic11]

Here are the poems, extracted from the story part. I went masochist and decided to write in iambic pentameter (each line consisting of 5 alternating weak-strong syllables, as in uh-ONE uh-TWO uh-THREE uh-FOUR uh-FIVE).

 

=======================================

 

"Unusual Perspectives"

by Andrew Shaw

 

Young Ant

(outdoors, heading towards a house):

 

"That smell! It calls so sweet and strong to me.

The wind, she brings a feast and song of glee!

So -- quick! -- I turn and head to meet my fate...

Like fire, I run, I dance, and long to be

in touch with whom or what we need to feed."

 

 

Old Sock

(in the house on a bedroom floor):

 

"In damp, in dark (indeed), it is my fate!

Again, alas, abused, astrewn, I wait...

In gloom I brood, I'm torn and worn. I mold!

I'm down, aghast, feel used and blue. I pray

A soul will spy my need and call today..."

 

 

Vain Food

(sealed in refrigerator):

 

I once was fresh and hot, but now I'm cold!

They loved and dote on me, I felt so spoiled.

Does no one need me now? Is this the end?

Just one more taste before I get too old.

I've dripped a path... come find me in my hole.

 

 

Young Ant

(in the kitchen, struggles to enter the refrigerator):

 

In there! On past that glass and round the bend

Up here, through that, how odd this metal land

I slip and fall, I'm lost again. No more!

I leave this tease to find another friend

And turn to far away and stronger scents

 

(Ant now turns toward bedroom instead):

 

Aha! The musk grows strong, I yearn for more

It gives me hope of what I came here for

A bug that's crushed and plump, a piece of cheese

Like wind, I run, I shout, I've found my score:

Yon smelly sock with dirty sole -- my whore!

 

 

Old Sock

(dirty with smashed bits of food in it):

 

What's this? An ant alone in me he seeks

He crawls around inside and starts to feed

But lo, he stops to leave and beg me wait

He seems to say 'tonight shall be a feast

With friends he'll come to dine complete'

 

(Old sock, now content it has a noble purpose):

 

To be a source, a force for life, is great!

At last my need is met, and now I wait

I have no fear, my end is near. Though old,

I'm worn and torn but filled with pride, for Fate

Has shone, and shown me bright and right today...

 

[psionic11]

Here's the complete text. Keep in mind this is just a quick one-off assignment for a class. About two weeks on and off in the making. Extra credit. Silly subject material, anyway, but hopefully clever enough to make up for that...

 

Bonus points if you can spot the allusions to Star Trek

 

======================================

 

Unusual Perspectives

 

 

Snap! Then crash! Dropped from on high, from out of the sky, a broken branch has been forcefully sundered, severed, and delivered, thanks to today's restless winds. A young ant, narrowly missed, scurries frantically out from under this fallen tree, hurries worriedly back to his colony, his home and family, his community.

 

But no one cares for news of twigs and near misses. "The queen mother is yet hungry, and yet you spew useless stories of self-interest that waste the day?" The elders gripe and moan, intone and say, "Outweigh the needs of the one, young ant, and think of us all.

 

"Out! All who can be spared must go and find food for the needs of the many."

 

And so, on to explore and discover, on a quest to ever uncover, our valiant wanderer has been handed his first clue.

 

Young Ant:

 

"That smell! It calls so sweet and strong to me.

The wind, she brings a feast and song of glee!

So -- quick! -- I turn and head to meet my fate...

Like fire, I run, I dance, and long to be

in touch with that which we need to feed."

 

 

Meanwhile, in another part of the world, an old sock woefully withers and wastes away. His owner reveled in drink once again, this time at a picnic in the great outdoors. Though thankful to be temporarily freed from the confines of the too-familiar old sneaker, the sock's disgrace was firmly furthered by being trampled about on moist grasses and forgotten crumbs of food.

 

Finally returned to the dry and warm home, as was custom, as he knew, the sock was likewise tossed aside and forgotten like an old report crumpled and thrown into a trashcan at work. Also accustomed, then, were the hours of self-pity and self-pittance and longing need for some other useful purpose in this seemingly cruel and pointless existence.

 

Old Sock:

 

"In damp, in dark (indeed), it is my fate!

Again, alas, abused, astrewn, I wait...

In gloom I brood, I'm torn and worn. I mold!

I'm down, aghast, feel used and blue. I pray

A soul will spy my need and call today..."

 

Let us turn now, dear reader, to a chilly and manufactured universe: the inside of a refrigerator. Within the humming blackness lingers familiar and friendly smells: fresh milk and breads, sweet treats and meats, tastefully tart snippets of Kosher dills, and trusty condiments of ketchup, mustard, and various other busty sauces.

 

But one particular covered dish, not content with being in such admirably inviting company, bemoans the existentialism of being a leftover. It wishes so badly to be dearly liked, so unlike those all too cheery salad greens and overly peppy peppers, who have so far lived the blissfully ignorant and mundane, if happy, lives of low expectations. With no such affectations, this covetous fish, once a fresh and an exquisitely blackened, high-dollar salmon, now sorely longs for that refrigerator door to be extravagantly flung open.

 

"To admit the bright light, that it may bring a hungry hand aimed for what's left of me, succulent and delicious" -- these are its most contentious of wishes. Its best hopes are the tell-tale juices splashed down on the refrigerator rail down by the floor. Faint as they are, they are the very drops that could call and lure a hungry someone, anyone, from the outside world.

 

Vain Food:

 

I once was fresh and hot, but now I'm cold!

They loved and dote on me, I felt so spoiled.

Does no one need me now? Is this the end?

Just one more taste before I get too old.

I've dripped a path... come find me in my hole.

 

Flash back to our tiny trekker, who has found his way into the house and into the kitchen. Back and forth he ventures, passing dishes and circling appliances. Particular juices, dried but still strong in promise, drive him to the foot rails of a metal giant, like the tallest, squarest, brightest, and strangest mountain he will ever glimpse upon. There, the dried salmon drippings are a fulfilling feast, but this is not enough for the needs of the many, nor for the finish of its quest anon.

 

Young Ant:

 

In there! On past that glass and round the bend

Up here, through that, how odd this metal land

I slip and fall, I'm lost again. No more!

I leave this tease to find another friend

And turn to far away and stronger scents

 

Leaving the mechanical and unnaturally clean kitchen, the young ant spies another scent on the still air. It crosses over and enters the bedroom, where giant heaps of clothing lay like foothills of the warm and inviting kind.

 

Young ant:

 

Aha! The musk grows strong, I yearn for more

It gives me hope of what I came here for

A bug that's crushed and plump, a piece of cheese

Like wind, I run, I shout, I've found my score:

Yon smelly sock with dirty sole -- my whore!

 

Old Sock:

 

What's this? An ant alone in me he seeks

He crawls around inside and starts to feed

But lo, he stops to leave and beg me wait

He seems to say tonight shall be a feast

With friends he'll come to dine complete

 

To be a source, a force for life, is great!

At last my need is met, and now I wait

I have no fear, my end is near. Though old,

I'm worn and torn but filled with pride, for Fate

Has shone and shown me bright and right today...

 

 

Change the light, change the shadow.