Response to Evie Shockley’s poetry reading 4/12/12

            First of all, I found going to a poetry reading was a lot more lively at 4:40 than it was in the Foster Auditorium at 7:30. I think purely because it was generally before dinner time, the sun was still out, and afterwards I had more time to think about what Evie said and do research on her poetry. Where as 7:30 reading I have to do other homework and find it difficult to stay focused.

            But I digress… Evie does a lot of experimentation with form which I really could relate to. I am a very visual personal so not only do the words matter deeply to me when writing poetry but the way it looks on the page I think can really add the poem and its meaning. I wrote a poem for another class about something at the time I was really struggling with – the idea of plastic surgery. Essentially plastic surgery is about remodeling, sculpting, and shaping so I had the idea of morphing my poem into a shape.

Underneath It All

I

was

14 the

first time

I realized that

I didn't have boobs

and when I saw a third

grader wearing a training bra.

And she needed it. I was never

told that my breasts were non-existent,

I was never even tormented by boys who

teased I was flat. Well, that's because Vicki

has a secret for that. I’d look at other girls with

fun bags and boys drooling over their bountiful

body parts but I never felt that I was lacking some

crucial perky problem or missing some marvelous

milkshake that brought all the boys to the yard

because no boy is going to be wishing for

someone with bigger tits if he is  lucky

enough to get me topless. But my

sister, who has been told she

is my twin does not feel

the same way about

her twins and has

a date set for

when she will

go under the

lights and

under the

knife to

be stuffed

with plastic

goo and I

can’t tell

her that

there is no

way I am

letting her

go through

with it. How

can I instead

implant my

thoughts

into her?

Shockley mentioned that she meditated a lot about how race affects her, how it molded her, and what it is going to be like for a new generation, like her nieces, to live in a world that claims racism is dead. She shows this in her poems “ode to my blackness” and “post white”.

            My favorite poem that she read was called “celestial”. It was about the friendship between Marilyn Monroe and Ella Fitzgerald. She writes about things they have in common, even if at first glance you wouldn’t be able to find one similarity. I am very fascinated with what seems to be a new appreciation for Marilyn. That is with the movie “My Week With Marilyn” that came out, the TV show “Smash” which is about making a musical about Marilyn, Megan Fox’s tattoo on her forearm of Marilyn’s face, and of course by being in college I come across countless posters in apartments with quotes and famous photographs of her. Her poem was just a completely different way of looking at her.

            Another poem that I really liked out of Evie’s collection was “Post White”. She incorporated music lyrics and was even brave enough to actually sing the lyrics when reading her poem, which I found very brave and very captivating. And she read a prose poem called “Never After” that used references of Disney princesses and see’s their image in a negative light the way I experimented with one of my own poems I put up for workshop. She quotes Haryette Mullen  “was she enchanted or was she dragged?” in the begging of the prose poem, which I thought was really interesting.

            She also mentioned that she revises her poems constantly, even ones that are published. Like her poem “In Property Behavior” she added the killing of the young boy, from Florida, who was shot because he was black and wearing a hoodie and cops thought his iced tea and skittles were weapons. This really inspired me to return to my older poems and work out a couple of lines or take out some things. 

Nichole Cooley and Julia Kasdorf poetry reading

The poets called themselves “poetry pals” and sometimes even “poetry sisters.” I found this really comforting because sometimes when I am writing I feel so self conscious of my work that I isolate myself. Whereas these two very well established American poet’s shared that they love having partners to revise their work, to inspire them, to keep them going, and to cheer them on when they accomplish something as well. It’s always nice to make that one friend in class who I can always just send over my work to over facebook and will just tell me that it’s really vague and give me great critique. Nichole read older work of hers that stemmed mostly from her experience with Hurrican Katrina. Her parents were stuck in it and her poetry has very clear language with low diction. Julia’s was a lot about small towns, Bellefont to be exact, but her language had a little more flair to it, a little more finesse and irony. Julia mentioned that tomorrow is the first day of Passover and also Good Friday. This doesn't happen often at all and in face one of her poems she read was called “Prospect Park Holy Week”. Both women were extremely inspirational and made me want to go read some Yates and write reflective poetry.  

Protect

       It’s been three days but it feels like 4 weeks have gone by without her.  The last time I saw those big brown eyes and scruffy, mud blonde hair that reminds me of the whole wheat pasta my mom makes me eat, was her waiting by the back door to go out and pee. She had just been fully trained, which was amazing because I wouldn’t be able to smell if he had an accident until my mom complained or I stepped in it. If only I had closed the gate or just gone outside with her, this would have never happened.

            A year after the fire my mom and Nan decided that a puppy would be the perfect solution to all of our fears. I would be able to have a responsibility ally my own and they wouldn’t have to worry about me starting fires because Lyla would be able to smell something burning and bark for warning. “500 dollar reward if found!” I put on top of the signs with a picture of me and Lyla in the center. I printed at least 5 dozen copies and put them all over town. The 500 dollars are all I have saved up, but I’d do anything to get her back. “She’ll show up eventually, Sage. She’s gotta. She loves more than life itself” Tyler tries to tell me to cheer me up by wrapping his arms around me. “I just can’t believe I left the fence open like that. How could I be so careless?” I hide my face in his in his chest. After trying to comfort me for a while, Tyler heads home for dinner. He invites me to come with him but I tell him I wouldn’t be much of a guest. When he leaves I get so anxious that I grab the flashlight and decide to go to the park, hoping maybe she wandered there after I took her a couple of times over the months. I whistle for her and sing her name, “Lyyyyyylaaa.” There is no sign of life at all at the park but I shine the flash light a little further back to the woods and figured maybe she thought it was a fun place to go. I try to stick as close to the trail as possible, but how would a dog know how to do that? It’s starting to get dark out and I am sure my mom is home from work wondering where I am. But poor Lyla is probably more worried about where she is. So I continue to go in deeper. “Come on girl, time to go home!” I scream and throw down my arms. “Where’s home?” I hear a voice say from behind me, a jump and turn the flashlight right towards the direction I heard it from. “Oh my goodness, you just scared the life out of me!” I say with a huge exhale with my left hand holding my heart and my right still on the man’s face. “I am sorry miss, I didn’t mean to frighten you, are you lost?” I tell him that I am not lost but that my puppy is. “She’s been missing for three, going on four days now. But I guess I should be heading home now.” I say walking past the man. “Did you say a puppy? What kind?” “She is a mutt, but mostly a blondish colored coat.” “Oh why didn’t you say so?” The man pulls out from behind his back a blood soaked carcass of what used to be my beautiful ball of life. Tears innately flood down my face and I open my mouth to scream at the horrible image that would scare the rest of my life. My life that I knew would be coming to an abrupt halt when the man dropped Lyla on the ground to cover my mouth and puncture my left lung with a chiseled tree branch. I lie there cold next to Lyla’s mangled body. “I should have closed the fence.” I manage to whisper to her. 

Bruised

She is curled up in the fetal position on the floor of her bedroom closet. Behind her blazers and winter coats she manages to pull her purple pea coat off the hanger and slip in on backwards so that her back is still bare. As she breathes in, her entire rib cage vibrates and she pinches the medallion hanging from her silver chain with her pointer finger, middle finger, and thumb. She lifts it about four inches away from her chest and then presses it back into her skin. Lift and press. Lift and press.

            She wakes up and her lips are chapped. She pushes her self up right and licks her hands to wipe over her fat swollen face to clear off the salt that is now dried on her face. A sharp sting in her abdomen reminds her where she is. Her hand slightly shakes as she reaches for the closet door handle and opens it just enough to she her bedroom. Her desk chair is fallen down and her bed has no one in it. With the pea coat still wrapped around her, she crawls out on her knees. She looks into the long mirror, which is next to her open door. In the mirror she can see him. He is sitting upright on the couch with his head hanging to his side and is still clutching a bottle of Bacardi. She looks around and spots her phone, shattered on the floor across he room. She walks over to pick it up, which seems to still function regardless of the damage. She throws three pairs of underwear; two shirts and a pair of jeans in her back pack and tip toes to the front door. Before she opens the door, she looks back at him, and then into the mirror. She sees a bruise on her chest behind her medallion. She wraps her fist around it and walks out.

Luck

            Driving home back roads in West Chester can be daunting if you aren’t familiar with the area, especially at night. Good thing I’ve been testing them out for two years. It is nothing but vast fields that are only occupied by wild grass, wooden fences, stoned walls and the over population of deer. The roads smooth turns and hills make it almost second nature to speed 60 with the windows down and my high beams on. This is exactly what I was doing on my way home from babysitting my cousins when I got the call.

            'Hey, we’ve done something terribly wrong and need your help.” I can hear Kim say in her voice that is trying ever so hard not to crack a smile. She always had the best voice for prank phone calls but could never keep a straight face. “We can’t talk about it over the phone. Please meet us at the spot where we made our pact back in high school. You know the place.” Before I could ask any questions, she hung up. It was about 11:30 and I knew I could just tell my mom that Aunt Shelly and Uncle Rick stayed out late so why not?

            You can’t tell now at night, but during the day I used to say these hills gave me hope that adventure was still out there. So Kim, Carly – who I automatically assumed was involved in the “we” Kim was talking about over the phone, and myself took ourselves on a nature walk one day. We had no idea where we were going, what trails to follow, or where it would lead us. Just as I was about to attempt to take an artsy photograph of Carly and Kim, through the lens I see a massive, black horse standing in the middle of the trial. I don’t know much about horses, never ridden one, and certainly have never stood that close to one before. But they are a lot more intimidating than Animal Planet ever led me to believe. The three of us completely froze in front of the beast wondering who was going to make the first move. Carly raises her right hand and started to take a step closer. Kim tried to grab the back of her shirt to pull her back but Carly had already walked too far but the both of us felt as if our feet had formed into stone and couldn’t move. The horse snuffed loudly at Carly who was creepy dangerously close. “Shhhh girl, it’s ok” Carly whispered, how she knew it was a girl I will never know. The horse stands still and she holds her hand out for her to sniff it. She then lets Carly slowly move towards her ears and starches them. She neighs and lifts her head up to the sky. Kim and I look at each other, dumbfounded by the discovery that Carly is supposedly a horse whisperer. We turn back and the horse is gone and Carly is crying. We carved, “LCK” our initials into the closest, most prominent tree. We told ourselves that we would get out of this town one day, and run wild as Luck – the name we gave our horse.

            I parked my car next to Kim’s two-door Saturn and called her back to let her know I was here. “HEY! You have reached the phone of Kimberly..” Damit voicemail. I pull the phone down from my ear and use the lighted screen as a flashlight. “Would you just shut up, Kim?!” I hear Carly mutter. They’ve already ruined whatever prank they’re trying to pull on me. ‘Carly? Is that you? What is this all about?” I shout out. “Hey Lil, we are over here.” I hear Carly direct me around the corner. But before I can see my friends I hear an unfamiliar grunt, “Tell her to turn out that bloody light.”  Carly startles me by grabbing both of my arms and I drop my phone. In the midst of her trying to tell me that they’ve done something terribly wrong I find my phone face down on the ground. As I lift up my phone I see little brown clogs, raggedy torn pants on a person that couldn’t be any older than 10 years old  - or so I thought until I spotted a long brown beard with grey spots hanging from the face that wasn’t visible to me. “I told you, to turn out that bloody light!” The little man spears with his large, owl eyes whose pupils are dilated so fully that I can just barely tell that the rims are green. I was about to scream in complete terror until Carly covered my mouth. Carly tries to shhh me like she did to the magnificent horse that late afternoon just 2 summers ago. “What in the world is that, Carly?” I now whisper, “And where is Kim?” Carly then goes on to explain she wanted to come back one more time to see if Lucky would appear to her again and she begged Kim to come with her. As they were walking along the trail trying to call out her name, that little man tied up like a dog to our tree showed up instead. He claimed that Carly and Kim had stolen his beloved horse and the argument led to him biting Kim on the leg who was having weird reactions. Carly managed to distract the little man long enough to have Kim tie him up to tell him what was happening to her. “And that’s when we called you.” Carly says looking at me, hoping that I won’t judge. 

Response to "Problem Child"

        I really appreciated opening the book and having “Notes form the Editors.” I am definitely one to skip the preface but the editors were just completely sincere and honest about how much work it is but because of that it made for a more successful addition. Which made me even more inclined to read through the booklet. Since my two class experiences with poetry in English 213 and peer editing nonfiction in English 50 I have definitely felt more drawn to poetry. Something about the amount of words on a page intimidates me but after reading through the piece “Sweet” (8) I honestly thought it was a lovely short story. The topic was almost cliché but since her story was so different I found it interesting. The way she started with a quote and ended it by tying it all tighter just blended so well with the theme of the intertwined and complex relationship her parents have. I also recognized the poem “Coffee Shop” (14) that is modeled after the poem “Dolor” by Theodore Roethke (I had to do the same exact assignment and its one of my favorite poems called Forgotten). It is just so dark and creepy about some of the most mundane things. Brilliant. The short piece “Sword Play” I thought when I read the index was going to be a poem on “word play” and the title was being clever but it was actually a story about a sword. It was just one of those incredibly vivid memories that seem to have no significance when you picture in your mind but when you put it down on paper the purpose of the scene comes to life. The next piece I thought was really well done was the last poem “To Save You the Only Way I Can.” Every time I have tried to write a love poem, I want to throw up on myself. I just thought this was so simple and original and I completely envy her ability to make up the sweetest metaphors.

            Basically I would say that this book just got be caring about writing again. I was in one of those “I just can’t wait for Spring Break and for work to stop so I can do nothing for days, get bored, and then wish I was back at State College again.” I get in these stupid moods all the time where I completely immobile by boredom with life and I beg myself to do something interesting, meet new people, or pick up a pen and get inspired. But “getting inspired” is the hardest part. But this booklet was actually uplifting. That other students on campus are writing, and writing really interesting things. I think I definitely want to check out a meeting or post one of my poems for this semester. Last semester when we had poetry assignments I actually went to the library and tried to check out “poetry books” that I just felt were so irrelevant to my life. That is until I picked up Julia Kasdorf’s books and a grad student suggested I check out Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and then I watched the movie that James Franco stared in about Howl. These kinds of writings were ones I could relate to and feel moved by. I still appreciate the classics but they are to be obviously honest – are intimidating. With poems written so long ago by older poets it brings me back to “I can’t do that”, “I am not a professional writer” but neither are the authors of these entrees. 

David Gessner reading

David Gessner's non-fiction reading definitely taught me that you have to make your own adventures, go out and explore more. As cheesy as it sounds now reading what I just wrote - it's still true. His exact words, "You need to still find wildness." So much of my time is spent doing school work and when I "relax" I waste time browsing on StumbleUpon.com looking at pictures of people visiting amazing places or people creating things and I envy them. Instead of getting out there and doing those kinds of things I make excuses like, "I don't have the money [time, people, tools... insert other excuses here]." When I do get the chance to check out some of the cool things Penn State offers I want to do more... but if I get stuck in the virtual world rut I find it hard to get out of it. I interpreted David's comparison between saving the world < saving a little piece of it and starting a novel < assigned a writing exercise to get momentum just like going on a cross country road trip < go on a camping trip. Things like this can absolutely add to my experience and momentum for adventurous writing and living.