Many Red Devils

Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page,
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.

I didn't really understand this poem until 

we analyzed it in class. Then I realized that

it is about the little things we do in life 

and little parts of ourselves go into it. 

They may go unnoticed for a while, but maybe 

while you reread a paper you realize all the 

little bits of your mood and yourself that have 

been added in. I like how the poem says the devils 

can be crushed by the pen, but he doesn't crush 

them. It is good to bring your life experiences 

and biases into some situations. You should make 

things that are a part of you because you are 

different and there is no person that can think 

the way you do and no two life experiences are the 

same. Maybe the part about the devils struggling 

is saying that the authors sometimes doesn't 

know how to put himself into the writing when 

he thinks that it should be there. These little 

parts of the author, creator, director, artist, or 

even reader can be so small. They could be the 

connections a reader makes to a part in the story, 

or a bit of a movie that the director changes 

because of a life experience they had. I think that

it is really interesting to look back at my writing

and see where all my life experience comes in and 

see where my opinions really shine even when I know 

that they shouldn't be there. I think he calls them

devils because perhaps he doesn't want them in the 

writing or they are very personal devils or faults

that he doesn't want to show in his writing. He says 

that it is very hard to write in all the "muck" and 

I think that maybe that could meant that the things he 

is letting out in his writing could be challenges in

his life or very hard things for him to talk about. 

Overall, after listening to the analysis in class I 

really think that I like this poem a lot more and it 

makes much more sense.  

This is just to say

I like this poem a lot because it is something that I think everyone is guilty of. You either take something, use something, wear something, or eat something that you know you probably shouldn't because the owner will be missing it at some point. It always seems like they don't need it forever and the point that you finally decide to take it or use it is when they realize that they want it too. It's almost that feeling of guilt, but then you realize how good it really was. Like the author saying, " they were delicious so sweet and so cold" means that he may be sorry that you are missing the sweet plums, but you should know that even though it wasn't you that enjoyed them, they were greatly enjoyed by someone. They brought great joy to someone even if they were supposed to bring joy to the owner. I think it is interesting how the author breaks up the stanzas. The first is just a statement with no indication of guilt and there seems to be nothing interesting happening. The second stanza is the authors admittance of guilt to taking the plums that were not his. The third stanza is sort of a reassurance to the previous owner of the plums that they were not taken and smashed or thrown away after a taste, but enjoyed by the author. I really liked this poem a lot. I think it is very interesting.

Mid-Term Break

While I was reading this poem at first I wasn't really sure who it was that had died and then maybe about halfway through I thought maybe it was his brother. I misread the last line four or five times and didn't get it. I thought it was A four foot box, a foot for every foot and I was thinking okay no duh a foot for every foot and then I read it again slower and realized what it was really saying. That was the worst realization I had. The poor little thing was only four years old. The seventh stanza was surprising. It's when you finally realize that the little boy was hit by a car. I thought it was a little strange though that it said :No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear." Like it was lucky or something. Well you know he did die, but at least he doesn't look bad because the bumper saved his face. I understand that there is always optimism in every situation, but I really don't think that is what I would be thinking if I had seen my little brother for the first time in six weeks and he was lying in a casket. I thought it was a little shocking that the author calls it a corpse in the last line of the fifth stanza. I mean this is his little brother and maybe that is just a way for him to deal with the thought of losing him is to make him into an object instead of his four year old brother. I think this is one of the most powerful poems I have read. I really liked it a lot. I think it is fascinating and very interestingly written. The first stanza is apprehensive, the second is sorrowful, the third is happy, the fourth sympathetic, the fifth is angry, the sixth is calm almost or realizational, and the seventh is thankful. I think all the stanza are kind of going through all the stages of grief. I really like the way this author sets up the poem.

Goodbye to Sunk-noll

Goodbye to the monsters,
that hid in the dark.
In the side of the basement
I wasn't allowed. I must admit
that I wouldn't have gone anyway.
They blocked out the light and
waited for me.They knew I was
coming. I sprinted past,
but always to return for a swipe
at the lights cause the monsters
have never been worth the big fight.

Goodbye to the stair that froze me
in fear. All of them quiet but the fifth
from the top. It creaked and it folded
under the lightest of steps. It caught
me on Christmas sneaking down
just for a peek. It was my parents
while my parents were asleep.

Goodbye to the dark green. The leaves
of the tree I was unable to climb. The
tree that blocked my view of the world
on our quiet little street. From my room
I saw nothing but bees. Their life was that
tree. The bees that we caught each summer
with cups and old lids.

Goodbye to that well on the side of the
house. The one I got stuck in and no one
helped me out. I screamed at the spiders
that came outside to see the reason for all
the noise. I begged and pleaded my
brother and cousin to help me, but they
laughed and rolled and giggled nearly to
death. When my brother got stuck? I
laughed and giggled and rolled on the
ground and ran for my life when he finally
got out. 

Goodbye to those pickets of that old dark
brown fence. The ones with the pieces
broken out of their middles. Like the last
little piece of a puzzle that's missing. I was
the culprit. The breaker of pieces. Once
proud of my strength and my concoring
ways and now I am sorry. The pickets
have exacted their revenge for now some
of my pieces are missing.

Goodbye to the rivers we made every
summer. A hose quickly uncoiled as soon
as mom left and drug to the bottom to start
our play set. Our fingers were dirty and sore
from the thorns, but they worked excitedly
to finish the job. The sticks were our trees,
the pebbles our boulders. A combination
of soldiers, cowboys and indians, some
dolls stolen from their house. We
quickly recoiled when the car hit the
driveway but the next day made a new
chance for adventure when the coast
was clear for the devious digging.

Goodbye to those toys in my closet. The
ones I should have gotten rid of years ago,
but I couldn't bear to see them go. They
were my friends before I had Kelsey. They
liked my singing and laughed at my jokes.
The big fluffy beagle that's missing an eye
and the doll I colored on to make her look
"pretty". I guess I'll be the one that's gone
before they are taken away.

Goodbye to the child. The hands in the path
now covered by grass. The hands that
carved pumpkins and played in the mud.
The child who ran in the snow in shorts and
a tee. Who screamed to her friend before
she could cross the street. The one who
locked out her brother and dressed up the
dog. The child who couldn't wait to see the
world beyond that little house on Sunk-noll.
The world the tree had blocked for so long.

Goodbye to home.

Love Like Crazy by Lee Brice

They called them crazy when they started out
Said seventeen's too young to know what loves about
They've been together fifty-eight years now
That’s crazy

He brought home sixty-seven bucks a week
He bought a little 2 bedroom house on Maple Street
Where she blessed him with six more mouths to feed
Yea that’s crazy

Just ask him how he did it; he'll say pull up a seat
It'll only take a minute, to tell you everything
Be a best friend, tell the truth, and overuse I Love You
Go to work, do your best, don't outsmart your common since
Never let your prayin' knees get lazy
And love like crazy

They called him crazy when he quit his job
Said them home computers, boy they'll never take off
He sold his one man shop to Microsoft
They paid like crazy

Just ask him how he made it
He'll tell you faith and sweat
And the heart of a faithful woman,
Who never let him forget

Be a best friend, tell the truth, and overuse I Love You
Go to work, do your best, don't outsmart your common since
Never let your prayin knees get lazy
And love like crazy

Always treat your woman like a lady
Never get to old to call her baby
Never let your prayin knees get lazy
And love like crazy

They called him crazy when they started out
They've been together fifty-eight years now

Aint that crazy?

This week I kept looking through the poems, but I just didn't like any of them. So instead this week I decided to do a song. It's one of my favorites and it makes me think of my boy :) The first stanza always makes me think of my grandparents and how parents are always saying you don't know what love is at such a young age, but there are always those young people who live a life that forces them to mature much faster than their peers. I feel like I've had one of those years where I really realized that the world isn't going to be an easy place to live in and there are gonna be a lot worse things that could happen after high school, but there could also be a lot of better things. The second stanza makes me laugh a little because one day I'd like to have six kids too, but it also makes me think that each time I tell people that is what I want they think I'm crazy. I don't think anyone's dream is crazy. No one wants their dreams to be criticized or mocked, but it seems like that is all we can do in society today. It seems like when a person gets in the way of their own dream then they have to blame everyone else and then they have to try to ruin everyone's dream. The third stanza is saying that you should never get to big for your britches and you should never forget who you are. Don't let people influence you to do anything other than what you feel is best for you. They probably aren't looking out for the best things for you. I think the fourth stanza is saying that you have to take chances in life. "You will fail 100% of the times you don't try" is one of my favorite quotes. I feel like people should live life like there is nothing to lose. People should never judge others by the chances they take in their lives. At least they were willing to try and let faith do some work for them. "Never let your prayin' knees get lazy" makes me think that you should never feel too proud to admit defeat and you should never be too right to admit you can be wrong and you should absolutely, positively, undoubtedly never be too close to give up. I absolutely love this song and I think it is a lot more than just a love song to me. In my eyes it's a life song. It's a lesson I think everyone will learn one day. They may learn it quickly or at a young age or at ninety years old or it may take years to learn, but everyone deserves to feel like they deserve their dreams. They should feel like it's okay to ask for help and it's okay to take a chance and it's always okay to pass something up when your gut tells you to.

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.  

After we read this poem again in class I realized that I have started beating poems again and trying to get meanings out of them. It is like looking at a slide in class when the teacher just lets you look at them. You feel it. You enjoy it. You don't feel the need to analyze it. There may be questions that cross your mind when you look at it. When reading a poem you should always enjoy it and instead of trying to create feelings you think should be there you should try to focus on the feelings you get when you read it. I have been beating poems with a hose and I really started to like poetry a lot after I realized how enjoyable it was, but I have been starting to enjoy it less. I really like how this poem makes things personal. Like when you walk into a friend's room and you don't know where things are but when you just take a second to think it is easy to find what you are looking for. I think I might need to keep referring back to this poem when I start beating other poems again.

Reading Myself

"As I read this poem, I picture an artist. In order for this artist to bring about his art, he must focus on things or subjects that he is passionate about. He is not an artist who can write and epic from the gentle and fleeting feelings that arise from smelling a flower or stubbing a toe. He knows all of the technical aspects or the art of writing by heart. Despite his knowing the technical aspects of writing to a level of mastery, he has never been able to create something of great importance to be contributed to what he has memorized. Thus far, he has only been able to create works that, although they are good according to the rules of writing, they do not breathe; none of his work is alive; his works are all “wax flowers.” Yet, without this base of works that are correct according to the rules of writing as a foundation, no great piece of original work can be born from this artist. The hope of the artist is to give birth to the work that will live long enough to be enjoyed by others even after the artist himself has died." by autumnweldon. This is a blog I read on line because I wasn't sure if anyone was thinking anything similar to me. It is like people who have the technical knowledge of doing things, but they never feel like they are doing something good. It is never quality because it is never real. It doesn't live with emotion which is why I think he only made it to the smaller hills of Parnassus. The things he does are technically good, but they are not emotionally satisfying. This is like writing for me. I know technically how to make it "good" writing, but it is never going to be like Cormac McCarthy or Zora Neale Hurston because I don't know how to write well. I am not a borne writer even though I try. I like this poem a lot. I think everyone can relate in some way to this and everyone knows that inadequate feeling and that feeling of disappointment.