Write 1 poem in response to a poem from all of the readings, and post here. Your poetic response may take the form of a dialogue, an epistle (to the poet), an imitation (stylistic or linguistic), or may just be inspired in some way, even if not directly obvious, as an aesthetic offspring. If you’re stuck, you may select a favorite line from that poem and use it to begin your own poem or as the title of your poem (of course, giving credit).
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This Tree
“Because in times like these…
it’s necessary to talk about trees”.
To listen to this tree,
As the wind sways its branches.
The creak of its rhythmic motion
And quaking of its leaves
Singing to each other
In a forest full of music.
To understand what the tree gives us as it exhales:
Bringing life into this world,
Filling the lungs of Earth with purity,
Ensuring that each breath is better than the last.
To acknowledge the way a trees feels
When a hand presses against its bark,
Molding to the miniature mountains,
Becoming a topographical map of the trees skin.
This tree has been sawed,
Sanded, polished, and painted.
Imagine how this tree feels.
To Keep One Warm (Creative Response to America by Claude McKay)
Hold Bitterness of breath,
Discomfort in the nape of my neck
Stealing light of day by forgotten mind
before the new day has arrived
Giving as kindling, unknowing
Blindly as if looking directly into the sun
In my blood, all parts of an
unrecognizable being
We were wandering the tall pines
Calling your name
Sun setting Darkly behind
Tell me what I am not
Light one on fire, charred
for the saken of self
Thoughts while Stoned at a Party
Drink.
Always be late. Late is cool.
How late? Later.
Better, be late
until they forget you.
Excite them
with your unexpected presence.
Drink.
Dance. Dance with friends
who fade like silhouettes
and grin when they act
excited to see you.
Dance on tables and couches
and each other
so they know you
are having a good time.
Drink.
Flirt with her for novelty,
feel your skin go numb,
touch her arm, hold her steady.
Never ask her interests
her passions, her dreams,
her identity.
Make sure to tell her
she is pretty.
Drink.
Talk, snicker, smile.
Be funny, witty, clever.
Be yourself.
Yourself walks along
a tightrope across a
channel.
Wind bellows from left to right,
One foot to the other.
Stumbling, falling,
Sick.
Drink.
Drink and drink and drink
and drink and drink
Stain your liver with
poisoned charms,
until you no longer feel lonely,
surrounded by strangers
who know nothing
but your name.
Drink.
Best, be late
until you never arrive.
Sip cheap rosé
with brie and crackers
and board games,
listening, laughing, feeling
with the ones you love,
not the ones
you pretend to like.
Zachary Maluccio
Based on “My Contract Says…” by Ada Limon
Trill
by Kelly Campa
Creative response to “Arabic” by Naomi Shihab Nye
The question was never answered, and he
looked down at his cereal, unfinished
That’s ok, but I’ll keep saying but
ter but ter but ter
What’s nothing to you is impossible for me.
A solid wall of water hitting the rocks, only
to return to the sea, limp, listless, lifeless
Rolling like a purr, they say, it’s genetic.
It was. Close the door, now with feeling
car ro per ro bur ro tor re cor re
Now the farmer asks the question, so
knock knock knock on the old friend’s window.
Remember? Now only purple words
on a bright screen. For him a lifeline, for you
a hobby? Pull the weeds. Blowing air through
my teeth, they say, don’t force it
A light tap
to the alveolar ridge. Do I blame him
for it? No, who knew that I would actually want
to speak, to truly sing, how can
I choke, suffocating on my
tongue, first in my language and then
in someone else’s? What do you speak?
Take your pick, or choose all four
Close the door, now with feeling!
Bar ra bar
ra bar
ra
alternate names for mixed race kids
Ben Arriola
1. i don’t see it
2. how many are we allowed to check?
3. oh! (that actor) from (that foreign film)
4. you’ll see it more in the summer when i spend time outside
5. but you look so… ethnic
6. Our Student of Color
7. mexican right?
8. like (that actor) from (that American film)
9. so my grandparents are from x but my parents were born y and I’m z but
10. you’ll see it more in the winter when I spend less time outside
11. but how many languages can you speak?
12. but you act so white
13. but where before that
14. have you even been to your home country?
15. no no no I’m not saying we suffer more than x or y at all no I’m not saying that at all no but doesn’t mean I care less about x but can’t I feel express this without halting the parade or but some of us get the best and sometimes the worst to and but no I’m not saying we always get that more why can’t there be some more to this sometimes but
16. have I even been to my home country?
17. oh now I see it
“Still Quite Warm”
(Inspired by “Questions of Travel” by Elizabeth Bishop. Title, “Still Quite Warm,” pulled from line 29.)
Let’s think under waterfalls,
for without the clear
tears trickling from the trident
of stone above me,
I would have a mind of sky.
Maybe it would be better to never think again
or at least until I arrive,
touched down on homeland.
That moment when I’m finally the furthest I can be,
the moment when your voice is loudest,
I can hear it across the sea.
Remind me what it’s like to stand under waves
at the end of the world. Now
can I say goodbye to you. In your tongue.
Every new sound I make
is dedicated to your silence:
Do you hear me? (Tu mi senti?)
Today I learned your name
means, “divine,” a creature
of the valley. I asked the pilgrims who follow
to mark that crossroad as sacred.
The vale splits and golden beams —
in which I will always bask —
stream like halos and christen our stride.
The tide entrusted with my letter
to you. Do you remember
the wild goats on the cliffside?
That painting encrusted with the haze
of memory. You know what that looks like,
don’t you?
Guardians set in stars, come down to earth,
surround this firth, protect my birth!
My birth my birth my berth my rebirth
Bare witness, witless sickness:
al mio cuore.
thoughts through the late night
Creative response to Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Darling”
2/26/19
11 PM
i am an observer:
while everyone sits and laughs
while a group of girls talk about how long they spent doing their makeup
while she stares into his eyes
while he keeps talking about the one time he did that one thing
i just observe
i’m completely fine;
the extrovert is just warming up the bench,
saving his battery for the rest of the night
travis scott faintly playing in the background
string lights are dimly lit
fade in,
fade out
i slide the occasional joke
i make the occasional remark
but most of all –
i just observe
12 AM
i loosen up;
i make some new friends
what’s his name? doesn’t matter
he was kind of a dick anyways
small talk gets boring quickly
i’m not sure if i should stay or leave
i feel like someone in the wrong place
fade in,
fade out
suddenly
the song changes
and with it – the vibe
the extrovert comes out to play
1 AM
i am both
lost in the moment
and completely aware of my surroundings
all at the same time;
we are young but the night is younger
i could go on all night
the song ends with our hands in the air,
becoming air.
neither the problems of yesterday
nor the hopes of tomorrow
matter right now
the only deadline i’m worried about meeting
is her gaze from across the room
2 AM
it’s getting late
my battery is running low
the extrovert is dead;
I drowned him in a pool of his own sweat
sweat
from being stuck in a room full of people all too scared to be alone;
alone in what sense? in every sense
the fear of missing out
is greater than the fear of messing up;
sweat
from bench pressing the weight of the world off his chest;
sweat
from hurrying to be in eight places at the same time
yet not belonging in any of them
3 AM
the introvert lies in his bed
it’s 3 AM and he’s all alone
his body’s here
but his head’s 7,131 miles away
and who knows here his heart is?
travis scott
faintly playing in the background
string lights
dimly light
it’s time to recharge
“we’ll dig up the his body in the morning” he thinks
fade in,
fade out
all he can think about
is
everything
messed up part of the last stanza!!
corrections:
3 AM
the introvert lies in his bed
it’s 3 AM and he’s all alone
his body’s here
but his head’s 7,131 miles away
and who knows here his heart is?
travis scott
faintly playing in the background
string lights
are dimly lit
it’s time to recharge
“we’ll dig up the his body in the morning” he thinks
fade in,
fade out
all he can think about
is
everything
*through the late night
Augie Schultz
Creative Response to Max Ritvo’s “A Poem to My Litter”
Prof. Cassarino
2/27/19
my part in your facade is not your courage and
we are not your vehicle.
not your aid to confront the charged unknown
that is your fate. not ours.
i have parents of my own you delusional
genghis. we percolated in your walls,
don’t you remember? let me have no
role in your incoherent candy-land, where death is peace.
And let me be not your child. let me inherit not
your poison and sip not from your providence.
come, father. please, dad.
reclaim your fate.
my eleven brothers already have.
from a child who could never sleep
(Inspired by “From the Desire Field” by Natalie Diaz)
hot. it’s too hot in here, too dark
i never liked the dark.
i never liked sleep either,
from a child who could never sleep.
i can sleep now, mostly to pass the
hot nights
loud nights. my breath and my fidgeting hands
can’t sit still.
not alone. i hate to be alone
the night is alone.
or the night is not alone, but i am.
the silence, white noise machines broke it.
no help.
the sound empty like silence. white noise.
it’s too loud, too hot,
too dark.
too empty for me.
i hate empty.
never could
just close your eyes!
never could
just sit still!
goddammit just sleep
i can’t.
Blood Flow
(inspired by “a song in the front yard” by Gwendolyn Brooks
When I feel the heat
flooding into the length of my neck
and working its way into the ridges of my chest
I think of her.
I think of the ones outside of us
the ones who had ladders without rusted rungs,
who, when they reached up, and grasped
only felt smooth metal.
Who never expected rust.
Who never pulled their hands away from their ascension
and saw chalky orange-red nestled into the crevices of their palms.
Sometimes
when I speak I feel the growth of age
blossoming along my vocal cords.
My inquiry become a quarry
for the sharp spiral of my descent
into a well of questions.
And then there is the ladder.
My tentative way out of this pit
Of the stone and its cool, soggy floor.
With every rung there is a question.
WhywhatwhenwhoiswhoamIwheredowhereshallhowdoigo?
My palms aren’t my own
by the time I break out into
the sunlight.
My body is dusted with the remnants
of precious discoveries.
A deep green of the Earth
and the blue of its turmoil
leave fingerprints on the skin of my thighs.
I’m naked in my rise.
Only the innocent red of my blush
is my own.
I got that from her, though.
And I press my palms of orange to my chest,
I cover and spread the color of my ascension
over the breadth of my blush.
I wonder how long
it will take for
the musings of my day
to wash away.
February 27, 2019
Poem Response to “America” by Claude McKay
You
Take the needle, let me course through your veins.
They say I am the most dangerous drug.
Stand under my torrents and rageful rains,
They brutally beat but open mouth, chug.
Let my violence become yours, sing its song.
Don’t let the downpours debilitate you,
I command you to erect yourself strong!
As we engage in duel, I’ll confess true,
The ticking clock is making me go mad.
Although a boulder’s strong against weather,
It has no hope when ground under goes bad.
To me or Time do you yourself tether?
You and him shift, I’m sinking in your sand.
From jazz and speakeasies, I’m being banned.
WitHIn
(Creative response to “Blood” by Naomi Shihab Nye)
Once I was the butterfly
My wings stretched far and wide, My beauty fluttered
Do you know what happens to a butterfly when it rains?
I remember the cocoon. Different know. Been there,
done that. So familiar yet so foreign.
Do you know what happens
to a butterfly thats in pain?
We hide from the storm. Under leaves, among the trees. Here
we become vulnerable to the creatures that seek to take our pride.
who took my wings
Some say it was the storm. It’s been brewing
for months now. You can’t stop it.
Bullshit!
It came to me when the rain came down
like bullets and the winds shuttered the forest where i lay.
It came to me under the tree..
The storm is me
Creative Response to Poem “Charlie Howard’s Descent”
By Mark Doty
a late eulogy to charlie howard
By Dan Frazo
what could it have been?
the skinny jeans the moon shaped
earrings the Disease.
when did They go wrong?
brought up on Football and long afternoons spent
fixing up the Chevy with Dad,
he was a Man? charlie howard.
but no- they Took that boy away
Threw him
into that unrelenting pool of misunderstanding.
I thought he knew
how to swim in that.
but no- it overcame him,
the second Invader to ever
make that boy its host.
what a classic trick:
he should’ve done it himself.
what a cruel trick:
all the times he decided
he wanted to stand out
he was too much boy
to stand up one more time,
to tell me straight
that this poem
could’ve been written
so long ago
Jewlia
(Creative response to “alternate names for black boys” by Danez Smith)
By Julia Price
1. Sheket Bevakashah! Okay that means shut up
2. My preschool teacher tells this sick story about this kid who surfed across the Red sea after Moses parted it and I think I enthusiastically explained this part to my mother who must have been real confused
3. I drew “God’s girlfriend” a big circle with very curly hair and my mom taped it on the fridge
4. I didn’t know that that vowel under aleph meant “e” I am a failure god damnit Uri why are you so smart
5. This is a hilarious joke I used to make during recess, I’d say look if I were a boy I would have been named “Jew” but since I’m a girl I’m “Jewlia”
6. I lost my recess for reading Percy Jackson during Judaica and sat on the curb humiliated but luckily Joshua (my first love) gave me some carrot sticks
7. All six of us children ripping into that chocolate Challah and devouring like little monsters the second Hamotzi has ended
8. I practiced writing backwards and with my right hand during seventh grade Judaica
9. I made a hilarious joke during my Bat Mitzvah speech about math homework and everyone laughed also they all clapped when I was finished reading from the Torah even though they weren’t supposed to and I stepped down from the Bimah in all my glory, reveling in my newfound godlikeness
10. I’m so good at hebrew I’m in the class with all the high schoolers gee I hope I don’t forget this language when I leave
11. enters new high school and subtly implies that I went to Earl Warren and not the SDJA
12. I don’t know if I believe in god but I believe in something else I say
13. “I’m an atheist” I declare to my mother after watching angry atheist YouTube videos
14. “I’m an atheist Jew”
15. “I’m a cultural Jew”
16. I like when my mom lights the candles and I think I’m starting to sing the prayers again and not be a complete menace at Passover dinner
17. But I don’t know if I’m quite there yet
18. Why do I have to be Jewish? Who cares? (Your whole mother’s family died in Europe, you’ve got to keep holding the torch!)
19. I remember my eighth grade Judaica teacher telling us what a shame it was that there were so few Jews left, not just because of the Holocaust but because of people leaving the faith…
20. Julia did you know there’s a Hillel on campus my mom tells me during Orientation here’s when they meet they have Shabbats you can just check out the scene and I talked to the girl who…
21. Cool I say to my mom. I’ll check the Hillel out
22. …sorry mom.
Gospel
(Creative Response to Mark Doty’s “Charlie Howard’s Descent”) (*without formatting)
take me on a barrel wheel too
where dandelions turn red by the sun;
where a fortress of night makes her smile shine
rose of a day like the trans-apparent bee they were
drag me by the heart back of a car running
not only one two three or five hundred
light bulbs parting my head in two purpled
memories of the love that hurt much, but more now
show me the holy gospel of matthew left
lukewarm to repent on a land of honey and
harvey; or show me how many crucified jesuses
must I stone before the mass is over amen
teach me why must I fag away or got away
with telling she was my lover when she too went
to him white-robed perfumed in puritan shame
only to see that war was close and tend
Father I lay on my knees searching how
to go down on the truth we will never be more than
dumb dumb waiters like beds and furniture
framed for the crime of holding hands in—
Father forgive me for I have taken him into mine
chest full of holy water drowning in the dark reports
that a shooting took places; that the dykes burst today
freeing the tears boys never cried—
Father let thy kingdom never come onto
until they can forgive deliver trespass for ever and ever
the sight of us as angels hovering the ones we left behind
the ones in fences, furniture, fire and brimstone
the ones who lie, who hide, who fight
the ones who pray that one queer day will come
when it will be on earth as it was meant to be in heaven