I have always loved poetry, and grew up reading and writing it often. My grandmother is an English professor and poet at McDaniel College in Maryland. She wrote multiple poetry collections and books during my childhood, and often wrote about me. On my 18th birthday she presented me with a poem about a moment she shared with my 5 year old self. She had been working on it for 13 years; although it’s a short poem, capturing less than a minute of time, it creates a clear and personal picture of me that I relate to deeply. In this poem she is describing me organizing blueberries for the pie my mother was going to make. She describes my meticulous process, the expression on my face, and my laugh. Seeing this moment memorialized on paper so many years later, was a truly unique experience. Poetry is incredible powerful in that way; the creative, personal, and intricate nature of it makes it unique from other genres. It can take so many forms, and the open-ended nature of this genre allows the writer to craft their poems in a myriad of different tones, forms, structures, and with whatever language they feel most expressive with.

Something that I discovered about poetry from this class, that differs to how I previously interacted with this genre, is the way that Juliana Spahr uses her poetry to “think of culture as large and connective…and [move] poetry away from individualism to shared, connective spaces.” I love this quote from Spahr, because it allows us to take poetry seriously; in the sense that it can be just as political and influential as a novel or an article. In writing about tragedy in a structured, yet very personal, manner, Spahr gives us a new way to observe, cope, and understand how we are all touched by tragedy or evil. I believe that poetry has an important place in the conversation that we’ve been having about culture, politics, and what it means to be a global citizen. There is no genre that allows for more personal emotion, freedom, and creativity that poetry. It should not be compared to graphic narratives or novels, as it should exist in a category of its own.

As a part of this blog post, I’d like to include a poem that I wrote 3 years ago to exemplify what I mean when I speak about poetry being its own, incredibly unique genre. This poem is something I wrote from the perspective of someone else, although my ability to empathize allowed me to feel what the person was feeling, and channel that into writing. Poetry is incredible special to me, as someone who needs to write things or type things out in order to make sense of life and its general chaos. I hope you enjoy it!

 

No Luck for Love

The first.

Messy braid, pretty collarbones.

She came quickly, an unanticipated surprise.

She dove deep into my reasoning,

Unearthing my judgement.

The scent of vanilla followed her everywhere, as did I.

The crest of her love was sparkling, illuminated by the summer sun.

I was hooked.

But her attention was carried elsewhere, as autumn approached.

I was slammed into the shore, dragged mercilessly by the ebb and flow.

What did I do wrong?

The second.

Endless legs, magnetic eyes.

This time, I would get it right.

A dancer. My harvest love.

Graceful found a new meaning.

She blushed at my compliments,

and held my hand with innocence.

Placid, green eyes, the calm before the storm.

But my efforts to praise her were futile,

passionate attempts at showing affection, swept away by a simple November breeze.

Her playful tricks beat against my heart like fierce rain on a tin roof.

She pushes me away carelessly,

helplessness consumes me.

 

The third.

Heart shaped lips, voice like silk.

Her skin was smooth, seemingly untouchable.

Temptation gripped me, but no.

It would be different this time.

Establishing dominance would relieve my heart of insensitive tremors.

Dropping tricky hints like an unpredictable forecast,

I pulled her along masterfully.

But she was gentle, and undeserving.

Unaware, of her impending fall.

A flash of lightning broke her,

she was tossed aside by deadly currents,

pulsating from my suffering of the past.

Her delicate walls collapsed.

Her body submerged in phony charm, my weapon of choice.

What did I do wrong?