New River, North Carolina
For this year’s Put A Poem In Your Pocket Day, I decided to flash back to my fledgling blogger days on Patch.com! Here I (rather verbosely) share how two popular poems related to my personal experiences two years ago. Now? I believe the dream is no longer deferred! The road I travel upon has been quite adventuresome. My blogging? A bit tighter… geez, am I one wordy sumomabitch… Enjoy!
Original Post Date April 17, 2013 at 04:26 PM
Remember having to memorize and recite poems for a grade? You couldn’t get away with a haiku either, oh no.Shakespeare’s sonnets, any of them, incited hemorrhaging. I had the (cough, cough) joy of tackling Alexander Pope’s Rape of the Lock for a project. Thankfully, The Dragon (yes, she wanted us to call her that) only required Canto I of the five. Do the kids do this in school anymore? Is it another assignment they can file a legal injunction against?
This is why I respect poets. They can stand in front of an audience and spin a tale with grace and excitement and without needing to reference notes. Me? I tried it a couple of times with my own poetry. I can’t even memorize my own poetry! Perhaps I blew out that particular section of my brain during my recitation of Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky.
Poems can amplify your life experiences. One example is Stopping by Woods On A Snowy Evening. “Of easy wind and downy flake” is a beautiful line, full of imagery. I’ve enjoyed Robert Frost’s work since my childhood, but this poem literally came alive for me one winter driving in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Whenever I come across it now, I remember me and my dog Bear driving from Altoona to State College, stopping on a peak to admire the downy flake of an Appalachian winter.
Poetry can pronounce your experiences when your own words can’t do it justice. A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes did that for me three years ago. I remember reciting it for a stage production and for junior year English but thought nothing of it then. Seventeen years later I was fumbling over my state of being, crippled by uncertainty, and then happened upon this poem (courtesy of cswnet.com):What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load. Or does it explode?
And with that, I said, it’s time to become a writer. Novelist, poet, blogger three years later. Thank you Langston Hughes.
Remember to put a poem in your pocket tomorrow. Share it with everyone in listening range; posting on social media I deem cheating! I close with two of my own works for you to enjoy. One light, one dark, depending on how you prefer your poetic coffee.
Ode to Three Birds Tavern
(Composed 5.31.12)Once upon a day dreary wind choppy, sky bleary I wandered into tavern here soaking wet, ordered a beer Soon it amounted to more than one and out peak’ed the afternoon sun Kristen sparked the music box right with rockabilly to delight the boys in the back pushed the cue the bartender kept pouring brew the winds calmed down the sky did clear and all of this cause I stopped for a beer. ©2015 VS Enterprises
Stopping By The Master’s Grave
(Composed 4.4.13)youandI have been here before youandI youandI have spoken in cold air and youandI were youandI despite the chill youandI have much in common youandI darkness we wear like a furry cloak in the air of despair will me towards the black trust me to honor your way your words your fundamental melancholy youandI have much in common youandI I will see you brother it will not be too soon. ©2015 VS Enterprises
Happy Friday and good news…it’s still National Poetry Month! Hope you’ve enjoyed my contributions thus far. 😀
For our last NPM15 entry, I’m giving you a sneak preview of A Coterie of Diamonds.
The excerpt below, The Dreamer, is a segment of my surreal narrative poem; the full piece will be featured in Thirteen o’Clock Press‘s upcoming anthology highlighting female horror writers. Very excited!
I’m no good at being a fangirl. That rabid memorization of metadata – team rosters, stats, trades, rankings – I don’t do well. What I do well is wear whatever jersey you feel I need to wear to bed, as a pseudo-sexual show of appreciation for <insert favorite sports team here>, but otherwise, could care less of the name across the breasticles, as long as the fabric stretches.
My reason for enjoying football is because it reminds me of my childhood. Growing up in the southern region of Germany within minutes of major cities, you couldn’t avoid getting caught up in the hype, the esprit de guerre, the fierce loyalty to team (and country once the World Cup came around). In my region, our team was Bayern Munich. As a teenaged girl, I cheered on their gorgeous, sculpted bodies. Tor! Tor! Tor!
Now I’m attempting a dedication to the Tampa Bay Rowdies! My friend Guy Delaney with the Rowdies got me great seats for last week’s opener, along with a magnetic decal for my truck and two t-shirts to look the part. I faux-hawked my hair, painted bright green and gold on my eyes, then whooped it up at Al Lang Stadium while cheering on gorgeous, sculpted bodies, er, I mean, a dedicated team of professional athletes who proudly call Tampa Bay home!
Every Friday this April, I am going to feature an original work here for your reading pleasure. Throw rotted fruit, sing praises, lemme know you just don’t get it, but do, please, have an experience. If you borrow the work, be polite and cite!
This is a work-in-progress poem. Dog-eared for publication, but it’s only the second revision. It’s very intimate. Passionate. Worshipful. The reader submits instantaneously.
As a former obese woman, fried dough is my enemy! But there is something rather sexy about the forbidden, que no? Once a month I allow myself an indulgence. And when I do…