zaaaAP Lit SuperBlog

Hey, I guess I'm a poet too!

After reading the poems in our poetry packet that were writen by William Carlos William I am appaled. Poetry can not be simply a set of words that are randomly put together to form a written sample. I find it ridiculous that this man's "poetry" can even be considered poetry. Hey I guess I'm a poet too, (and I didn't even know it haha). To further illustrate my point I will now write a poem off the top of my head.

Computer Screen: By Paul E

Bright screen I see in front of me

I type away for my blog

It seems like fun but it is not

because I am not a poet. Who is?

Now who in their right mind would consider that poetry? That is what William Carlos Williams did when he wrote the poem The Red Wheelbarrow. This isn't poetry, these are sentence fragments! What do you think?

Journey Poem and Haiku

This is my journey poem and it is about text messaging with a girl. My Haiku is about age and time.

on a 50 story park it on top of the garage and watch
miles away from hand close to your heart
Watch the clock
curled fingers greatest expectation until your fingers touch the wheel

you never actually touch the engine
but just feel the vibrations
and respond

When you drive it out of the showroom it speeds along
the radio blares the infinite stupidity of music, politics, short isolated laughter
the car vibrates gently, never speaking,
what is says that is up to you 
safely moving, its time to get dangerous
turn off the radio and gun it
the car comes back,   

If Daisy's smile could stay
so could her fingers tapping on small board
a million miles away
But then again when she came back
straight into the plot
Totaled car totaled hope

Move Quick Young,
jealous old watching,
time is money, money is time

The College Journey

As I climbed up the ladder

I thought about how much work I put into it.

Nothing else mattered.

I needed to get to the top.

 

When I finally got to the top,

All I could do was wait.

I sat there and tried to prepare myself,

Mentally and physically.

 

I got strapped in the harness,

And everyone was telling me what to do.

My mind could not make a decision,

I did not know exactly what I wanted.

 

I got ready to fly down, and

Get ready for the rest of my life.

I look at my parents, my friends,

And they just wanted me to go!

 

I got on and just flew!

I felt like I finally knew what I was doing,

And knew what I was capable of.

I was on top of the world!

Looking back

As we near the end of high school and get ready for life on after, We start to remember what made these four years so special. Looking back the one thing that's hit me these past couple of weeks is the realization that I will never wrestle or compete in high school athletics ever again for OPRF. It really makes me sad because competing in high school athletics is such a special privilege that I think many of us just take for granted. In the past four years competing on the wrestling team has provided me with the most memorable experiences in my life with the comraderary and friendships gained from being on the team, to the successes of winning state. All I have to say is, to those still competing in Spring Sports, enjoy yourselves and have fun, because for many of you, it will be your last time competing on as big of a stage. I'm sure when your seasons draw to their conclusions, it will hit you just like it hit me, that your best athletic days are over and competing in high school was the one of the best experiences in your life.

This Surely Can Not Be Considered Poetry!

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

This is the poem The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams. I am writing to say that this is not poetry. This is just a sentence broken up into poem form. It has no purpose, meaning, theme, literary devices, and it doesn't bring the reader any emotions. How could this be considered poetry? Mr. Heidkamp says because we don't know what depends on the wheelbarrow, it therefore is poetry. I strongly disagree. It doesn't matter what depends on the wheelbarrow, no one cares about that. Just because it says something in the poem that we don't know about doesn't make it a poem.

The Splatter Paint of Poetry

Today we had a discussion in class about what counts as poetry and what does not. The main poems in discussion were "The Red Wheelbarrow" and "This is Just to Say" because of their short length, simplicity, and lack of deeper meaning. In my opinion, I say these are poetry because they are a form of expression and they have meaning to someone. However, these poems are just too simple to be compared to some of the more complex poets we have read about. Even though I don't enjoy hunting for hidden meanings and being confused while reading more complex poetry, I respect that it probably took someone a long time to do it. Poems like "The Red Wheelbarrow" and "This is Just to Say" remind of a painting I saw in the art museum that I believed was called "Rodeo". It was a large canvas that was half gray and half red. As a whole, I would compare that kind of poetry to splatter paintings. They are nice and easy, but certainly don't compare to "The Sistine Chapel" or anything. Do others think that these simple poems deserve the same credit as the others?

A Daunting New Rhythm

Swinging ropes make

A chomping mouth

Ready to swallow me whole

It will bite down

When I fumble in its way

If I can even decide to enter

 

Taking that first step

That primary lunge

Is always the hardest

Thrusting myself into a rhythm

I’ve never had

And maybe never will

 

I’m so used to

A simpler

Slower

Routine

One I can speed it up at will

And not get eaten up

 

Whirring openings

Flash before me

I’m caught in indecision

Do I step in?

When? How?

I’ve never had the rhythm for double dutch

What Is Poetry?

Today in class we began discussing Modernist poetry.  We read a couple poems by William Carlos Williams, This is Just to Say and The Red Wheelbarrow.  Some people did not like these poems, or did not think it was real poetry.  However, I disagree.  In my opinion, poetry doesn't have only one definition.  And although these poems weren't typical compared to what we're used to reading, that's because it's a different type.  Modernist poetry is less metaphorical and more literal.  That being said, Williams's poems are simple and self-explanatory.  The "deeper meaning" might not always be so deep.

What do you guys think classifies as poetry?  Is it a poem if it rhymes, paints a picture, or describes something in great detail?  Or can it also be just a simple sentence that isn't necessarily descriptive?

Journey Poem

It is untitled. The mode of transportation is obvious, the "underlying meaning" is not so.

I went for a ride once,
Lacking helmet I mounted my machine
And quietly rolled from the clutches of my home
Awaiting stupendous speeds.

I started in an early gear
And seized the leather wrapped bars
Simultaneously seizing control (or so I thought) of my machine,
Feeling the metal teeth chomping my shoes--I push

In a later gear
I learn reward follows responsibility,
And with each effortfull push my machine
Surges with speed which I consume with a grin

In yet a later gear
I angle around a corner--traffic!
They are fish forcing me like a bob
But from left to right not up and down--near collision!

I flick my thumb to final gear
My eyes climb the hill and my mouth widens accordingly
I reach for cold fusion attached to my machine
Empty--what!
I close my eyes and begin spooning motivation
From it's jar, but it's sticky and difficult like peanut butter
My legs pump like pistons--I'm almost to the top

Teeth bite lip and I'm there
Pistons slow and my machine purrs contently

Is It A Poem?

Today in class we had an argument over this poem and whether or not it really was a poem.

"This is Just To Say"

I have eaten 

the plums

that were in 

the icebox

and which 

you were probably 

saving 

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet 

and so cold

Many people were saying that this wasn't really a poem, that it was just a bunch of sentences divided into different lines, and indeed they kind of look that way.  The sentence "I stare at the clock until class ends because I'm bored" can become a poem if it's written like 

"I stare 

at the clock

until class ends

Because I'm bored"

But there is something about the poem (if we are for the time being going to call it that) "This is Just to Say" that I really liked even though it was so simple.  It made me think of a couple of events in my life that relate to this.  My brother stealing my cream soda that I hid in the back to save for later and also several occasions in which I have earned myself a tasty afternoon snack by claiming unmarked food in the stage crew fridge.  The fact that this poem connected with me, as well as the fact that I got some enjoyment while reading it makes me believe that this is indeed a poem.

Last semester for my Humanities class I had to write a paper titled "What is art"?  I decided that art can be anything as long as it means something so someone.  If a person is moved by the work, if they find something in it that is special to them, or even if it is the artist who put all their time and effort into something they feel proud of it, that can be considered art.  I feel this can connect to poetry too.  This poem made me laugh and made me think of something in my life.  Therefor I think it can be a poem.

There was one other part of the poem that I truly enjoyed.  The first line of the last stanza is "Forgive me".  He is not asking for forgiveness for doing anything terrible, he just ate her plums.  But you get a feel for the relationship between the two.  He wanted those plums so bad because they looked so delicious, and then he took the time to say sorry he stole them from her.  But he's not sorry that he ate them, just that they were hers.  

Because I Am Bad With Speaking...

Today in class I actually had something to say! Unfortunately, I don't think my ideas ever really got articulated. What can I say? I'm not good at talking. Therefore, I thought this was the perfect opportunity to express my opinion.

In short, I think Williams' writing is poetry. I will not deny the fact that they are definately not "traditional" and even seem too commonplace to be considered as publishable. Yes, it is talking about eating someone's food or the importance of a wagon, but that is what makes it interesting. We as the audience know what the poem is about. We always complain about writers being so elusive and cryptic. Well, this is what we have been waiting for!

Also, I believe that poetry should be about life. It doesn't have to be about life morals or neverending societal problems. Sometimes the beauty of life is what we encounter everyday. For example "This Is Just to Say" made me smile. Did nobody else find some humor in it? Walt Witman even said in his preface that poetry should be about life. In addition, he says that poetry should be about something that everyone should be able to understand and relate to. This poem nails both.

To me, poetry helps to shed new light on life. Through these simple poems, the audience will never look at a plum or wagon again.

Modernist Poetry

Normally, I am not a huge fan of poetry, but now I am starting to like it a little more.  Maybe it's because every year in English class we spend some time on poetry, but I have gotten more into it.  I liked some of Emily Dickinson's poems, but I find myself enjoying modernist poetry more.  I remember reading poems from Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Robert Hayden and E.E. Cummings last year, and I had the most fun reading poems them and other modernist poets.  I like E.E. Cummings poem "spring is like a perhaps hand", "Those Winter Sundays" by Robery Hayden, and many of Robert Frost's poems as well.  I also remember reading "Mending Wall" last year in English class, and although it is a longer poem, I enjoyed reading it and finding the meaning of it.

Today in class we read "Desert Places" ,"The Snow Man", and briefly talked about "the Red Wheelbarrow", and I enjoyed all of these poems.  I guess modernist poetry is one of the types of poetry that I can actually understand and enjoy.  What do you think?  Do you like modernist poetry?  Or is there something you don't like about modernist poetry?

Freakonomcis

As may 1st approaches, I have done my share of traveling. Thankfully, airports and long flights have allowed me to decrease the stack of books sitting next to my bed. On my way out to California I read Freakonomics. I would like to recommend this book to all how have not read it already. Each chapter of the book is filled with relevant and interesting analysis. The writers of the book untraditionally use economics to analyze topics like: why drug dealers live with there mothers, online dating, standardize testing. One of the writers is a professor and University of Chicago and writes a great deal about the city. The book is a quick and worth while read.

Keeping It Simple

I was interested by our discussion in class about what poetry is. Wondering if William Carlos Williams work is actually poetry. I really enjoyed his poems, but maybe that's because I don't like poetry. While I have huge admiration and respect for poets, I struggle to get the meaning of most of their works. The metaphors and imagery of most poetry is astounding, but to much is left to the reader, to much to personal interpretation. I can never figure out if I'm reading to much into the poem or too little. If these are the views off the speaker or the author(especially with Whitman). I don't have any of these problems with William Carlos William, he just comes right out and states it-explicitly. In "This is Just to Say" he doesn't use much description, not even with the fruit he consumed. Only saying that it was "so sweet and so cold", but that was enough. One can understand and even appreciate the simple act described. Does anyone else appreciate his simplicity, and is his work actually poetry?

Journey Poem

Here is my journey poem, the mode of transportation is white water rafting.

 

 

Shoes, life jacket, helmet
Do I have it all? Again.
Shoes, life jacket, helmet
The soggy silt squeezing its way between my toes
pushing, plowing through the tight space

straining to keep me grounded
Through all the steps again
Shoes, life jacket, helmet

 

I am there.
Feeling the power surging through my fingertips
every minute move has a purpose
every touch nudge of my hip
every angle my arms form
Sleek, Control.

 

But the impatient water starts to pull.
Shoes, life jacket, helmet
faster I am pulled through the restless water
white surges can overcome at... 
No, I still have control

Shoes, life jacket, helmet

 

Interactions between control and chaos
Shoes, life jacket, helmet
distressed deranging defenseless
clenching clamoring confusion
No! No. Focus.
Shoes, life jacket, helmet
Shoes, life jacket, helmet
Shoes, life jacket, helmet

Today in class we had a discussion about whether William Carlos William's Poem, "The Red Wheelbarrow" is considered poetry.  Well, in my opinion, poetry is open to the reader's interpretation of it.  While some may consider this not to qualify as a poem, others may find a deep meaning in something like this that is so simple and short.  As for me, I see the emphasis of this to be placed on a red wheel barrow, whether this qualifies as poetry in my book Im not so sure.  What do you think? Is this poetry or just some mumbo jumbo? 

 

so much depends

upon

 

a red wheel

barrow

 

glazed with rain

water

 

beside the white

chickens

The Simplicity of Poetry

So today we ended class with a really interesting discussion about whether William Carlos Williams poems could really be considered poetry. In this argument I leaned with the side arguing that it is poetry. I especially thought the comparison to "Snow Man " was interesting. We had just finished discussing about how Stevens talks about the appreciation of the simplicity of winter. Although winter can just seem like a blank dull state of the world, if you watch for it there is beauty in its simplicity. It reminded me of something one of my art teachers said, " never be afraid to leave blank spaces." This essentially meant that sometimes things can have more of an impact when they left in their simplest state. I think this is also true of William's poems as well. Although they just seem like sentences broken up in a weird way, there is a way to look at them and appreciate their simplicity.

On a slightly different note when Williams Poem, "This Is Just to Say" was read in class it reminded me of The radio show This American Life on NPR which this past weekend did a show with the theme: being sorry and not really meaning it. At the end of the show they included an act about this poem and parodies of it, which are mostly pretty good and also I think display how much one can imply even in a short poem. So if you have any extra time... http://scribalterror.blogs.com/scribal_terror/2005/04/this_is_just_to.html

Reaching The Top

Finally at the top after months of anticipation
With many bumps and bruises along the way
Many stops along the way wondering if it is the right choice
Numerous hours perfecting the little things

Looking for support where ever you turn
Finally realizing you have to get to the top yourself
With forks in the path its up to you to choose which way
You feel like every little step will determine the future

Can not turn back now you are almost at the top
Out of breath from all the questions thrown at you
Scared to look down you keep climbing
Little signs start appear and things are starting to work out

It seems like everyone is already at the top
So close yet you feel so far
Jealous of all the people ahead of you
Out of breath from all questions

Finally you can see the top
You start to feel the feeling of accomplishment
You reach the top and you realize
All the work and dedication was worth it

You got accepted to college.

Leaving For College

I have been watching the

Older Kids do this all my life.

Each year a fresh batch of

Adventurers ready to

Take Off.

 

This year it is

My Turn.

I am scared.

I try to do everything to

Prepare Myself.

I strap on the pink kneepads

And matching elbow-pads,

And tilt my head up to

They sky, staring at

The shapes in the clouds

Waiting for the securing

CLICK

That lets me know my

Helmet is securely fastened.

 

I cannot put this off

Any longer.

Part of me is glad, but

Part of me is terrified.

I have grown up, and no longer need the

Training Wheels.

I balance precariously on my

New Bike,

My dad’s steady hand keeping me up.

I begin to pedal.

 

The motions themselves are

Familiar, but I have

Never gone through them

Without a crutch.

I take a deep breath,

Pedal as fast as I can,

And tell my dad to

Let Go.

Memory Per Mile

Click start.

I ease into it and walk to that familiar corner of trampoline fun and naive secrets

The same dogs bark, some friendly others protective

I smile, not looking back but remembering every experience and sensation

Touching, smelling, feeling, and seeing

Pick up pace.

I reside at a constant speed for the time being

I look around the quaint village, going away from simple childhood reminiscence

Passing Willard, then Roosevelt

So many memories in just a few miles

Adrenaline kicks in, pushes me to go faster

Pick up pace.

I reach OPRF while sweating off the stress

Everything is a rush, a push to keep moving forward

But I stay on the route I have been on for years

I'm almost home, I find myselfat a sprint pushing myself to reach my limits, my goals

But I reach a crossroad and see a beautiful little park that I have not dared to enter yet

Am I ready?

I hesitate

Take in a deep breath, my family will always be close

I can do this

Click stop...

After all, all routes change at some point in life

This one just so happens to be mine

In my journey poem I'm going on a run around the neighborhood; on the route I always take. This is basically a metaphor describing my leap to college. The "click start/stop" is a stopwatch.

Goes Together Like Peanut Butter and Jelly

Peanut Butter and Jelly are the perfect combination.

But apart they aren’t satisfying.

The diversity of each can be overwhelming.

I can’t decide which texture

Or which flavor I prefer.

If each cannot mix,

It would seem easier to choose one

Or the other.

Separated they cannot satisfy me.

If a full stomach is the goal,

But enjoyment the want,

Which presides?

For now I stare at the mocking slices of bread.

One smooth and creamy,

The other a tantalizing deep red with an uneven surface.

I take a bite out of one,

And secretly crave the other.

I need to make a choice,

Unable to have both.

The bread settles in my complacent stomach.

I don’t take another bite.

What's in a Poem?

Today in class after discussing "Desert Places" by Robert Frost and "The Snow Man" by Wallace Stevens, our class began to talk about exact how Modernist poetry strays away from the Romantic idea of poetry, more specifically how Modernist poetry focuses on the literal meaning of words.

And one poem that seemed to stir up the discussion was William Carlos Williams Poem “The red Wheelbarrow.”

so much depends

upon

 

a red wheel

barrow

 

glazed with rain

water

 

beside the white

chickens

 

There seemed to be many different opinions on whether this poem was in fact a poem at all, or if it was just a sentence with odd spacing. In my opinion, this short and simple work is in fact a poem that seems to communicate a meaningful story of a wheelbarrow and how simple, yet important it is through great imagery. What does anyone else think? Poem or oddly spaced sentence?

Is it Really Poetry?

We had an interesting discussion today in class about William Carlos Williams' poetry.  More specifically, some of us asked: "Where is the meaning?"  While this is a valid question, I think we have to first define what "meaning" is.  Does it have to describe a thoughtful critique on our society, or can it simply just be about what "is"?  Should poetry always have a complicated metaphor that conveys some "deeper meaning", or can it have a simple and literal meaning?  I think that there are no right or wrong answers to these questions because the nature of poetry is subjective.  Just because one person declares a poem not poetry, it does not diminish what the poem is about.  Everyone is entitled to their opinions and this is what makes class interesting.  Personally, I think that class would be boring if everyone agreed with each other all the time.

I think that "This is Just to Say" by Williams is poetry.  Yes, it is simple.  It has no deeper meaning or complex metaphor.  It is about someone who could not keep from helping himself to the plums in the icebox.  I'm not sure about the rest of you, but this poem really made me want to eat a plum.  "they were delicious/ so sweet/  and so cold."  Williams' vague description of the plums still did what it was meant to do.  In other words, it is supposed to make the reader crave a plum.  The purpose is simple enough to cause some readers to question if it is poetry at all.  Some might argue that it is just a series of sentences that anyone could write or even speak, but in my opinion, Williams' style is not "too simple".  I appreciate the literal meaning in this poem after trying to decipher some more "traditional" poetry with flowery language and long verses.

To those who think that William Carlos Williams' work is not poetry, why do you think so?  Also, expand on your idea of what kind of "meaning" should poetry have.
              

Journey From a Nonsense Map

The water tosses me to either side

And the constant rocking is unsettling.

I can’t catch the rhythm

And the tiny stream feels eternal

 

The current calms but convinces me

To the shaded edge of the stream.

I can’t examine the water ahead:

Thick fog like a curtain-

With no stagehand in sight.

 

The stream pours into a wider river

There’s more to pass as speed picks up-

I can’t gauge the distance I’ve traveled.

Two oars make their place known in my hands,

They help to ease the erratic motions.

 

The air around me clears somewhat

To a narrow patch before the open sea.

I can feel the current slow down

It’s played navigator for the last time.

My oars are still firm in my hands

But do little more than nudge me.

 

Despite the abilities of my tiny ship

There’s no more room for it on the stream

The bow may fit, but the stern refuses

No matter how hard I’ve tried.

 

I have to jump out and swim

To get to the other side

Flyin' High

Parasailing- My first kiss

My feet dangle in the ice cold Atlantic,

Life vest secure.

Excitement running through my body

Like an engine revving.

Ropes tied, balloon set.

As the instructor tells me to grab on

To the bar.

My palms sweating as the cold mental and my hands embrace,

And off we go.

The breeze hits my face

Gravity failing,

I float.

Like a feather, completely weightless, flyin' high.

The rhythm of the beating inside me

Speeds up as we go higher and

Higher.

I look down

The ground now made up of a  body

Of blue.

Looking out into the infinite distance,

We lower.

My feet dip into the ice blue ground,

As I feel the cold plastic once

Again underneath my legs.

Deep breath, and ready to do it again.

Tough Journey

Although I do have to admit to procrastinating a little bit on writing it, I found the journey poem to be a little harder than I expected. When I was writing it, I wanted to try and write it so that there were absolutely no literal references to the actual rite of passage (in this case getting a job). However, each line I came up with seemed to only tie in to either the activity or the rite of passage, and I had a hard time finding a balance in between. What did everyone else think about the journey poem?

Those Four Years

The swift flowing current tugs you
Into the foaming white-water passage
At this bend in the River—
The River of Life.
It churns and bubbles,
The ice-cold Water unclear and unreadable,
As more boulders and logs
Each one a Struggle
Keep appearing before you.
You have your Ups
And your Downs
Bouncing from rock to rock, log to log,
Struggle to Struggle.
You depend on your paddle, in your hand
To guide you through the River,
Around the rocks, around the logs.
You depend on your shipmate, your co-captain,
Your friend, your peer,
Who helps you navigate the River
Around the rocks, around the logs,
Around the Struggles.
And some how you make it through
Those Four Years.

Canoeing has been a large part of my summers for the last several years. Not large in the sense that it took up a lot of time each summer, because after all, it only lasted for a week each summer. It is large in the sense that it has its own special little place in my heart. I won't lie—it can be a struggle sometimes, especially when I am reminded of my experience last year on the Boundary Waters. The people I was with were not great, we were paddling through only lake-water (so the water did not flow), and it was a very wet year—meaning that many of the portages we went over were ankle-deep mud for three-quarters of a mile. Oh, and how can we forget the horsefly-sized, bloodsucking mosquitoes?

However, canoeing has always been, still is, and always will be one of the most fun and most exhilarating parts of my life. Being out in the wild surrounded by Mother Nature, alone but for a few others, is an important time for me. It gives me a chance to really enjoy myself, to think and reflect, and to enjoy being surrounded by pure, clean, untainted air.

With this in mind, I dedicate my Journey Poem to my own, as well as others', Journey through high school. Everyone has had their ups and downs, but through their own determination and personal strength, as well as support from friends, family, and teachers, everyone has made it through These Four Years.

Memories of Someone Else's Memories

I never got the chance to really blog about GOST when it was still fashionable, what with being in India at all. But honestly, I consider Roy a poet anyway. Lets be real, she's pretty much a modern-day Indian-American Dickinson. Just with a little more filler, and a few less hyphens. So, making that connection, I must say that when I found out that I had not thoroughly read my itinerary and we were not in fact going to Kerala this time around, I got a little upset. A little violent, really. I had actually pictured trecking through Ayemenem, looking for Paradise Pickles and skyblue Plymouths and what not. I was and am pretty much convinced that everything in that book is 100% real, because everything in it has happened somewhere or another. Love laws broken, history roped off, so on, so forth. Everytime I heard  a small Indian child use the word "spoiled", or when I saw a little street boy in a shirt that had Popeye on it, I was struck with a pang of familiarity, though I had never traveled to India before. I was also full of a loathing for the anglophilia that made my trip so cushy, and couldn't stop thinking about "Marrying your conqueror".  In short, the extent to which GOST lived in my mind those 18 crazy days is to me, the mark of truly amazing writing. Literature can't quite subsitute for real experiences, but it can come extremely close.

Real Poetry

What is poetry? If a person had never heard of poetry and walked into our classroom, they would have a pretty narrow view on what poetry is.  They would say Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson is poetry, the end. But we all know that's not true. Don't get me wrong, poetry is awesome and all.  But to be honest, we have no diversity in the poetry we learn this year. All of it is this old crap nobody really wants to read, and then we figure out what the poem is a metaphor for.
What we need is some new poetry, some poetry people want to read and write. I'm talking about the poetry we listen to every day. Lyrics to songs are poetry, and we should be looking at those. It doesn't matter if we go back to Don McClean's "American Pie," get historical with Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire," keep the lovey-dovey poems by analyzing Hot Chocolate's "I Believe in Miracles," stay recent with Fort Minor's "High Road," talk about drugs with Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Under the Bridge," or go new and relevant with Common's "The Corner."
Mr. Heidkamp, this is my personal request that you expand your horizons. The lines you have set as poetry have turned into barricades that are preventing poets just as famous as the ones we are currently reading from entering our classroom. What you are doing is denying all your classes any form of diversity in their ability to think about and analyze poems. This is wrong and unjust. Your curriculum must change if you want your students to truly understand what poetry is.
I think poetry is about finding an emotion and putting it on paper or in a song. But I could be wrong. I will never know what poetry really is unless we explore. What do you guys think? Does anybody have a different definition of poetry? Anybody agree / disagree that we should expand our horizons

I Broke the Law and the Law Won

My First Ticket

My blades were black,

Sleek, and just waiting to be scratched.

When I put them on, I knew I could fly.

I raced on the sidewalks,

Zooming,

Whooshing,

Rollerblading.

I didn’t know how to stop,

But that didn’t stop me.

I could make quick turns,

Glide from all those who tried to end my fun.

I was the Queen of the sidewalk,

Until, my mother came.

She was Queen of the house.

Just her presence alone made me feel like a Jester.

“Stop!” she said.

I tried to out race her, glide past.

But her force field stopped me,

It was like she could pull me with her mind.

It was time for dinner,

And the court Jester was needed.

 

 

I've never had a ticket, or even gotten my driver's license.  So that part is fiction.  I do Rollerblade though.