# 28... Confessional poetry

So, I was thinking about Confessional poetry after Group A's presentation...and I think that that is more or less my vein of writing. I make a lot of my work personal as it is easy to draw from what you have experienced, what you know. I think it is a good form of therapy for me as I tend to keep things locked inside and that is no good.

Confessional poetry, to me, is a means of purging oneself of the complications in life, the burdens of the mind that weighs one down. It helps take the weight of ones shoulders to express the pains and ills of the world through ones' writing.

In retrospect I would say a lot of the pieces I wrote this semester, whether good or bad have been pieces of confessional poetry as they conveyed quite a bit of my private experiences and feelings.

Even though I wrote Making Sense of it All as a prose poem, I believe it can fall under Confessional poetry as it unveils the feelings and experiences that I have been going through.

Here is the unedited version:

Making Sense of It All

They said, “I had to see you, to put “it” all into perspective and that I needed to get the initial shock out of the way.” They said, “Now is the time to get “it” all out.” What is this “it” I ask myself? Why do I have to get “it” out? What if I want to hold onto “it” forever? What if “it” is too much to let go?

It – Missing you, crying over you dying, fear of forgetting your face? Could “it” be my longing to hear your voice again, wanting to seek your advice, having a friend to talk to? Or is “it” the hugs that I will never have again, the words “I love you too” whispered from your mouth, your undivided attention, your unconditional love? I keep asking myself these questions as I approach the room they hold your body in. And I wonder too, how is it I am with the rest of my family yet still feel empty and all alone?

I think and I walk and I walk while I think and I say internally: I want to tell you mummy that I miss you, but I can't tell you that can I? You're no longer here. I want to tell you that I will never forget you, that you were the greatest, most beautiful person in my life, that you were my rock to stand on, my foundation. But I can't. I want to hold you close, feel your motherly love. But I can't do that. I want to tell you that I love you forever, but I can't tell you that... That all I want right now is to have you back in my life again, to say and do all these things. All I want in the world is you and me to sit next to each other, to know that our family will not be broken, even if only for one more day. But it won't happen, would it? So, I just keep walking.

Walking down the cold hallway to view your body was a heart-wrenching experience. I’ve done it many times before, but this was something different. The feeling was surreal, my body was numb, and I could not feel. I wanted to run, full of fear, but had to face you one last time.

You were not ready for viewing, but your burial was a day away. I had to see you so “it” would all make sense. I was not ready. Seeing your cold, unclothed body lying on the cold porcelain top in the cold, uninviting mortuary was bloodcurdling. I almost dropped.

Staying strong for daddy is all that kept me from bawling. The thoughts – You can’t make yourself sick, you’re now a vessel for the grandchild she wanted and will never know – echoed within me. The words – Stay strong for your siblings, they can’t see you hurting. You can’t make your pain seem as though it is worth more than theirs – ran through my head.

The day of your funeral all of us stayed strong for daddy. We made a pact with each other that we will not be broken anymore. We filed into the church, one by one behind you. We sang from our hearts, prayed with our might and did our best to eulogize you. We did not break. We did not crumble into pieces yet stood tall and proud and joined in the celebration of your life.

Now the dreaded part—the part that solidifies your absence from my world—your cremation. You laid for one last viewing in front of us mourners. You lie so peaceful and still. When the clock struck twelve you were taken away. Don’t go mummy, stay with me. You can’t leave right now. I have so much to share with you. I have so much to say.

Your casket wheeled out through the large wooden doors. Beyond the doors the crackling fire sounded, inviting your body into the life of the fire. Your body was reduced to ashes and your soul delivered unto the world. You are physically gone, but will live on in our hearts.
Good bye mummy.


Here is the one that I wrote for Group A's presentation:

Love left behind

And so it is, I'm left once again.
The fourth one now in my 10 years of relations.
But this one was different, this one I loved.

I feel a deep piercing pain within my soul.
I want to tell you the pain you've caused,
But for fear of making worst, I stay mute.

I try to internalize your every word.
Though at times it feels as if the words just pass me by.
I doubt this could be happening again, and this time by your hand.

Yet somehow I manage it.
I grit my teeth and hold tight my tongue,
For fear of letting you win by making me utter words I dare not say.

I let you finish, pack your bags and leave the documents by the door.
Once again, left alone, but not a woman scorned. I move on.
The dotted lines I sign, for I'm free.

Free from the one I once loved, who betrayed me.

# 27... Taking Poetry to the Next Level (Performance Art)

After reading Shanterica's posting, Poem About My Rights by June Jordan I remembered American performance artist Karen Finley.I thought that Jordan's work was similar to Finley's as it speaks about the degradation of women and the feelings and emotions that women experience while being subjected to it.
I think performance art is a unique way of getting ones voice heard. The pieces to me are full of imagery and the delivery poetic.

Feel free to leave comments about this post.
Below is a piece I wrote on Karen Finley for my Public Speaking class, it should give shed some light on this artist.

Karen Finley

Today I would like to honour one of the greatest voices of performance art. A New York-based performer, author, playwright, and director, Karen Finley explores and discusses themes of the body, sexual abuse and violence, AIDS, suicide, female sexuality, and American politics.

This young lady whose theatrical pieces have been labelled "obscene" due to depictions of sexuality and abuse has raised awareness through her performances. She has also received critical acclaim from various organizations and in the art world despite many objections to her work.

Beautiful, outspoken, beautifully outspoken, 54 year old Finley from Evanston Illinois has much to give credit to for her years as a "controversial performance artist -- from growing up as the daughter of a mother she described as "not white" and a father who was a manic-depressive jazz musician who eventually committed suicide to the loss of friends to AIDS, Finley has managed to cover most of today's heated debates and topics, including a commemoration to Tawana Brawley, a young woman who alleged that some police officers raped her and smeared her with feces, through her spoken word and according to New York Metro "has managed to play a significant role in the early-nineties cultural firestorm surrounding the National Endowment for the Arts."

Finley went up against the National Endowment for the Arts to defend her work which was considered inappropriate and had vetoed her grant. She won that but later lost at the Supreme Court level and lost her funding based on a "lack of decency" standards.

Karen Finley is a woman like no other and will continue to touch the lives of many whether it be through inspiration or provocation. Learning about her has opened my eyes to many controversial pieces and works of "free speech" and has reminded me that life is meant to be enjoyed and people should be treated as equals.

So, I leave you with a line from the artist:

“My work is against violence, against rape and degradation of women, incest and homophobia...When I smear chocolate on my body it is a symbol of women being treated like dirt.”

To see more on Karen Finley click here.

I will try to get an audio clip posted so you can hear some of her work.

Ok, I could not figure out how to place audio on the blog, so I made a quick video and added the audio to share with you guys.

The clip is It's My Body from the A Certain Level of Denial album.

Here it is:

# 26... Writing and effective Prose poem

Just as the article suggests below, there is a "thin line between poetry and prose." While reading some of the submissions for this form I found that some of them were leaning more toward the prose side and did not utilize the rhyme and sometimes language that poetry contains.

I could be wrong, but I wanted to share this with you, just in case some of you found it hard to master this form.


How to Write a Prose Poem

The prose poem walks a thin line between poetry and prose. It became popular with poets like Charles Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde and Robert Bly because it offered freedom from structure and form. Prose poetry does not use poetic meter, rhyme, line breaks or stanzas. But it does retain the repetition, language and imagery of poetry. Unlike prose, the prose poem is not as concerned with plot or narrative and its point of view is more reflective and turned inward. The prose poem can be a paragraph, three paragraphs, a page or many pages.
Difficulty: Moderate

Instructions


Step 1

Know that you won't have to worry about rules of form. Rhyme schemes, meter, stanza and line breaks don't apply.

Step 2

Consider the structure of prose. Prose poems take the shape of paragraphs and contain sentences and sentences fragments.

Step 3

Think about a time where you were struck by a particular image, how you came upon that image, how that image made you feel and what went through your mind when you saw it.

Step 4

Write about that experience. Pay particular attention to describing the image and your emotions in detail. Use poetic devices like consonance, assonance, simile, metaphor, repetition and symbol. You can tell a story in your poem, but it comes second to the language (or how you tell the story).

Step 5

Don't worry about correct punctuation right now. You may be writing a prose poem, but you still want to keep the effects of poetry. Sometimes correct punctuation can hurt the rhythm you've established. Your prose poem can contain sentence fragments and very long sentences.

Step 6

Read over your prose poem. Take note of the language you've used. See if you can add more detail. Take note of the story or the thoughts you've expressed. See if anything needs to be added or revised.

Step 7

See if you have an epiphany. Not all poems need epiphanies, but some really benefit from them. See if the poem's train of thought naturally leads to an epiphany or a closing thought or image to leave with the reader.

Courtesy: ehow.com

# 25... Self Pity

I am totally in love with the works of D.H. Lawrence. I just remembered this poem. One of my favorites. It's short and sweet, and is also cited by Viggo Mortensen in G.I. Jane.

Self Pity

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

-- D.H. Lawrence

About the author

D.H. Lawrence
born September 11,
1885, Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, England
died March 2, 1930, Vence, France

in full David Herbert Lawrence English author of novels, shortstories, poems, plays, essays, travel books, and letters. His novels Sons and Lovers (1913), The Rainbow (1915), and Women in Love (1920) made him one of the most influential English writers of the 20th century.

Reference:
Lawrence, D.H.. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved April 3, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://search.eb.com.proxygsu-wgc1.galileo.usg.edu/eb/article-9047416

#24... Death is Nothing.

I just wanted to share this poem with you.

It was read at my mum's funeral and I thought it was very moving and comforting.


Death is Nothing

“Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me
in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone;
wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the
little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household
word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort,
without the ghost of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was; there is
absolutely unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of my mind
because I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you at an interval,
somewhere very near, just around the corner.

All is well.”

-- Henry Scott Holland

# 23... My Elegy

This is the elegy that I wrote. It definitely needs some work. I may change the poem entirely, but these are the thoughts that came to mind after her recent death. Any feedback will be glady accepted. Thanks.

Elegy for My Mother

Oh mother! Caregiver! A friend I can call.

Determined and strong, great example to all.

Full of compassion, honor and endless love.

You were bold and full of pride, undoubtedly a gift from above.

You are my gem.

With pride you stood tall and high.

Struck by illness you refused to fall or cry.

You would give the poor your last penny.

And your intelligence molded many.

You are my foundation.

To you, your family was important.

You gave us all your time.

You instilled in us hope and bliss.

Our intelligence you never undermined.

You are my strength.

Oh mother! My nurturer! The end for you has come.

Your body has given in; the fight you fought was won.

Now you may rest in peace and feel at ease.

Your work on earth is done.

You live on in us all.

The Stoning of Soraya M.

Don't act like the hypocrite, who thinks he can conceal his wiles while loudly quoting the Koran.
-- Hafez, 14th Century Iranian Poet

About the poet

Hafez lived in Shiraz; his pen name—“Who Knows the Qur'an by Heart”—indicates his wide religious education, but little is known about the details of his life. The same is true of many Persian lyrical poets, since their products rarely contain much trustworthy biographical material. Hafez's comparatively small collection of work—his Divan contains about 400 ghazals—was soon acclaimed as the finest lyrical poetry ever written in Persian. The discussion of whether or not to interpret its wine and love songs on a mystical plane has continued for centuries. Yet this discussion seems sterile since Hafez, whose verbal images shine like jewels, is an outstanding exponent of the ambiguous and oscillating style that makes Persian poetry so attractive and so difficult to translate. The different levels of experience are all expressed through the same images and symbols: the beloved is always cruel, whether a chaste virgin (a rare case in Persian poetry!) or a professional courtesan, or, as in most cases, a handsome young boy, or God himself, mysterious and unattainable—or even, on the political plane, the remote despot, the wisdom of whose schemes must never be questioned by his subjects. Since mystical interpretation of the world order had become almost second nature to Persians during the 13th century, the human beloved could effortlessly be regarded as God's manifestation; the rose became a symbol of highest divine beauty and glory; the nightingale represented the yearning and complaining soul; wine, cup, and cupbearer became the embodiment of enrapturing divine love. The poets' multicoloured images were not merely decorative embroidery but were a structural part of their thought. One must not expect Hafez (or any other poet) to unveil his personal feelings in a lyrical poem of experience. But no other Persian poet has used such complex imagery on so many different levels with such harmonious and well-balanced lucidity as did Hafez. His true greatness lies in this rather than in the content of his poetry. It must be stressed again that, according to the traditional view, each verse of a ghazal should be unique, precious for its own sake, and that the apparent lack of logic behind the sequence of verses was considered a virtue rather than a defect. (It may help to think of the glass pieces in a kaleidoscope, which appear in different patterns from moment to moment, yet themselves form no logical pattern.) To what extent an “inner rhythm” and a “contrapuntal harmony” can be detected in Hafez's poetry is still a matter for discussion; but that he perfected the ghazal form is indisputable. Whether he is praised as a very human love poet, as an interpreter of esoteric lore, or, as has been recently suggested, as a political critic, his verses have a continuing appeal to all lovers of art and artistry.

Courtesy: Islamic arts. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved March 20, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://search.eb.com.proxygsu-wgc1.galileo.usg.edu/eb/article-13736



I just watched the movie The Stoning of Soraya M. and was deeply moved by the true story of a young mother who was stoned to death after being falsely accused by her husband of adultery in a small town in Iran (just so he could get rid of her to marry a younger woman).

The quote in the beginning of the movie has now been entered in my personal book of favorite quotes and I wanted to share it with you all.

If you get a chance to watch the movie, do.