[written today]

Today was my first poetry class, and I wrote the following poems IN CLASS! I was shocked to actually be able to get anything done in class; usually I can't because my mind wanders too much.

This first one is untitled so far and a sort-of response to and sort of modeled on Vera Gomez's poem "Merida 1999". Here 'tis:

There, in the park, you held me.
Nighttime and warmth surrounded us,
and we were cloistered by the sounds
of the chirp-chirp of insects and
the distant city traffic.

The water was as dark as the sky,
except for the splashes of lights
reflected in orange, yellow, green.
You slowly pulled your camera
from its home and click-click -
My face was somehow etched in your memory.

Soon the streetlamps were blurring,
matching my eyes and the powerful
searchlight beaming from deep within you.
Long exposure after long exposure,
I felt myself melt into you
on that groaning, wooden swing in the park.


This one is even more loosely a response to Gomez's poem "Leaves". It is called "On First Making Tea":

One day she decided to brew her own tea.
Never having experienced this ritual,
she (in ignorance) bought a box of tea bags from Wal-Mart
and began her project.
One cup of cold water from the kitchen sink.
Microwave for 1 minute, maybe 2.
She felt the steam drench her face
as she reached for the mug.

To the pantry she hastened
to unlock the secrets of tea-making.
It is an art, is it not? She would say
"It is not."
Plop - the bag into the mug.
Damn! The string fell inside and was trapped
like a drowning child.
A spoon to the rescue, and she learned
Tea-making is an art.

She liked the soft clinking
of the spoon against the green glazed mug.
Watching the tea slowy permeate
the once-pure water,
she hoped the tea would be pungent,
alive.
Ten minutes later, then fifteen,
She decided to take
her first sip.

It tasted like water.

She waited some minutes more.
Disappointed but not depressed,
she continued to stir.
Clink-clink and the tiny sound of
water and tea swirling together, dancing.
After thirty minutes and
a small amount of creamy milk and aromatic cinnamon,
she was ready to try again.

It was still the same,
flavourless,
water but not water,
like religion and George W. Bush,
completely unfulfilling.
She moved the spoon,
but this time no sound followed.
Muted by failure and brought down
by centuries of successful brews,
she stared at the mug
and felt lost, alone, unworthy,
discarded -
like her would-be tea.


And this one isn't really finished, but class ended so I had to quit working on it for a time. It is sort of another way of looking at the situation in the first poem I posted today:

The lights were dim,
and I could hardly see your face
as we stared into the blackness
that was river, tree, rock:
Nature brought to shame.

The city lamps twinkled
in every shade of white
depending on the type of lightbulb.
We could even see windows,
far-off homes ensconcing other people
we've never seen.
Perhaps they're lovers, too,
Turning down the lights
as we close our eyes and
forget that we ever knew
anything but the touch of our lips together.



There you have it. My words. I'll post more, I'm sure... since my only work for this class is to write poetry. ^^