Poetry

... is what gets lost in translation" -Robert Frost

I used to write poetry quite a deal when I was in jr high & high school. Perhaps that was my way of going "emo" as the kids do today. Hmmm, that's not necessarily true, but it sounded cool. I just liked to express myself through things that rhymed, or didn't, but most importantly it was sometimes required for classes. Maybe I should take it up again, but in the meantime, here are a few poems that I wrote in high school. It's also a kind of cop-out from coming up with something original to write. Wait, does that mean I have to cite myself...?

From Freshman year: "The Fire Within"
The music plays
A fire burning inside me waiting to erupt out into a passionate tune.
Thanks to my grandpa for bringing the music here.
When I was little, I refused to learn to play
Mom would teach piano lessons, but I only listened.
The keys spoke to us.
To me.
A tune once so "mechanically" happy
now screams of sorrow, molest, betrayal.
I play that tune now, too.
My whole family does.
Except my Dad.
It's just the notes on the page.
I try to share my sorrowful, confusing melody,
but he refuses to listen
He says that I don't talk to him,
but he never learned to hear me.
In my family, words are cheap.
But a song, sung from the hear shows what we're feeling.
We're not about hugs 'n' kisses and all that lovey-dovey garbage.
We share a passion
Music is a poem so deep, that words cannot convey it.
But after all these years, the message in the song never really came forth.
Our family intonation now is suffering more than ever.
I long for the day when we can play as before.
But that day won't come.
Somehow, the same song has a new meaning.
Day after day, I see our lights growing dimmer.
That's why I play.
I cannot speak with words, so I let my tuba do the talking
I don't want this fire to die.
But at one point or another, I'm going to have to stop playing.
Hopefully, my children will feel this passion as deeply as I.
This fire will never die.

*so, a few side notes. My freshman year I played tuba in the marching & concert bands, which was the only year where I didn't play the trombone at all since I picked it up in the sixth grade. So, that should explain the reference to tuba instead of trombone. & when I read it in my English class, it was the only poem that didn't rhyme & wasn't all light-hearted & stuff, so everyone just kind of sat there going "woah...". Most of their poems were similar to the following one from my Jr. year, for my British Literature class:

Junior year: "Take Two"
At first I started writing
Of my sorrows, and the end,
But that was too depressing,
So I'm starting o'er again.
Instead of plunging into stuff
That's personal to me,
I hope that this will be enough;
So I won't get a "B".
I'm frantically spouting words
Just trying to get this done,
My mind is screaming notes in thirds,
When I hoped this would be fun.
Do I need to fill up the page,
Or would half of it do?
Besides, who writes poems in this age,
That in a day are due?
I hoped that I could make it deep,
And touch all of your hearts,
But the Frost inside has gone asleep
And my mind's on different arts.

*** & now for a huge warning: The following poem is one that I wrote for that same Brit Lit class, as a kind of parody of Beowulf (which I didn't like AT ALL). It follows a bit of that storyline, so it helps if you've read it or at least know what it's about. So, yes, it is an epic poem; yes, it is 126 lines long; & yes, it was written by a goofy high school band nerd. Read only at your own risk, as I cringe when I look back at some of the rhymes/subject material. Oh, & both of these poems from Jr. year were written after my father passed away from injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident. Also good to know: My high school's mascot was the Wolfpack, I was a huge band nerd, quite a bit smaller than I am now (like, petite), & I liked to play Capitalism (a card game) with my band friends during lunch/class/whenever. Enjoy! uh....

Also From Junior Year: "Bowen: the epic"

In a place where yearly, the sun shines high,

And often, good vibrations radiate from the sky,

There resides a musician of the highest caliber,

And it even goes to say, it’s not a “him”, but a “her”.

This jazzy little cat mesmerizes with her tunes,

And the aura of her groove is higher than the moon.

She’s born of noble parents, both of influential status,

And can bring to life most any sort of music apparatus.

But tragically, her family would suffer a hard blow,

When her father, Daddy Dearest, had to leave this life and go.

It was at the funeral, when, downcast, she couldn’t cry,

But instead was trying hard to know just why he had to die.

Her faith, unwavering in its love and hope of things to come,

Was all of a sudden put at naught, for what was done, was done.

And what was of her loyal friends, who said they’d always stay?

For not one of them was seen by her on that, her hardest day.

So much more than her father left, more than part of her soul,

Her groove, you see, got lost as well, and then she lost control.

This is the story, if you must know, of her longest, hardest quest,

And while not all is told right now, be assured she did her best.

After the moon had come and gone, and come and gone again,

She swallowed up her bitter thoughts, and silently, forgave her friends.

They gathered there at Round Table, to discuss of many things,

And soon she felt the pain subside, though never quite at ease.

Just like her, this crowd all felt at home right on the field,

Other teams would scowl, but the wolves would howl, as each victory they’d yield.

So putting all her trust back in these noble champions,

She confided them her problem, and asked what’s to be done,

For to lose something as valuable to a musician as her groove,

The chances of a full return would simply stat, “You lose.”

One suggested that to regain it back, she’d need to abolish red,

And so she looking him straight in the eyes, and hit him on his head.

Although this playful jest was intended not for harm,

It seemed to trigger something deep, and so they took up arms.

He chose his weapon carefully, and hit her with a spade,

While she preferred to lose her thoughts whilst in this deadly escapade.

A heart, a club, a heart again, and sometimes nine beat ten,

But not to call upon the king, for neither one would win.

For all the rest had left that place while those two friends had dueled,

And not a cent remained for them, whereas they should have pooled.

Oh, the tragedy that struck them both, as they hoped for a way

That would save their hides, for together they simply could not pay.

Perhaps an actual war would be raised to protect them from their foe,

Or a battle of words, a battle of cards, or something to bring them dough.

Both of them were far too just to try to sell their word,

So instead they chose the honest path, even though it seemed absurd.

The lord of that grand pizza place was not as harsh as they’d thought,

So they were able to do so much, and then the rest was bought.

From this they learned that to get around, you needed honesty,

But still that Bowen lass’s precious groove was nowhere to be seen.

She found herself upon a field, surrounded by a mist,

And she really thought to turn around would be smarter than this.

She struggled with thoughts of ending it, before she searched much more,

And had she known, she would have stopped, for hard times were in store.

But she took a vow right then and there that she’d stay this through the end,

She’d find her groove; she’d save the day, and even help her friends.

Forward she marched, and blazed a trail of intensity and passion,

But soon she felt disharmony, for her unit was a-clashin’.

A terrible sound arose from one, and she thought as in a trance,

But didn’t go on through with it, for she had temperance.

She decided instead, to focus on the path she’d need to take,

And hoping dearly that it’d work; lest all else would forsake.

Then, on the Friday following next, they were faced with sudden doom,

For something was amiss with them: someone had stolen their plumes.

They all searched high, they all searched low, but the plumes they could not see,

It was not till they looked outside when they saw their destiny.

His head was small, but very hard; his arms were large as bricks,

And with shoulders broad, and muscles tight, one look would make you sick.

That giant, ugly, mass of guts had stolen all of them,

And so that jock just walked away, for no one could beat him.

No one, that is, unless you count that Bowen, although small,

For she knew what she had to do—she’d take him down (=Granthall)!

She quickly sized that monster up, then put away her Bone,

She went to fight him hand to hand, for cheating she’d not condone.

Stepping outside, she dared not hide, but the monster swung and missed,

So she grabbed his claw and threw it back, and aimed real low and kicked.

Granthall howled and winced in pain as tenderness was struck,

And Bowen turned her ears away as he exclaimed, “Oh, f***!” er, “no”.

But strangely still he stood his ground, though weaker than before,

And Granthall knew she’d take him too, so he aimed to hurt her more.

He took his two big hairy claws, and aimed them at her face,

But she took hold with her two hands, and silence filled the place.

Both stood there and struggled to throw off the other one,

And there they stood while others gaped, and others tried to run.

Bowen started to grow weary, but inside she was strong,

Granthall thought that this was eerie and wondered what he did wrong.

So with a final burst of strength, she twisted and she shoved,

And Granthall fell defeated, and Bowen held his glove.

The bandies cheered that hero on, and lifted her up high,

For none of them felt sorry for that big unconscious guy.

And while the people cheered and shouted, Bowen peered around,

But everywhere she tried to look, the plumes just weren’t found.

Had she fought a futile fight? Was Granthall the wrong foe?

Finally, she looked to her right, and exclaimed, “Oh, heck no.”

Standing next to a blue truck was his large and burly mom,

And all the plumes were in the bed, but she’d not let them on.

She stood there with a curling rod held tight in her left hand,

So Bowen rushed into the room and grabbed herself a stand.

She disregarded all the rules, the “friendly fighting” code,

And walked right up to Granthall’s mom and paid her what she owed.

So just with that, the monster’s mom fell towards the ground,

Emitting then the sickest of imaginable sounds.

Once again, the people cheered (for this they do a lot),

And distributed all the plumes to those that had them not.

Another victory was added upon Bowen’s list,

But sadly what she wanted most was also what she missed.

Oh, where on earth had her groove gone? Why couldn’t she find it?

She pondered hard, and pondered long, and then a great thought hit.

Sadly, though, she had to go right then down to the field,

And she passed through that dreary mist where no more thoughts would yield.

She was out there, in uniform, but thought nothing was on,

Her soul was bared; she was so scared, and felt like someone’s pawn.

She tried to play, but started to fall, and just could not regain,

So she collapsed, and finally got rid of all her pain.

This was what she needed most, and soon she came to know,

That in order to regain her groove, she’d need to feel sorrow.

To this day she hasn’t had all of that groove return,

Because still locked inside of her that deep-set sadness burns.

She wants to let it all come out; loose it once and for all,

But she can’t do that on her own, for she must stand up tall.

Heroes aren’t people, who are praised by the kings,

Heroes are the folks like her, who go through trying things.

Yet every time, they come out strong, no matter what they got,

These people’s hearts and minds grow strong while others’ often rot.

This is not her whole story, though it’s the best for now, I’m afraid.

This girl is still out fighting, still out leading, being brave.