Creative Writing Portfolio
Danielle Baker
Professor Rutstein
Course ENGL 302A
Section 04
Table of Contents:
1. Narrative Poem First Draft: Small Hands
2. Narrative Poem Final Draft: Small Hands
3. Elegy Poem First Draft: A Great Acquaintance
4. Elegy Poem Final Draft: A Great Acquaintance
5. Persona Poem First Draft: Raising a Wallflower
6. Persona Poem First Draft: Adolescence
7. Ekphrastic Poem First Draft: Alone with the Keys
8. Ekphrastic Poem Final Draft: Reality Doesn't Play on Repeat
9. Journal 1: Serial Killer
10. Journal 2: Street Walker
11. Journal 3: A Modern Girl's Guide to Taking Her Clothes Off: A Take on Undressing.
12. Journal 4: pie.
13. Blog Comment 1
14. Blog Comment 2
15. Blog Comment 3
16. Reading Response
17. Reflection
Small Hands, by Danielle Baker
He pressed a small arm to his rib cage and trapped a bird inside,
the smile on his face as bright as the pink in his lips; A momentary
flash of guilt-like pleasure, the kind that fades, like how skin is warmed
with heat.
Though—
he is alone
and allowed his sumptuousness.
The bird freshly red, squirms like the worm hanging from its beak
Or more, the remnants smeared across its cheek; Half of the segmented
body still twitched, as if in efforts to shake off
the last few parcels
of life.
The bird had only just ate.
Feathered and light as gossamer; Like a tiny, opalescent jewel
covered in dust and dirt and the grime of this boy's two
small
hands, the bird saw; The cruel smirk of his grin
and how he tightened his arm just to hear the bird wheeze.
That boy is a martinet in a scarf; with the cocoa his mom made still
on his breath, indifferent to fading lights
and broken bird ribcages. Or the soft pretty feathers
that began to fall like the snow at his side.
He sat on the icy skirt of an oak tree, glancing
At the windows of his house, those pregnant with life;
as the bird glanced
Upward, and found something like home, too—
in the silver laced sky and spiderweb branches;
The half-dead winter trees beginning to sway,
pulling wind through their fingers;
Soft and low like a prayer.
The bird is allowed
its eulogy.
(The lament like a resurrection, bringing temporary life back
into the little bird body; The laudation a sigh; sunlight breath
upon its brow,)
They understand.
How the boy absentmindedly picks at his gloves
and pulls his scarf tight around blistering lips, the pale skin
of his fingers and forearms turning light hues of blue; Losing
color like the bird, Or becoming, much like it.
When the wind has become a bit too bitter to bear, he stands and
mumbles selfish words to himself; Dropping the now lifeless
stone with a dispassionate palm; Hearing nothing of the sounds
The Megacosm Symphony, he had composed—
with those two
small hands.
Small Hands, by Danielle Baker
He pressed a small arm to his rib cage and trapped a bird inside,
the smile on his face as bright as the pink in his lips;
A momentary flash of guilt-like pleasure coming to
his grin, quick and fading,
like the warmth draining
from his skin.
Though,
he is alone
and allowed his sumptuousness.
The bird freshly red, squirms like the worm hanging from its beak
or more, the remnants smeared across its cheek;
Half of the segmented body still twitching,
as if in efforts to shake off
the last few parcels
of life—
the bird had only
one bite.
A tiny, opalescent jewel covered in dust,
dirt, and the grime of this boy's two
small
hands, the bird sees; the cruel smirk of his grin
and how he tightens his arm just to hear it wheeze.
That boy, a martinet in a scarf;
with the cocoa his mom made still on his breath,
indifferent
to fading lights
and broken bird ribcages.
Or the gray feathers that began to fall
like cigarette ashes by his side.
He sits on the icy skirt of an oak tree, glances at
the windows of his house,
those pregnant with life;
As the bird glances
upward, and seeks something like
home, too—
In the silver laced sky
and spider web branches;
The half-dead winter trees beginning to sway,
pulling wind through their fingers;
Soft and low
like a prayer.
The bird allowed
its eulogy.
The lament a resurrection, bringing temporary
life back into the little bird body;
Gentle as a sigh, or sunlight breath upon its brow
The tree folk bending at their waists
to bring the melody closer;
Knowledge locked in their kneecaps
and sorrow pouring from
their mouths.
This type of destruction,
steeped and buried,
many years ago.
How the boy absentmindedly picks at his gloves
and pulls his scarf tight around blistering lips,
the pale skin of his fingers and forearms
turning light hues of blue;
Losing color like the bird,
or becoming
much like it.
As the wind's whistle begins to sound
a bit too bitter to bear,
he stands;
dropping the now lifeless stone
with a dispassionate palm,
hearing nothing of the noise
The Megacosm Symphony,
he had composed—
with those two
small hands.
A Great Acquaintance, by Danielle Baker
And in your memorial, I hope they tattooed your skin with
all the words that you wrote; like a braille or even in
white ink, just so they'll be remembered. On the surface
of your skin, your dead blue-ing body; it would be a mirror
of your legacy, a kaleidoscope of your thought.
Even without, I'm sure the words still clung to your limbs
like mini fishes swimming through your breaking hair
and decaying bones; How the gray and black of your
veins now matches the ink on your palms; I'd bury you
in a bed of paper and ripped up poems.
Though I feel in me the retreat of one who has lost
a Great Acquaintance; my unnatural friend,
where in your books and wandering novelist thoughts
I felt the youth of my years and found your weary
hand, to hold. Your tired words, to understand;
me. Who is not the only misfortuned.
If a writer is a fountain, you were one long
over flooded, bursting at your sides with rambling
currents and understated metaphors; Your waters
touched mountains; held creatures, even filled
the poet's shore; I bet, there was a lot left
to drink and use as mind water, Professor of the sea.
But in your death, there is less loss than new springs
sprouting. Your life fully lived and craft fully shown;
You accomplished such terrible, beautiful things
all enclosed within canvases as books; words,
your building blocks. You, monument maker;
extraordinary talent; Mister
Steinbeck—
my idol and nearest acquaintance.
A Great Acquaintance, by Danielle Baker
And in your memorial, I hope they tattooed your skin with
all the words that you wrote; in braille with lead or white ink,
just so they'll be recalled. The pale lines emerging
from the plains of your flesh, the canvas of your skin
and starving body; Drawing a landscape of your legacy,
a kaleidoscope for your thoughts.
Even without, I'm sure the words still clung to your limbs
like miniature fishes swimming through your breaking hair
and decaying bones; The gray and black of your veins
now matching the ink on your palms, the dark marks
like the spotted interior of your mind, miniature tunnels
for memory; I pray they buried you to rest
in beds of paper and ripped up poems.
Though I feel in me the retreat of one who has lost
a Great Acquaintance; my unnatural friend,
where in your books and wandering novelist thoughts
I felt the youth of my years and found your weary
hand, to hold. Your tired words, to understand;
me. Who is not the only misfortuned.
If a writer is a fountain, you were one long
over flooded, bursting at your sides with rambling
currents and understated metaphors. Your waters
touched mountains, held creatures, even filled
the poet's shore; I bet, there was a lot left
to drink and use for thirst, our titan of the sea—
professor of the unseen.
But in your death, there is less loss than new springs
sprouting. Your life fully lived and craft fully shown,
capturing the essence of beauty and terror, all things
ugly and good, enclosed within canvases as books;
words, your building blocks. You, monument maker,
extraordinary talent; Mister
Steinbeck,
my idol and nearest acquaintance.
Raising a Wallflower, by Danielle Baker
I run my fingertips over the edge of the desk
feeling its marred pelt, trying to translate
the violent script he must have scribbled in
when he thought, No one is looking.
The pens he stole from the church house on
the Sundays he let me take him there, lying about
like strewn cigarettes, their heads gnawed down
with the stern concentration of adolescent lips
seeking answers. The paper he asked for in bulk
stuffed in drawers and overflowing trash lids.
I saw peach shaped bruises on his thumbs the other day
and he recoiled when I reached to wipe them off,
His familiar brown eyes turning swift shades
of black; for isolation. How those eyes are so like
my own and yet so unrecognizable. And the red lines
on the heel of his palm, I noticed and thought
from injury, but really, they were just lead hickies
and the bite of the desk. How I used to wash grass stains
and bug guts from his hands and toes in the tub,
he's too big for that now. Too old for comfort.
They say it gets hard at this age.
My eyes scan the oak surface, in this stolen moment
while he is away, and the oven downstairs is
working to make a meal he won't even taste;
the worn and old finish of his throne, silent
but jarring; The space feeling preternatural
like something sublime could happen here;
And maybe it does. The dark red walls we painted
together last summer.
I remember—
His thin elbows grinding the tabletop,
his profile glowing with the desk light and
the steady stream of music from beneath the door;
foreign sounds and images of someone I thought
I knew so well. When I dared to knock and enter
His fingertips tracing the same lines over and over
in countless hours, just carving different symbols
making new scars to fill the spaces
then peeling off their skins
to dip the pen in its blood.
His quick gaze upward and fiery eyes, as though to say
You don't belong here.
I don't need you anymore.
While he loses time and friends and places;
and I feeling powerless, retreat to my maternal
duties: clothe and feed and dress.
He, falling prey to the pen
and
They, fearing the gaze of a mind
uninterrupted.
Though
I maybe fear it too.
While packing his lunch and watching him itch
at the dinner table, his hands restless and his eyes
shifting as if searching or unsettled, like
he is already making his way up the stairs
to the solitude of that room, the cold embrace of
his desk; Where he thinks no one sees him,
because no one is looking, and his eyes don't seem so
dead. I don't remember which birthday party
changed it all; I can't recall the last time he felt
like a child. Now more like a ghost
dressed up as life.
I search for the warmth he finds here
in the empty lines and crinkled paper.
I search for it so I may find it
and bring it alive, back into his life
and my part in it;
Though they say,
It is inane
coming from
one's mother.
Adolescence, by Danielle Baker
I run my fingertips over the edge of the desk
feeling its marred pelt, trying to translate
the violent script he must have scribbled in
when he thought, No one is looking.
The pens he stole from the church houseon
the Sundays he let me take him there, lying about
like strewn cigarettes, their heads gnawed down
with the stern concentration of adolescent lips
seeking answers. The paper he asked for in bulk
stuffed in drawers and overflowing trash lids.
I saw peach shaped bruises on his thumbs the other day
and he recoiled when I reached to wipe them off,
His familiar brown eyes turning swift shades
of black; for isolation. How those eyes are so like
my own and yet, unrecognizable. And the red lines
on the heel of his palm, I noticed and thought
from injury, but really, they were just lead hickies
and the bite of the desk. How I used to wash grass stains
and bug guts from his hands and toes in the tub,
he's too big for that now. Too old for comfort.
They say it gets hard at this age.
My eyes scan the oak surface, in this stolen moment
while he is away, and the oven downstairs is
working to make a meal he won't even taste;
the worn and old finish of his throne, silent
but jarring; The space feeling preternatural
like something sublime could happen here;
And maybe it does. The dark red walls we painted
together last summer.
I remember—
His thin elbows grinding the tabletop,
his profile glowing with the desk light and
the steady stream of music from beneath the door;
foreign sounds and images of someone I thought
I knew. When I dared to knock and enter,
His fingertips tracing the same lines over and over
in countless hours, just carving different symbols
making new scars to fill the spaces
then peeling off their skins
to dip the pen in its blood.
His quick gaze upward and fiery eyes, as though to say
You don't belong here.
I don't need you anymore.
Falling prey to the pen,
while losing time and friends and places;
them fearing the gaze of a mind uninterrupted.
and I feeling powerless, retreat to requisite
duties: clothe and feed and dress.
Though,
I maybe fear it too.
Whilst packing his lunch and watching him itch
at the dinner table, his hands restless and eyes
shifting as if searching or unsettled, like
he is already making his way up the stairs
to the solitude of that room, the cold embrace of
his desk; Where he thinks no one sees him,
No one's looking, and his eyes don't seem so
dead. I don't recall which birthday party
changed it all; The last time he felt like
a child, now more like a ghost
dressed up as life.
Searching for the warmth he finds here
in the empty lines and crinkled paper,
I search for it so I may find it
and bring it alive, back into his life
and my part in it;
Though they say,
it is inane
coming from
one's mother.
Alone with the Keys, by Danielle Baker
(Describing the song 'Sense' by Tom Odell)
A simple set of resounding notes
introduce a pair of calm cool hands
and a smooth and broken voice,
the pearl finish and mahogany room;
His skin glowing with his youth
hair as yellow as sun light shining
in the dark;
His voice quivering with experience
like a piece of glass in a
tornado;
or the wobbling knees of a newborn
stumbling across the keys
trying to crawl to the center,
but only tripping with the effort;
Maybe he had one too many to drink.
Oh, shut my eyes,
Lose myself in teenage lies,
If I fell in love a thousand times,
Would it all make sense?
The chorus builds
like an expanding belly or
rising balloon, just like his voice
gaining strength or
just imploding in
on itself;
I can imagine us
listening to this
in a field somewhere,
but the boy is sitting alone
in his room;
His messy appearance and dull clothes,
with a voice as wide as the clouds
we could be sleeping under;
Dancing
Dancing
like we didn't think words could do.
Ca-Call you up,
I can tell you just how much,
No, no maybe I'll just get drunk,
And it will all make sense.
He's flooding that room—
trying to reason and
pour out his
pent up aggression
and frustration,
heightened passion
that can only
flourish when planted
between these keys;
set down by his fingers
and filling his mouth;
trying to figure things out
and let the blossoms
grow,
filling the piano
with seawater and weeds.
a familiar stranger
taking our hand
with his
melancholy,
how the pain in his voice
is a mirror
to our own.
He's flooding that room—
with himself.
Cause I,
I've been feeling pretty small,
Sometimes,
Feel like I'm slipping down walls,
And every lie,
I ever get a hold,
It seems to break.
Something crashes or falls;
he is rising and lifting
like a wave or a bomb
diving down,
the energy pulsing
through his pale hands to his
wobbly knees and spine
where he can't sit still,
not even if he tried;
the last word
breaking.
Would it all make sense?
He takes a deep breath—
riding out the silence or
pretending to hear the end
of it; an empty reply
from his piano,
bending forward
just to catch it.
He takes a deep breath—
and the song is over.
Reality Doesn't Play on Repeat, by Danielle Baker
(Inspired by the song 'Sense' by Tom Odell)
I guess music is a selfish thing, the way it builds and breaks,
How we treat it: grabbing it then faking it,
putting it in our palms and hands,
our knuckles turning white.
We wear songs like skins;
stretching them across fists.
We want to be this or that
the cinematic and dramatic.
Running on auto pilot
with our headphones in.
And it hurts sometimes to do so
But I guess we like the feeling,
it's always better to feel something
over nothing.
So
we swim
into the sounds inside our heads
running towards it, no objection
hands up,
and face forward
straight into the tide;
I touch piano keys and guitar strings,
press my nose to notes on a page
and inhale,
Trying to remember who we
could have been
before this;
Before singing notes in the shower
and how maybe my mom
sang me to bed
and the songs my dad played on the radio.
Classic rock and country;
They taught us what heartbreak was
and how to look at our bodies.
It's hard to remember
who we were
before this.
And I think about how we fall in love
with melodies,
the chorus on our lips—
they say what we can't,
what we wish we could have come up with
as we grin falsely to the beat.
(How I guess that delicate piano
and its' crashing crescendos
are you running on a beach
somewhere
towards me.)
Wasting away like this,
I guess that's what
we're doing:
heads down, and volume up.
the notes fading out with the minute mark
the curtain closing with the chorus.
Reality a different story,
one with only
Silence.
Serial Killer, by Danielle Baker
Her body felt weak, her heart beating slower now
and throat as lumpy as the comforter tossed across
his waist, covering his thin hips and faded blue jeans;
He lie on his stomach, without his shirt
His delicate back muscles caving and expanding lightly
with his heavy breath, the muffled gasps and sighs
she heard travel like static
to the end of the bed, where she sat.
His face on the pillow, a scattering of raven black hair
haloing his head; Skin as pale as the white walls and the small
brown spots sprinkled on his shoulder blades and lower back
stood out starkly beside the white sheets,
He was crying;
but he was still beautiful.
She felt a silence consume her; Her fallen angel lay
there on the bed; It looked a lot like defeat.
Where fluorescent wings hung weakly in the air at
his shoulders, barely moving and withdrawing
from her touch.
She had hers ripped out—a long time ago.
Though, she had not seen his
ever, so dimly illuminated.
She thought, and crawled back
inside
her own mind—
She must have sucked the light from him,
through a metal straw; one she knew burned his skin,
with Words and Doubts, and the Past she couldn't
let go of; She had never felt so
lost. Everything she did
was wrong.
He cried,
snotted on her pillow;
She let him.
Her legs hung over the black metal bars like
drying clothes; lifeless and softly swinging,
they were white flags; a simple surrender.
She felt in her heart she would wait
however long;
She knew she took the happiness they had
and put it in her mouth;
it would be waiting there
forever. (She loved him just a little
too much.)
If only she had understood it—
then.
She pressed an apologetic kiss to his brow, the
dew of sweat and teardrops sticking to the lines in her lips,
she placed a gentle palm upon his back, right between
his glistening wings, not quite knowing what she was
apologizing for; but sure she was sorry.
This was the body, though separated by skin
that she had come to know so well; the mind
and spirit, she fell in love with;
she was supposed to take care
of him.
(He made her feel like a poison.)
Lifting her body off the bed, as heavy as a storm;
the aftereffects, knowing but not accepting;
It was her fault
Her own fault
It's my fault.
(At least she knew—
this.)
.
I felt her mouth on my brow and flickered one eye
open; the tears on my cheek sticky and hot,
the comforter on my legs as warm as the breath
from her mouth; I had ruined her pillow,
but I was trying—
to drown.
Beneath this confusion; I even tried to stutter out
the Words, they just got stuck in my throat.
Her Doubts and their weight on my back feeling torn
and heavy; She had already warned me about her Past
and why she thinks she is the way she is
why This, why That; I just don't—
I don't feel the fight in me
anymore.
I just want to sleep; I want to want
more; but
I can't.
With a kiss as light as air, she tells me to sleep
softly and repeatedly, like a mother,
this kind of tenderness I remember
from before, the kind she found
so hard to display
for so long;
(She gets so scared.)
And crawls off the bed; her body weak
and sad—I remember,
she loved me, she loves me; but,
I feel this hole in my chest
and maybe she's the one—
who made it.
I fall back under
the tide—
of my own mind.
The girl back home who makes me grin; an easy
replacement; We have fun. More often I've found
now, than with the one I'm maybe
wasting time with.
I feel the heat rise in my face as I glance at her from atop
my tower; she's on the computer trying to be soft
and patient and kind; a stranger
now. With her broken looking body, how she looks
so worn out, like she can't hold herself together
She is breaking; I tried to fix it. I tried—
but it's so much work.
And I don't think that she cares;
She might have broke me in the wreckage.
I don't know if I love her,
the way she loves
me, anymore.
She said she got jealous; that things were hard
being so far away. She needed me.
She didn't want to end it.
She wanted to fix it,
she said a lot of things,
a lot—
I am tired of hearing.
I think I loved her once, When her act was better,
more well put together;
I think she used to try harder; I don't know what changed.
I don't understand.
I don't understand her.
The ache behind my eyes grows dark like a bruise
and I don't have the strength in me to talk
I should tell her the truth; How
I don't love her
anymore.
But I am sad—
I know how fragile she is; I know
this will break her.
and so—
I sleep.
I'm a coward.
.
(This was the last time we made love.
I could tell by the way that you touched me;
Nothing was the same,
I ruined it—
I'm sorry.)
She wished he had loved her more.
Street Walker, by Danielle Baker
One foot in front of the other, Left, Right
like a metronome; The bottom of each
clapping in step, keeping pace as
other limbs find the rhythm.
Thighs passing kisses, as bold as lovers,
One head on the others shoulder; soft
and sensual, creating the heat
on the dance floor.
Arms widely swaying and just off beat;
both set off by the other, the DJs of
the body. Bringing sounds and speed,
restless maestro makers.
Hips swaying in a calming aria; small
and delicate, like the twists of the
waist; singing, in tune with the
daily concerto—flesh M radio.
The Modern Girl's Guide to Taking Her Clothes Off: A Take on Undressing.
By Danielle Baker
I kick off my converse shoes and skinny jeans
that now rest loosely on my hips, my skin
expanding with a light breath of relief
as though suffocated; the looseness due
to the gym work the tight hug of denim earlier
inspired. A thigh gap below my underwear
showing as I rip off panties with stripes
and elastic trim; a little reward of hard work
and patience, (the internet told me it's what
skinny girls should have anyway.) I peel off
the constricting bra from my small breasts and
rub at the white lines left from its corners; My thin
socks with patterns, that I wear less for comfort
like everything else.
Stepping away from the pile of brand names
and price tags; Medium, Large; sizes that can
make you feel very small; I pull my hair
between my fingers and let it fall
the little scars from the clothes starting to fade
tilting my head as I step in front of the mirror,
pale and unashamed;
Left with just my skin and
knobby elbows, the circular birthmark
on my stomach and the bruises on my
legs, collarbones and hips. The awkward
and beautiful places beneath my clothes.
Unabashed in the solitude and silence,
I turn to look at the curve of my back
My ribs poke out; a skeleton
Though critically speaking,
I've never looked more like a body.
The tv and radio is shut down and even
the computer is sleeping; my synthetic hair
glowing dyed purples and pinks in the dimlight,
the only judges passing through this mirror
my own two eyes, and somehow
I see beauty, instead of
the constant nagging
each time I compare to photo shopped bodies
online or in print,
improve (Get smaller.)
improve (Eat less.)
improve (Thinner is always better.)
Like a return to nature or
ignorance of mainstream idea;
The removal of my clothes,
a removal of my labels.
Punk or preppy, skinny or wide
They are just hips now, just a waist
and a figure caught in the slim embrace
of a mirror, with a familiar face atop;
the body
without external
wants and expectations, naked—
(How free and uninhibited we seem
in this private state, private moments
we are taught to fear and hide inside,
the fragile fingers and muscled thighs,
dutifully covered and reprimanded
each time we let others judge it.)
We are
allowed and
should not be ashamed to be
naked—
where everything becomes simple,
stripping off the cloths of society and
the eyes of modernity, mundane and
imperfect things can become the
extraordinary.
And in the freedom of body,
and the freeing of our minds
from twentieth century
stupidity, we will find
truth.
Believe this (if you choose to believe anything.)
pie. by Danielle Baker
He holds out his hand with only slight hesitance,
His eyes adjusting to the dark of the room
past the kitchen, filling softly with
apple and cinnamon.
She kneels with her eyes on the ground,
still shedding flour like leaves,
a salty tear slipping down the bridge of her nose
to her mouth; while he kneels
down quickly
to catch it.
There are sugar crystals left on her fingers
from folding dough, and they scratch his skin
as she reaches out;
Burying her nose in the heat of his jacket
the aroma spicy and comforting,
that of a boy and spice packets,
familiar (but mostly)
indescribable;
She breathes in deeply, as their hands intertwine.
He smiles and rests his fingers on her cheek,
steam rising at his touch.
The air around them turning golden,
the passion palpable.
Doubt crumbling at its' edges
and her heart, the rising center.
The kiss, sweet as—
Review for 'Morning of July 2nd' Persona:
I thought the quote you chose for this piece was beautiful and a great starting place. You transitioned into the piece really nicely as well and though it's a shorter, more direct piece that really seemed to work with your writing style and the purposes of the poem in general. I also like the character is a bit mysterious but clearly imaginable. The word choice in the first four lines really stood out to me and the use of "goddamn" really added some character. My favorite line:
"But it was I, and my pen,
who gladly carved your throat out."
The diction and line breaks were so well done throughout this! Great work. My only suggestions would be to tweak the last two lines a bit. They took me out of the rest of the poem because the tone is so starkly different and it didn't seem to wrap up as powerfully as the rest of the work.
Review for 'Barbie Hair' Persona:
I really enjoyed this piece because it was so unique! The use of "momma" worked for creating more character. Also, the imagery was really strong throughout even though it was a short piece. It also worked connecting two fictional characters (Barbie, Minnie Mouse) for comparisons so we understand how youthful the girl is. My only suggestions would be to give more voice in the last two stanzas and work on creating more flow like in the first stanza. The ending was also not as strong as I hoped though I liked the simplicity of the last line. Nice work!
Review for 'Fast, Continuous Firing' Ekphrastic:
The song choice worked really well with this piece! I thought you did a great job with creating a story and adding a lot of personal images so the poem came from an interesting perspective for me. The first line is brilliant and I liked the last line as well but I had the thought that switching them might work better for creating a more powerful conclusion. Only a suggestion though! Otherwise I did question the use of the word "incandescence" but the rest flowed well and the diction was well thought out. Nice work!
Reading Response
At the reading, the Phillip Scholarship winners, Haley Campbell, Liz Barnes, and Sarah Kelly, read samples of their short stories and poetry. I was excited to hear the level of the girls' writing and what elements of their work had pointed them out as scholarship winners. I went into the reading hoping to learn about the other student writers, their relationship with writing, and how that compared with my own.
Haley Campbell's poetry focused around themes of psychological illnesses and recovery. She stated after her reading that most of her inspiration came from herself which was evident within her work. As she was reading, I could hear how personal the subjects were to her and it almost felt we were reading her diary. I admired this but also thought about how writers should also find inspiration from things outside of themselves and research topics to broaden what they write about. I connected with her though because my writing was usually just as personal. The writing in question sounded very conversational and featured a lot of dark images centered on death. I was a bit surprised she won the scholarship when her writing was not as universal as I've been pushing myself to write. Though, I wish I could have gotten copies to sit down and really study as stand up readings are harder to concentrate on.
Liz Barnes writing held much more positive imagery and focused on themes of tradition with lots of detail. Her poems were about childhood memories and as she read them I saw the images she described and enjoyed them out loud more than I believe I would have enjoyed them just reading them off a page. One of her poems was written to a sister and another about childhood. I enjoyed the interesting and different perspectives she brought with each piece. After her reading, she said her inspiration came from her relationships with other people and her memories and that also helped me connect with the stories more.
Sarah Kelly's short stories featured three subjects: anorexia, domestic violence, and autism. She read in a quirky and animated voice and tried to use humor within the works to lighten the more serious undertones. I thought this was an interesting technique and also thought about how "negative" and darker themes will create more of a response. Her sources of inspiration were from herself and improvisation. When she said she went about her writing as she goes about her improv, I made a mental note to remember to try that with my own writing as well.
The reading overall was an interesting experience just to hear writers around my age and see what themes they were writing about. I enjoy the atmosphere of the readings because you can tell everyone wants to be there. I also was excited to see Professor Emerson and hear her talk after the reading. The vibes in the room were comforting because we all had a passion either for writing or reading poetry and so the experience was a very good one.
Reflection
Through this course, I've learned a lot about my techniques as a writer, areas I want to improve in and it's opened me up to other techniques and styles of poetry. Being serious about poetry for most of my life was my main motivation for joining this class. I hoped that the experience would help me in multiple ways. I wanted to see my writing as it really was and receive educated criticism from others just as passionate about writing as me. I also wanted to become more familiar with sharing my work with the public and exposing myself to other styles to help broaden my knowledge of poetry. Now at the end of the poetry section of the course, I've realized I accomplished some of those things and others that I didn't expect.
At first the thought of tackling specific styles such as "narrative" or "ekphrastic" was a bit daunting and I thought it may limit my creative flexibility. As it proved to show though, the challenges helped pull me out of my comfort zone and showed me other ways to express myself. I also learned a lot about writing for an audience. I had become frustrated with my writing in the aspect that I always felt I was writing just for myself and not creating works that could be universally connected with. This class forced me to face that and reevaluate the way I was writing. In the ekphrastic poems, I found I struggled more than usual. My first draft was a crowd pleasing piece that didn't come from the heart so I was unhappy with it and in workshop I believe that showed through as it received a lot of comments suggesting changes and awkwardness within the work. In revision, I realized I didn't need to sacrifice my personal connection with the work to create a universal idea. In my final draft, I got a bit closer to reaching a middle ground which helped my attitude towards the work as well as the work in general.
I also enjoyed the small group and large group discussions featured around our poetry every week. I felt gathering such varying perspectives helped everyone improve both in receiving and giving criticism. In my poetry for the class, I also noticed my own distinct "voice". I hadn't been writing this often for a while and it helped me rediscover who I was through writing. I always worked to be proud of the work I put up and it has reinvigorated my motivation for writing and helped with my thoughts of self doubt. Through the class, I realized simple things like everyone is constantly improving and there never is a perfect poem.
The revisions were a bit revolutionary to me because I had been writing for a long while content with first drafts. Normally when I completed a poem, I wouldn't go back to it and usually if I felt I needed to change it, it would just be thrown out. I think revising will become a more important process in my writing and will help me improve overall. Other things I will take from this course are small mottos like "trust your images" and "kill your darlings". Though they seem like small things to think about, they've proven to help in really big ways.
Looking through my portfolio, I'm content with the work and hopeful of improving more and more with practice. I know my style and voice will constantly alter but I am excited for that and this course has helped me realize a lot of the little things that make the most difference. I now am able to say I trust the way I write and have more confidence in my instincts to stay true to who I am as a writer, but also know that opening up to different types of writing, talking with other writers and audiences, and always remembering I have room to improve is going to help me become the writer I want to be.