In English class we are supposed to make a 6-word version of our own "portrait", just as a little exercise and reflection after reading James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
I'm not feeling too particularly happy at the moment. That is a blatant understatement.
I feel inspired, though, as all tortured artists must be. It turned into more of a 6 line at a time poem.
Heartstrings pulled her until she choked.
She thought she could handle the hurt.
She leaves us with art unfinished.
The moon will be alone tonight.
They always feed on her heart.
But I can't say that in English class. I'll probably say something like:
5 foot tall bottle of sunshine!
I only make pies and enemies.
At last, she slipped and fell.
Showing posts with label english. Show all posts
Showing posts with label english. Show all posts
Monday, January 23, 2012
Monday, September 19, 2011
Where I'm From
We had an assignment in English: to use the structure of a poem we were looking at to tell where we are from.
I'm from spiky oak leaves that stick in your heel.
From acorn and caterpillar season, from Robins in the redberry bush and daffodils we planted ourselves before we could spell, that bloom through earthquakes and bulldozers.
I'm from torn, springless, bucket-seat couches with tacky buttons and sinking orange foam.
I'm from Christmas trees reaching toward a twenty-five foot sloping ceiling, from mother's homemade centerpieces and cider, and Grandma's sugar cookies.
My childhood hangs in the purple moon on the Christmas tree.
The rest of my childhood lurks under thin dusty films in prominent corners of my room and mind
in the Tinker Toy orange stick that fell off of the back deck, in the soulless ceramic horses that wait in the shadows to be given life.
I am from abstract and impressionist paintings. The Monk Knocks Twice. From hand me down pianos, from the coffee table that holds pictures of faces lost to time and love letters in a feverish scrawl.
My heart lies in journals, sketchbooks, and Australian pop CDs,
in doors of spiraling wood and Purple Passion comforters.
It is the reflection of a cat's eye in the dark and the patter of rain on a tent tarp.
the plaintive wail of a train and the setting of a vibrant sun.
I'm from spiky oak leaves that stick in your heel.
From acorn and caterpillar season, from Robins in the redberry bush and daffodils we planted ourselves before we could spell, that bloom through earthquakes and bulldozers.
I'm from torn, springless, bucket-seat couches with tacky buttons and sinking orange foam.
I'm from Christmas trees reaching toward a twenty-five foot sloping ceiling, from mother's homemade centerpieces and cider, and Grandma's sugar cookies.
My childhood hangs in the purple moon on the Christmas tree.
The rest of my childhood lurks under thin dusty films in prominent corners of my room and mind
in the Tinker Toy orange stick that fell off of the back deck, in the soulless ceramic horses that wait in the shadows to be given life.
I am from abstract and impressionist paintings. The Monk Knocks Twice. From hand me down pianos, from the coffee table that holds pictures of faces lost to time and love letters in a feverish scrawl.
My heart lies in journals, sketchbooks, and Australian pop CDs,
in doors of spiraling wood and Purple Passion comforters.
It is the reflection of a cat's eye in the dark and the patter of rain on a tent tarp.
the plaintive wail of a train and the setting of a vibrant sun.
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