Our last two class periods have been spent focusing on poetry.
Our online magazine CRE8 had an October 1st deadline. As submissions came in and we started reading them it became clear to most of us that poetry is not our forte. I am definitely on the top of that list, though I can’t say why.
So starts the poetry anthology. This post includes five poems that I scoured to find. They pull on me in some meaningful way.
I struggle to connect with poetry. Though I easily connect with prose. I found myself caught up in the listening booth at poets.org. Being able to hear the poem read out-loud especially by the poets themselves aided me in making that connection and understanding with the authors and their words.
Her Kind by Anne Sexton, was the first poem that I knew for sure would make my list. It’s tough out there for an independent gal. I (possibly) understand what Sexton is saying. Women are typecast into different roles, some of them not so positive.
“I have been her kind.”
I chose Becoming Weather, by Chris Martin, because weather is something on my brain. I think that Martin is really talking about finding that right fit with someone.
“I took to the streets, looking for a human velocity.”
That when you do, it skyrockets. Finding the human whose velocity aids one’s own. Bam!
The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost is making my list simply because I have always been worried that I am taking the wrong path. There are just too many choices. I am only one person and can only lead one path. It’s tough to lead one path when one is always looking back. Best to look forward.
So I was possibly too caught up in poetry.org and I had to force myself to move on to the other websites directed by Firstdrafty.
Of course I couldn’t follow the direction exactly because I have a complex, an I won’t conform complex. So I skipped down to The Poetry Foundation, specifically to The Bear, by Galway Kinnell. Which we will be discussing in class. I think. At least I hope we do.
After searching literally, though not continuously, for hours in search of poetry that spoke to me, I was ready to be told what to read. I suppose I can’t use this poem for my anthology- but talk about eliciting a response within me.
I am not a hunter, I never have been. But don’t peg me as a stalwart member of PETA either.
What I liked about this poem is the rendering of the ancient rites and respect of the hunter for the bear. That is something I can connect with.
- To hunt the bear using only “primitive” means, a wolf’s bone and knives
- Tracking it for at least a week
- Living off of bear blood and excrement
- Cutting open the bear and crawling inside. The bear carcass becoming a safe place to finally rest and rejuvenate
- Dreaming then about becoming the bear. Feeling the pain that the bear felt at slowly dying.
- “I awaken, I think” I like this line because it has multiple meanings. Maybe he doesn’t truly waken and remains as the bear. Maybe he wakens to only realize that he won’t ever be awake/alive like the way he feels when he dreams he is the bear.
I stayed on the Poetry Foundation website and searched for poems by season.
That “weather” theme won’t leave me alone, of course I chose Fall. The cooling of the season feels like a new beginning to me. The start of something, I like that. One of the poems had an audio track which lead me to click on the option to view poems that have an audio track.
Starting to see a pattern? Me like poetry= Me listen to audio tracks
The Farm on the Great Plains, by William E Stafford was a connector for me. Click here for the audio track.
I grew up on a tiny farm seven miles north of Fosston, Minnesota on the East side of a lake, well swamp, named Vigoren Lake. On the west side of Vigoren Lake, lived Ole and Ruth Vigoren, my grandparents. My father is the only child who stayed, eight other children moved away, most out-of-state and never did one move back.
Recently, my sister bought my grandparents farmstead. It has been with my family since the land was opened for homesteading in the late 1800’s. The subject was close to home and my heart. I picture my grandmother still on the counter stool, hand over her left ear. The handset is held tight to her right ear and she concentrates to make out the story her son is telling her on the other end. My sister tore down the house this fall.
Now I figured I had better hop over to Poem Hunter to find my last poem. I saw an option to read Sad Poems. Yes, I am the person that would choose sad poems over all the other options.
So I read poems about sadness until I found one that made me cry. It didn’t take long. I like this poem because for a period of about three years in my life, I was definitely a sad woman. So check out Sad Women, by Daria Domitrovic. What really got me was the last line. When you’re sad you won’t admit it, especially to yourself.
So here starts my poetry anthology.
Just Beth 