What I have learned from the best professor on my campus

Why do we write? Is is for those who have no voice, no guts to say it aloud, no stamina for rejection? No; I think it’s because when writers sit down with themselves and pray for inspiration and motivation, their stream of thought is so strong, that most can’t take the power when it’s said to their face. Or maybe we write because of the fear that no one will listen, and the paper is a non-judgemental mirror of hope- that maybe- your words are magic. In this class, I sure have found some magic. Whether it be within myself or hearing my peers read deep rooted issues of their coming of age periods, or hearing the boom of my professor's voice echo through my stomach like the first meal I’ve eaten in days… I found magic in room 206.

I started with a book, ya know, old school just like the handwritten poems of my anthology. I started by taking a peek at the already bookmarked favorites of my roommate, and quickly realized we appreciate all the opposite crafts. I like to guess what the poet meant, and to take the words on my own ride, and find what I want out of it. What do I see when the abstract sentence is read on the page? She likes to read in a linear way where no guessing is necessary. Images should be clear as day for her. But not for me. The ‘chapters’ in “Claiming the Spirit Within” edited by Marilyn Sewell were formed in a categorical style of motherhood, loneliness, aging, simple blessings, etc. One of the first poems that caught my eye in the category of: Generations was, “The Sleeping,” by Lynn Emmanuel. This poem is an ode to the past, to the parents of the past and perhaps what she wishes happened.

I have imagined this:

In 1940 my parents were in love

And living in the loft on West 10th

Above Mark Rothko who painted cabbage roses

On their bedroom walls the night they got married

….

The purest form of imagery, is that of a memory, and one that this character wasn’t even alive for, nonetheless. I love the genuineness and casualness of having Mark Rothko paint on your bedroom walls on the day you’ll never forget. This feels like a conversation with a friend while sitting by a fire from the television lights, sipping red wine that’s much too dry for my taste, pretending we’re much more sophisticated than we really are.

It felt like I found gold. It felt like I found gold when by the third line of the poem, I wasn’t moving onto the next. Finding words strung together like macaroni necklaces from the second grade, is hard. I am picky! Boy do I wish that I was not so picky. If I read one line that was cliche, I turned the page, desperately munching for someone who will shake me awake and make me remember what it’s like to write about wonder. I had about 12 books piled up along with dozens of notebook papers with suggested poets from class, and it’s the first time at college that I really feel like I was doing something I was supposed to be doing. Like I was finally getting my money’s worth, no matter how much hair I pulled out over Naomi Shihab Nye’s, and only getting to choose one.

I have this fear in the back of my head that I will never get to hear every song in the world. I will not know of something, someone, a treasure, a light in the dark, and I’ll go my whole life missing out on a glimmer of a miracle. I found this fear again, in the land of poetry, and how while I was mining for sans serif and begging for stanzas, that I’d never see them all. And my favorite one, is still out there, and maybe I’ll never find it. I was beyond nervous that I wasn’t searching in the right places, or I didn’t know how to find the nitty gritty and lost and forgotten. But I wanted to. I really did. I read poems quickly, because if it rolled off my tongue that’s how I knew she was for me. I gave a poem three lines- for times sake- to impress me. To show off its feathers and strides, and tell me to keep reading and write me down like I wish I wrote it myself. Is that fair? To give them so little of my time, my patience wearing thin whilst reading short poems repeating the same crap about how love will find you, stop searching, or how bones are stained with memories of a boy that never loved you back. Honestly, I take it back. They have beauty in their own way, and I’m only cynical because I’ve never been in love.

I learned that I am not easy to please, and that whole theory that raising kids on technology makes them much less patient, always feasting on eager and fast responses, is totally true. I am one of those millennials who thinks that time is made for me, and I grow angry at people who don’t notice that I am gone, or wonder what I am doing. We all have our heads in our tech, and I’ve read more in the last week than I have all year. After my fifteenth or so poem, I wrote a list of all the things I want to do while I am alone over winter break. I will write poetry like it is my job; because who knows, someday it might be. I will paint with colors that I never knew existed; because who knows, maybe one day they won’t. I will walk down alleys that make me nervous, go to places and sit next to sole strangers and try to start a conversation about how sugar free chocolate pudding is ten times worse than normal chocolate pudding, and I will go on dates that I don’t want to; because who knows, tomorrow I could be gone and wish I had done those things so much sooner. These fifty poems slowed me down; and I forgot about that feeling for the entire semester. Someone recently told me that “you seem to get the short end of the stick a lot. It’s not just you…. I see it happen too.” I lit up when she said that- which is kind of pathetic- but I have been throwing pity parties for months and no one shows up. I have horrible luck, and when something could go wrong, it usually does. Maybe it’s just irony laughing at me from the sky. In grade school I once messed up and switched the definitions of metaphor and irony on a test; perhaps ever since that moment, the world has been showing me the real definition of irony, and how it comes back to bite you in the ass for years on end. I now know the definition of ironic.

I often found myself while searching poems, to put the word “modern” in front of it because I hated not being able to sight sing the work that had been coming up- you know, the ones that sound Shaksperiean and makes me feel like I’m suddenly back in Honors English in eleventh grade wanting more than anything to go to lunch and eat my PB&J in peace inside the choir room on the soft blue carpeting. (Oh my god ... was I a nerd??) Anywho, I find that most poets that really rip out my heart and staple it to my wall (in a good way) are young, like me. Ageist, I know. However, another thing I have taken away from this, is that relatability is one of the strongest weapons in a poet’s arsenal. I feel so strongly towards something that I also am going through, or have gone through. Something that I could have written, but at the time, didn’t know how. Lust, envy, greed, the horrors of education systems, and mental health unawareness. It’s pretty basic stuff, but some youngin’s really have a knack for gathering troops and fans behind them. All shouting from rooftops, demanding to be heard in the world of Gen X’ers and baby boomers that raised us to be fearful but to have courage....

I’ve never had to find poetry before. It usually finds me. It finds me in the kitchen while doing everyones’ dishes but my own, and in the shower while i'm starting to fall asleep, and in the car when old women cut me off. Today, I found out what my least favorite animal is. And the first thing I thought was: “how could I start that poem?”

As I walked to my Volvo

and shuffled for my keys-

the ones with the disco ball hanging from them-

I noticed that my car, seemingly innocent

was covered in bird shit

that it didn't deserve.

Yet after looking around,

every single fucking Subaru

was crystal clear, as if their owners

paid the bird king to leave them be.

This anthology holds things that sparked my mind when I started to fall under the stars and into the cobwebs of cliches and things that no one needs to read again. I find that most of these poets write in strong imagery and give me the letters of s e n s e s, so I can spell it out for myself as I slither down the page. Memories are on every page whether they be good or bad whether they have regret or hope. I talked earlier about love poems and how they often make me roll in a grave they just dug for me. However, you can find snippets of love in this black book; especially when it comes to not being able to.

I used to think alliteration was for Doctor Suess books and kids that are still learning the importance of the alphabet. But R.H. Sin starts his piece with:

Your sick, sad sister slithers like snakes, saying

sorry without meaning it. Filled with envy,

she’s painted the color green.

When I read this, it’s in the narration of a boyfriend of a girl who thinks family is more important than it really is. Who thinks hanging onto blood needs a stronger grip than grasping for equality. I love frustrated poems. That’s the emotion I feel the most; I think it is the most powerful when depicted on the page. Especially watching someone you love go through something you hate, and not being able to shake them awake to make the right decisions. Decisions that you would have made 2 years ago and had been much happier. But remembering people go at their own pace is a skill that I struggle with. Impatience is my middle name, and this black book shares a lesson to breathe where you think you shouldn't and to close your eyes when you want to see the galaxies.

Thank you for the pan fried egg white eyes and the gallons of hope that someday I could impress more than just the person sitting in front of me. I found my voice in this class, and it feels like magic after being silent for too too long.