Barragán

[Fallcreek 1,383]

This is the final draft of my spoken word poem that I've written for my Language Arts class. I don't really take the time to write poetry these days, but any feedback is welcome.

 

Barragán

 

The crimson that runs through my atrium,

paints the poetry that pumps through my arteries.

In elementary, we learned about syntax-

rhyme schemes or stanzas or something-

but what I remember most is rhythm.

Plotlines and play by plays beating behind

my ribcage.

Flash eight grades forward,

I’m sitting in a new institution,

learning about the techniques of writing,

hyperbole and paradox and synecdoche.

I don’t say it out loud, but imagery is still my favourite.

Piano notes, damp earth and the smell of brewing coffee in the morning,

and blue skies. I liked the blue skies most of all.

If you were to ask me when I was younger what I wanted to be when I was older,

I would’ve said “gamedesignerlawyerauthor” because I thought I could do everything.

Be everything, but---

How many lives can you fit in a lifetime?

We are taught “The author is not always the speaker”

and maybe that’s how I became addicted to narratives.

Everyone told me I could grow up to be anything, but---

How many lives can you fit in a lifetime?

This blank verse is a series of languages,

and there are too many voices that can be felt, rather than heard.

Like, what is the name for sadness

as heavy as the cloud that hangs above my head,

or the panic that’s more paralyzing than fear in its most deepest form?

What words exist to describe a woman who

sits alone in the darkness,

unloading keywords into a desktop portrait?,

or what about the man who leaps off his balcony with

a bucket, and a paintbrush?

Doomed or a dreamer?

Sometimes when I look down at my footprint,

I catch a glimpse of the faded shell that masked my arrival,

And I wonder if I would be following in their path,

or carving my own?

It’s like I’m perusing old family albums,

and remembering the sky

was so terribly blue.

Poetry

no longer flows through me.

Villanelles and limericks clog my veins,

conflicting with each others blood types.

AxB-ABxO-AB-A-B.

The best writers have a voice,

clear and distinguishable,

but I possess too many,

their hushed whispers never fail, yet never translate from my mind, onto paper.

Their cries have taken up residence within my head, but

they refuse to pay rent,

holding my thoughts hostage for weeks on end,

where’s the ransom note?

So, where did the days go

when I would sit and stare out the classroom window,

formulating the outline of my planned future scenario?

Where would I begin the trek to escape this labyrinth that is modern adulthood,

and escape back into the grasp of the naïve existence of my hopeful childhood?

When did the meaning of my words start crumbling into dust?

Will the time ever return when I did not feel

the overwhelming weight of the disappointment that I carry with me?

While the sun does continue to shine,

I have learned not to embrace its golden rays.

Every other night, the marrow in my bones

overflows.

Leaving my body overtly light and hollow.

The marked baggage I keep at my side

does not belong to me,

but I must carry it,

as it’s a reminder that I must not let them down,

regardless if they remember me now.

No one bothers to paint the sky anymore,

but I know where to find the brush and can.

Edited September 29, 2017 by Fallcreek

[Neon_Dreaming 2,110]

I enjoyed reading your poem, this piece here resonated with me quite a bit.

 

I dont say it out loud, but imagery is still my favourite.

Piano notes, damp earth and the smell of brewing coffee in the morning,

and blue skies. I liked the blue skies most of all.

It reminds me of when I'm reading a really good book I forget I'm reading and it starts to feel like I'm almost there in this books world, engrossed in what's happening on those pages.

[Ziggy455 668]

This says a lot. I'm not really a poet aficionado and so I can't give you a big amount of feedback. But I can say that this resonates with me for the very fact I feel like I'm in a similar boat.

 

Constantly held down by the attraction of creation and the rawness of that when you're younger. I remember starting out here on GTAF and having these same feelings. I'd love to go back to then, when the creativity and amateur approach was all I knew, spewing forth stories which had no direction, no plot, no solid hook, and nothing beyond hammy fanfiction. It was all terrible, but I digress.

 

I feel like there's a lot of strife in this, like two parts of you pulling in similar albeit slightly forked directions. You worry about following a path of every creative mind, or that you're not following a strict path like others--and maybe you feel like that's what's going to stop you from attaining the level of creativity you want.

 

I don't know. I could be completely wrong. I normally am when it comes to poetry. But I feel like you put a lot into this, and I liked it. You're very talented.

[Cebra 1,215]

Constantly held down by the attraction of creation and the rawness of that when you're younger. I remember starting out here on GTAF and having these same feelings. I'd love to go back to then, when the creativity and amateur approach was all I knew, spewing forth stories which had no direction, no plot, no solid hook, and nothing beyond hammy fanfiction. It was all terrible, but I digress.

Funny you should reminisce, because in an effort to drum up some ideas I've been reading back to like 2009 in WD. It's pretty cool to see how some people progressed and others pretty much fizzed out. Just yesterday I stumbled onto your story "Vice City: Undead", and the difference between what you were capable of back then and what you can do now (like Xiu Sun and the Psycho) is incredible. It's so interesting that you can watch the ways users honed their skills over the years as they learned new techniques, and although most of the writers who kept this place going back then are gone today, it's nice to see that you've stuck around.

 

Fallcreek, I really have to echo what Ziggy said. I know next to nothing about poetry, but the feelings you evoked through this really struck a chord with me even though I can't really put into words why that happened. I think it's an important quality in writers - or in this case, poets - to be able to find a common thread of sentiment in each and every one of your readers without being explicit about it. Your stanzas are ambiguous enough that I think most people could apply it to themselves which really creates a personal connection with the work. Keep it up.