On Adolescence - Gold Key Poetry from Sarah Dash!

Congratulations Sarah Dash, 16, for her first national gold key from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for the poem below. Please help her celebrate by reading her poetry:

On Adolescence

I. Attitude (Us)

On the subway I saw a woman,

young, already rotting,

a persimmon,

hands deep in hooded-jacket pockets,

touching her boyfriend only where

their elbows meet at the crease

before their forearms burrowed into their respective pockets like such lazy young rattlesnakes, ready at a moment’s notice—

unthreatening, for now.

The adolescent and her boyfriend

are identical in position—legs wide, feet planted, firm as roots,

backs resting too comfortably on blue plastic seats, and

hands so deeply engaged

in pockets. They are both asleep. The boyfriend sways

with the familiar harmony of the train’s lull,

mouth lazily kept stiff—wait—his lower lip

droops. His eyelids rest firmly over his eyeballs. The girl,

decaying from the ribcage outward, wakes more easily, jerking

and then settling.

Her eyes

remain somewhat open at the bottom, a good quarter-inch of eerie white eye remains exposed and I do not know

whether the young woman, with

eyes half open,

notices me staring. The persimmon jolts; curtained eyelids only flutter and return to their

half-hearted zombie glare, as if the mere act of totally shutting

is too difficult for them.

There is something striking about eyes not fully closed:

a certain fluorescence—

I admire their nonconformity.

I watch the woman’s eyes stutter and flit

like so many nervous, jumbled stagehands,

forever opening or closing the curtain at the wrong time.



They and I and eyes,

empty as a pocket;

all unsure, all quiet, for now.

II. Tumult (I)


1. Spit

You have a way with knees, and muttering,

and making me feel little and loquacious and clumsy

(like I walked through a spotlight meant for someone else—

unintentionally wonderful)

Like magenta in January.

And together—we are something calculated,

breathy, something warming from the inside out,

a certain fluttering below our skin:

skin on skin,

neither fumble nor failure,

but shoestring gladness.


2. Land

Neon, ticklish as flotsam,

You crash down glass

tunnels, driving like my grandfather on I-90

(eighty miles an hour at night; new cataracts)

Deciding like an overzealous newborn bird to be reckless;

like you know you can see through

my wax-paper skin and

I know that fly paper makes a hell of a mess.



3. Grime

Niceties ferment and fester here in this foamy pink maze, this

cushioned cave sitting not-so-quietly north of my neck.

Words bubble and reduce to something sour and ugly;

Words grow, sputter, and choke here under the

needle-pointed eyes of your picture

which hangs over my thoughtful yule log like it knows its place.

Words! Glory! March across my

eyelids until I choke, sputter, and grow.


4. Sweep

All this rabble and mess, tremors,

scars, and a certain translucency—

A Siren blasts.

You are a Siren blast.
You wade in and out of my peripherals like you have no respect for rules.
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Robert Frost and his Enlightening World

Hey!

Finally we will be looking at the poet of the week! This week we are going to look at a modern poet. Can you guess who? Give up?

It is Robert Frost.

You may have heard of him one time or another, however this time we are going to get more of an idea of who he really was! Obviously, he was a poet, however like many poets there is so much more to know about them and their world of writing.
He was born in San Fransisco in 1874 and lived in Massachusetts. His first poem was called, “My Butterfly: An Elegy,” which was published when he was only 20 years old.
In 1912, he moved to England and continued to write poetry. Along the way he met other great writers who provided him with much encouragement to take his writing into a higher level and to have them more recognized amongst the public. As one may know, he did not fail! He won two Pulitzer Prizes and continued to attain fame with his poetry, many that showed and reflected a negative impact amongst the readers.
Frost died in January 1963, leaving behind many pieces of poetry that are learned in classrooms or are merely read for sheer pleasure.
Stepping away from Frost and his life, we can contemplate what poets think about when pencil and paper are at hand. Considering Frost had a rather difficult yet successful life along the way, do you think that his poetry reflected his personal life? Or could it coincidently reflect your own? An interesting exercise to put together while reading poetry is to question yourself about the piece that is being read. Especially with Frost's work.

This week, read a few of Frost's poetry and see what you think. Soon we will be studying one of his poems more carefully by applying more broad and general questions towards his writing.

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Poet of the Week

Hey,

This week's poet of the week will be John Keats, who was born October 31, 1795. He was a well known 'poets of the English Romantic movement.' He is known for many of his Odes: 'To Melancholy,' 'To a Grecian Urn,' 'To Psyche,' and 'To Autumn.' An ode is simply defined as, 'a lyric poem.' Keats takes the time to define each subject in his poem by praising them through intense and provocative language. He creates a clear vision of his thoughts and imagination.
Keats wrote many poems that are learned and studied in school today. Although he died at the tender age of 25, on February 23, 1821, he read many books that widened his imagination to the great beyond, hence helping us see further into our thoughts through his writings.

We will be looking and studying one of his odes this week, so check out the blog again before the end of this week!

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