Monday, October 4, 2010

"Liar (liar) if we're keeping score."

The first lesson my writing professor taught me is that poets lie. I occasionally throw this lesson back in her face when I don't feel like dealing with her "let's dig a little deeper and see how you're really doing" moods.
A classmate and I were talking today about how we lie in our work. She said, "All but maybe two lines in my work are lies." I was taken aback. I always think I am a good liar, when it comes to life situations that would lead to more trouble, I always tell a lie. If others seem worried, tell a lie. With my poetry, I'm able to tell the truth about ceritan things and I feel better because I know it's the truth, but others don't.
I'm torn between telling the truth and lies in poetry. An example of this is there is a poet who constantly wrote about her disabled son, and as it turned out, she never had a son in the first place. People were upset. I can see that. I can even go as far to say, "Well, that wasn't fair of her. I get why everyone's so pisssed."
All of my work either comes from personal experience, or something that has happened to someone I know. I guess I feel like you must be honest with yourself when it comes to your art.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Life through Almond Milk.

This morning, I decided I was going to make my own Almond Milk. I forgot that I had to soak the almonds overnight. So while I've been waiting for them to soak, I've been thinking. I am an almond. I am soaking myself in negativity. Drowning in it. But as I go on continuing life, I will be ground with many battles. It won't be until I am straining myself from the pulp, that I will be able to have a refreshing moment. I want to be strained almond milk. Not the kind with bits of pulp left over. I want to be seperated from the negativity.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

We are pushed, we grow.

My poetry has grown tremendously this last month. There is a sort of freedom with being away from prying eyes that you grew up with. However there are still a few untouchables that I am not ready to talk about. I wrote and shared my most vulnerable piece this week. It wasn't even for workshop, but Kelly my professor asked if anyone would share. I went ahead with about three minutes of class left. I read it, my voice strong, my body trembling like mad afterword. The girl next to me, who is a mother asked me if I was alright because I looked like I was going to pass out. Kelly gave me advice on how to make the poem better and we turned in our work.
"Are you proud of yourself?" She asked when I went to turn it in.
"No." I wasn't proud at all. In fact, I was very very angry.
"What am I going to do with you?" she handed me my piece back and told me that I was hiding, and to keep writing about the subject. Instantly I snapped. I am not proud of this. I yelled. I told her there was nothing else to write about. It was over.
Very calmly she took my poem back and said, "Alright, you aren't ready to write about this just yet."
I stormed out, headphones in. I stayed upset for a long time and emailed her back that afternoon apologizing for my attitude. I explained that when I get scared or feel pushed, the fear turns to anger and I don't know how to deal with the fear. She replied with,
"Your poem was beautiful and brave. I promise that I will never stop pushing you, though--no matter how scared or angry you become. That's my job."
And it is. And I am silly for being afraid. If we don't feel scared or make mistakes, how are we supposed to grow?

Thursday, September 23, 2010

A new beginning take three.

I'm wearing the same shirt I did yesterday.
Drinking coffee that is way too sweet. The stevia bottle jumped in my hand.
I'm in a new city. I am growing. I am falling and hitting my head at the same time.
I am so late for math, and I'm skipping Geology tonight to work on my Math.
I'm learning that it doesn't matter where I move, or how nice I am to others.
At the end of the day, I'm still left with the black blue thoughts,
and dirty finger nails being stabbed into my eyes clouding my way.

I will write about what we discussed in poetry yesterday, because we made some good points about our shadows as soon as I get back from my two hour math class where I argue with the professor every day. Can I skip like I did yesterday and drink wine with my friends?