FINAL POETRY PORTFOLIO
BY
MICHAEL DEL TORO
ENG310
DR. PATRICIA MURHPY
12/09/06
Dream Warrior[BWB1][PCM2]
If this house could speak[KW3]
Would it speak English?
Maybe German, like the previous tenants.
I can’t understand German so its
Secrets are safe[BWB4].
I’ll take the time
Teach it English
And learn to listen
As if it were a woman
Actually listen[BWB5].
Its voice, like whispers
At church on Christmas.
I want to know what
This house hides[PCM6].
Did someone make love in this room?
Passionately they pressed their nude
Bodies against this wall
Now protected by crimson paint
To cover up the sweat stain that her
Tender back left while he ravaged her?
As I press my ear to her backside
I can hear its moans[KW7][PCM8][BWB9].
Hang a painting there
A Dali, Van Gogh, Parkes maybe
The one with the dream warrior, muscular wings
Wrapped around her nude body. They dissolve
Into each other like reds and blues
And she is feels out of harm's way,
The memory of that affection trapped,
In a painting on the wall that love was made
I understand this house as secrets[KW10][PCM11][BWB12].
(revision from Dream Warrior)
The German House
If I offered this house language
Would it address me in English?
Or maybe German, like its previous inhabitants.
I cannot understand German so its
Secrets might remain safe.
No, I will take the time
Sit with it at a large oak desk
Teach it English
I lay a hand on its cold, rough mahogany floors
It will learn through my patient touch.
Then, listen
As if it were a woman
Actually listen
It bellows in broken English
To be salvaged from persecution
From a unstable & foolish leader
Who burned babies without blinking.
Besides its horrors, was there ever romance?
This room. Did someone consummate love here?
Passionately pulsating nude bodies
Pressed against this crimson painted wall
Discolored here, no doubt by the sweat of a woman
Deeply touched inside by her warrior.
Let us, the new tenants, hang a painting there
A Dali, Van Gogh, Parkes maybe.
The one with her dream warrior, muscular wings
Wrapped around her now pregnant body
The three dissolve into each other like reds & blues
This family out of harm’s way
The memory of that undying love
Trapped in a painting on the wall
That love was cherished.
I respect the secrets of this German house.
I got some good comments with this poem, mainly that it was a good and fresh idea. That is what I try to do with every poem. It is sometimes hard to apply techniques such as imagery, figurative language, and musical devices to pieces that are stretching what current poets write. However, when I look at all the underlying themes in every piece that I write, I find love. From that point, I find the loss of love and the inevitability that it will soon be lost no matter what we do. I was sitting in my room debating on my last poem to write when my house started making sounds. Then I thought of all the things I have done here that maybe my mom isn’t aware of. Let’s just say I’ve experimented in every room but it was with someone I loved and not dirty. This idea brought to my mind that there were definitely people that lived here before and probably engaged in the same act. With that, I thought of my German heritage. Of course, the obvious embarrassing event in that history is Hitler and the persecution of Jews. This is important, so I turned my house into a living German that dealt with the romance of the period before and the persecution that Hitler brought. These were all new ideas from the first draft. I kept the structure the same and fixed some punctuation. I never realized the importance of certain punctuation and its usage. It is a powerful tool. I tried to use better words than before as well. The title didn’t fit well either and the comment from Bret about envisioning Japaniamation was not what I was shooting for[PCM13]. I wanted a concrete image and you cannot get more concrete than a house.
In the end, I looked to my wall to a painting that I have. Entitled, “Dream Warrior,” by Michael Parkes it depicts a nude female embraced by a warrior with muscular wings. I felt the security that she felt and thought that was important. This painting captured the romantic memories of this humanized house and helped filter out the bad ones it might have encountered.
750 mL
Laughing out loud,
What, what are you talking ‘bout?
How much? I did what…
[MSOffice14]750 mL, to some it’s not much[PCM15]
Mathematicians want to convert it
Chemists want to merge it
Drug dealers need to cut it
Dieticians yearn to absolve it
Bartenders learn to distribute it
I have learned to consume it[KW16]
[PCM17]
Not sealed, return it
Most likely spoiled by wino’s or youngster’s
A late night secret chug denies the innocence of my spirits[MSOffice18][PCM19]
[MSOffice20]I move on and forget it
Twist the cover
Separate the protective embrace
[MSOffice21]Release its addictive odors
Savor its sweetness
My nose twitches
Juniper berries take me away
Russian potatoes help me forget
Molasses aged in oak, add Coke
And its heaven to my taste buds.
The agave plant fills my glass bottle[KW22].
[PCM23]
I consume to conform[KW24]
[MSOffice25]To cry when I can’t
To be brave when I’m not able
Creating a liquid scrapbook that
Effortlessly washes away forgettable events[PCM26]
[MSOffice27]
Help me forget, please…
This horrible week, inhabited by unfortunate death
And to hold on to memories not willing to die as easily[KW28][PCM29].[MSOffice30]
(Revision of 750 mL)
750 mL
My nose tweaks.
Glands replenish saliva
As it seeps out my mouth
Like the downpour of tears
On such an ill-fated day.
750 mL, to some it is not much
Today, not enough
Mathematicians want to convert it
Chemists thrive to merge it
Dieticians yearn to eradicate it
Bartenders train to distribute it
I must absorb it.
Help me! Please...
To forget--
Forget the haunting, burning screams
A plane crash finale
To a friend’s life not lived fully.
Where was I?
Why not me?
Condemn these thoughts
In a liquid scrapbook created by
Foolish over consumption;
Juniper berries, take me away
Russian potatoes, cloud my memories
Molasses aged in oak, add Coke
Agave plant, fill my bottle
I consume to conform
To cry when I cannot
To be brave when I am unable
And to forget days when the
Inferno of life melts innocent skin[PCM31].
This poem was a drunken rant. It turned out okay but you brought up some good points again about my punctuation and structure. I got rid of a lot of things in this poem but added much needed motive and imagery. I’m starting to understand that poetry is showing and not telling. This was another technique that we learned in our fiction writing, but I think poetry is more challenging. So I liked the idea of a liquid scrapbook that was full of just memories. One of the main affects of over consumption is forgetting about what you did before. Ultimately, the theme of this piece is what you would do if you just found out horrible news as I did. I choose to drink the night, the week away.
So, I hinted at my reasoning in the first stanza and solidified it in the middle of the poem. I found the importance of the list in the first stanza of the first draft and agreed that it was powerful enough to stand alone. I gave it its own stanza.
I applied some personification to the liquor begging for it to help me get through this event until I could forget. I thought this was a good use of figurative language.
I wanted to end with an image that keeps haunting me and I want it to haunt others. I could not help but leave the reader with a picture of my friend’s burning in that plane crash. Sorry, but I did not think there was any other way[PCM32].
Is it the mailman?
Here every day except holidays and weekends, our family days[PCM33]
A dark cloud of suspicion enters my heart
Did he ask for this route, this one reason.[MSOffice34]
To be rewarded by my wife for his menial task[HP35]
Have I lost trust?[PCM36]
Is it her boss?
The meetings constantly running late
[HP37] Extraordinary [PCM38]pay raises that cannot be result from her mere skills[MSOffice39]
Invites to lavish events that I reject like her morning rotten kisses[MSOffice40].
She minds [PCM41]him more than me.
[MSOffice42]
[HP43]Is it this Abercrombie Model?
[HP44]His white smile even makes my heart weak
The Hollywood chiseled cheekbones and pecks
That makes me look like I have become a woman[MSOffice45]
Is the attraction lost?[PCM46]
Is it the telephone operator?
[MSOffice47]With his high-speed fingertip database.
Does he think he knows everything?
A vat overflowing with fatty information.
[MSOffice48]When was the last time she asked me about anything?[HP49]
Is it her tennis coach?
that taught her that tight grip around the dick of her racket
[MSOffice50]who told her the shorter the skirt the better her movement
who educated her to serve when love is the score.
What happened to us?
Is it her shrink?[MSOffice51]
With his longing to know what makes her tick
His curiousness into problems she cannot fix alone
With his grubby leather couch, home to people too weak to think alone
Am I now alone?
[MSOffice52]
Is it me?
[MSOffice53]That never tells her of my love[PCM54], how compared to a million fallen snowflakes
That descend in the cold months of winter, I would pick her out to melt on my lips
[MSOffice55]And taste the sweetness of that first encounter and learn to long for that sensation when it fades. I wish for the winter to never end and to kiss you every time the snow falls, but when the sun awakes and you do not appear anymore, I live every day knowing that I will feel this again. So do not tell me who it is and apologies deem unnecessary because every morning when work was your calling seemed to be my summer and the evening, when you reappeared, my winters[HP56]. [MSOffice57]
And I loved you again and again. And among a million snowflakes to choose, knowing I choose to love you is concrete and while you chose to melt on the lips of
another[PCM58].
(Revision of Is it the Mailman?)
Was it the Mailman[PCM59]?
Was it her tennis coach?
that taught her that taut grip around the dick of her racket
who told her the shorter the skirt the better her movement
and educated her to serve solid when love is the score.
Could it have been thematured Abercrombie Model?
His warm, bright smile still able to revive Marilynn Monroe
Hollywood chiseled cheekbones slice through paper
If I did not have a washing machine, even I’d wait in a mile-long
line to cleanse my dirty laundry on his stomach.
Her boss perhaps?
Constant eleventh-hour meetings
Behind secretive double oak doors or
Happy hour gatherings among co-workers only;
Doubting spouses not allowed.
Was it the mailman?
Around everyday except holidays and Sundays, family days
Dark clouds of suspicion will not impede his duty
Rain or shine delivering his subliminal sexual messages--
Only in my absence.
Not the telephone operator?
With his high-speed fingertip database
Does he thinks he knows everything?
A vat brimming with fatty information
I knew those answers to her questions.
My uncertainties blinded me, obsessed with churning emotions
watching as he delivered the mail, his jokes paths to smiles not seen lately
our neighbor, the model, I saw him brush against her bosom
and the coach, his hands gripping her hips
and I sat in the shadowy corner at happy hour, unhappy;
Or is it...was it me?
That never told her of my love,
Those first encounters still powerful
Like fallen snowflakes in summer, she hastily melted on my warm lips
An oddity in this season but I cherished her
Without question or hesitation, inevitably becoming one.
And after countless summer years trying to trap those first emotions
My lack of trust created winters
My lips became icy, breathing life into something once stunning
And she floated away amongst the others.
My self-esteem prison became a loveless investigation.
I think I have a tendency to create poems with in poems. I sort of did that here in the first draft. I went from questioning love to making everything okay just by a realization of one not showing love. Cheating is never okay and questioning that someone is cheating is not healthy towards relationships. I stuck with the main character’s obsession to find out who this mystery man was but changed it dramatically by placing it in the past tense. This gave it such a sad feel that his constant questioning that inevitably made his significant other leave him is still continuing in the aftermath. I was glad to make him realize that it was him all along and the subtleties that he was witnessing or spying on were just that. Nothing to be serious about. I think that a lot of men become jealous and questioning just due to a lack of self-esteem. I kept the structure the same to represent striking thoughts in this guy’s mind that were just everywhere and all over the page. I cut the shrink stanza but kept the telephone operator because I liked what someone said, that he was reaching for straws now. So I put that as the last person he could question about. I made the model a former model and older to help relate with the different ages that the others imply to be. Again, I utilized my new knowledge of punctuation to keep it flowing and to stop it when I wanted to. I deleted the questions after every stanza because I felt like it was telling what I just showed and created little poems within the big picture. I love finding fresher words and I think I did that here. Also, the last stanza is quite shorter and divided into two stanzas now. The seasons theme is still there but I thought this said what I wanted to say better. I’m not sure that an investigation was a great image to end with but when I thought of what this guy was lacking and made him this way. I thought the last line turned out perfect. But is it needed? Am I telling what I just showed again?[PCM60]
THE EXIT DOOR
The look burns my blood
Scared, should I tell you more
Is my life ending or beginning
at the delivery of this news[LK61].
Did it hurt you?
Your stomach fall to your feet
Only beaten by the heavy tears
That splashed on your toenails.
Toenail polish is fresh and sprinkles harsh[LK62]
Sniffs into my smelling tool[LK63].
Did you do this for me?
The homemade card with stencil letters
Confess the love you thought we shared.
The shortened hair, the French manicure[LK64][KW65],
The candlelight dinner.
All paid for by my credit, my hard work
As you sit on your ass, watch my tv!
Eat my food, use the water that I pay for.
Your tears continue to flow, did you practice for this?
Did you take lessons and secretly use my money to pay for it?
Expect this when love is gone
But remember love is always around[KW66]
It captured me in the form of another
So graceful that she makes the doves gather
To watch as she cuts through her own sky[LK67].
Unlike the attention you bring
The city pigeons that shit everywhere
The stray cats that eat the food that you waste,
That I pay for!
The mosquitoes that pierce my skin, and
Suck my blood
Swat it away and get rid of the nuisance.
That blood is mine, the sweat is real
And the idea of us is through.
Pack the clothes I bought you,
Keep the wasted jewelry and the
vacant pictures with fake smiles.
Make room for someone else.
Wipe your tears on your own shoulder[KW68]
The forged pleas won’t work.
That exit door has had your name
Etched into it for months[LK69].[KW70]
Revision of THE EXIT DOOR
THE EXIT DOOR
That stare sears my blood
Nervous, should I tell you more
Is my life ending or beginning
at the liberation of this news?
Does it hurt you?
Jaw dropping, stomach at your feet
Only outdone by heavy tears
Splashing onto painted toenails
Polish so fresh it assaults my smelling tool
With its harsh odors
Did you do this for me?
The homemade card with stencil letters
Confessing the love you thought we shared
The shortened hair, French manicure
Candlelight dinner
All paid for by my credit! My hard work!
As you sit on your ass
Watch my TV
Eat my food
Use the water that I pay for!
The tears continue no doubt you practiced for this.
Did you take crying lessons and secretly exploit my money to pay for it?
Expect this when love is gone
But remember love is always around
It captured me in the form of another
So graceful that she makes the doves gather