Edit: By the way, I've tried to edit this three times but it keeps coming out very unorganized and strange. It's also using two different fonts and I have no idea why. Sorry.

Yesterday, I was so bored at work that I almost started crying.
That's absolutely pathetic, right? I should have been thrilled that I
didn't have any work to do, but all I could think about was going home
and...eating. Anyway, there were countless things I could have been
doing, one of them being writing. Some of you guys might know that I studied English Literature in college and I have a strange love for
words. As a child, I was your typical book-hating brat. It wasn't
until fourth or fifth grade that writing and reading became funf or
me. In fifth grade, I won my class's creative writing contest. I had
written a short story about two friends who get lost in the woods and
are chased by a bear. My teacher gave me a sparkly pencil as a reward,
and I've never forgotten how exciting that was. It is amusing to think
that the silly story about the bear sparked my writing "career", but
it's true. It also represented the first time I began to think of
myself differently. Before, I'd always been the "art girl." It was my
label and I wore it happily. So the idea that, shockingly, I could
have more than one love really affected me.

I was a lazy
writer, however. I rarely wrote poems or stories just for the sake of
writing them. Class assignments afforded me the most enjoyment, since
my teachers could give me a set topic. Without those restrictions, I
felt overwhelmed and uninterested. Only my journals I kept for pure
enjoyment, and those I have had since I was ten. So I always did well
in my English classes and was appreciated very much by those teachers
(too bad I can't say that for my science/math classes). They urged me
to enter writing contests and to work for the city newspaper's teen
section. Unwilling to put out the extra effort, I ignored them. It
was good enough for me to get recognition at my high school--I didn't
need anything more. Besides, by 10th grade, I was accepted for my
state's Governor's School for the Arts in the visual arts field, so I
felt justified. I'd think,"Oh, maybe I'm not putting out too much
effort for writing, but hey, I was chosen out of hundreds to be part of
the twelve art students in my state!" It was stupid, but I've
constantly had the problem of being a huge underachiever. Now that I'm
older, I also realize that I was afraid of people thinking I was really
terrible. At my school, it was easy to be on top, but what
if--compared to other writers my age--I was really not good at all? I
must have been terrified of that sort of revelation, and thus I shied
away from any sort of extra competitions.

It came as a surprise
to myself, as well as to some others, when I decided to become an
English major. Half-way through my History of the Ancient
Mediterranean class on a Thursday morning, I had my "ah HA!" moment.
Even though I had no idea what I would do with such a degree, have a
plan made me content. Words! I was better than average at words! At
least...I thought so...?

Sadly, the majority of my English classes focused ont he analyzng of
classic English works. Well, I shouldn't say "sadly", for analyzing
great works has become a fun, dorky hobby. It's a giant puzzle of
history, rhythm, personality, and beliefs. Anyway, my university
focused so closely on the classic aspect of literature that it only had
two creative writing courses. I took the poetry one during my
sophomore year and I can state--without a doubt--that it changed
everything for me. My teacher was a witty, relaxed and affable man who
was so, so acutely passionate about what he did. He made us laugh but
he made us think, as well. He allowed us to flounder around in our
stanzas, enthusiastically urging us to cut what we didn't need and to
"show, not tell." From him, I found my descriptive voice. My work,
which had mainly been wishy-washy poems that floated around in the
stratosphere of confessional poetry, finally found its two feet. It
had the concrete elements to make it credible and relatable while still
retaining a reflective abstract side. I had finally found my "style",
and was embarrassadly pleased when he wrote "best manuscript in the
class" at the end of the semester. What I learned form his was
priceless. I cringe when I wonder what my writing would be like
without his assistance.

After that class, I tried
to keep up the momentum of writing on a regular basis. It didn't
really work out; I would go months without writing a thing. Then,
there would come a night or a handful of days where I could write
pages. On those occasions, I felt exhilerated. Even though I'd been
an "art girl" for so long, and I'd felt the joy of creating images from
just a pencil and my hand, the thrill I gained from writing was
infinitely different. To quote Oscar Wilde, "All morning I worked on
the proof of one of my poems and took out a comma; in the afternoon I
put it back." Writing became so precious--I couldn't just slather some
words on a page and be satisfied. During my senior year of college, I
found myself writing again. On a whim, I entered a poem for my
university's poetry contest. It was the last day for entries and I
didn't tell anyone that I had submitted anything. A few days later, I
got the congratulatory letter and was shocked. The shock later melted
into terror when the English department announced that I had also been
chosen to represent my university in the Washington, D.C. College
Poetry contest. One student was chosen from each of the 11 schools to
compete. My senior seminar professor took it upon herself to become my
"poetry coach", helping me with my readings, introducing me to some
important contemporary poets, and in one instance, she solemnly intoned
that, "I'll be watching your progress with great interest, since you
have the potential to become the next great poet of our generation."
I'm sorry...but if that isn't fucking scary, please, tell me what is.
I didn't win the D.C. contest, but I wasn't disappointed. I'd beaten
some of my old fears and gotten some great feedack. Besides, the guy
who DID win was amazing.

On another note, I really
do get annoyed with bad poetry. I know it's a jerky thing to do,
because I've always been told that "there is no such thing as bad
poetry." But how many times can I read a poem about a depressed person
that uses phrases like "crimson sorrows" or "my crying soul"? Or how
about a poem about a girl with the shocking (!) "and it was me" lying
with hopeful witiness at the tail. Even more, I get intothe people
that buy into it. "Wow, that was so deep!" is my most hated response
to read. After spending four years of doing intensive surgery on the
works of Milton, Browning, and Eliot--where I am ripping off their
skins and plucking at their bones, and then penning page after page of
responses--the word "deep" sounds as shallow as one can get. This is
one of my biggest flaws: I usually can't be happy for a writer if I
think their writing sucks. The English major part in me just drives me
to go for the jugular and give incredibly harsh critiques. I know I
should focus on how much they love what they are doing, bu I can't get
around how many peopel they've suckered into thinking that they're the
next Maya Angelou or Marlow. The ones that use extreme minimalism
(think "The Red Wheelbarrow" by WCW) also drive meinsane because, most
of the time, it seems as if they have no motive other than to seem
edgy. Faux-edginess for the sake of being edgy gets me upset. It's so
silly, I know, but I've also felt that the heart and soul of poetry
doesn't lie in edge--it lies in the message. When the story or feeling
takes the back seat to rottingly sweet language or pointless edge,
poetry feels degraded.

To move back on subject (well, if there is one...), yesterday, I was
really bored and selfishly feeling like I had nothing to do. Today, I
came into work with a game plan: to write one poem. It didn't have to
be good--it didn't even have to be long, but it had to be a poem.
Title, body, content, message. Bam. I struggled at the last bit,
rearranging, erasing, changing the tone, etc., but I finally finished.
It's not my best--not even close. I'm still happy about it. Finishing
it has put me in a great mood, actually. I feel a bit like I've
conquered a bit of myself--I've taken my "feelings" and thoughts and
managed to find words for them. I chose those words for exact reasons
and surrendering even one would change its entire personality. These
poems are shells of myself--pale half-truths or wordy reminders or
something I've forgotten to feel. In the same way I despise other
people's bad poetry, I'm sure there is someone who feels exactly the
same about my poetry. Oh, well.

Poem: Mute.

I stood by your watery tongue,
the white-green ribbon of
stone-locked ethos.
I heard it all,
knew nothing at all,
said nothing at all.

Your teeth grew tall like
blunt, silver giants.
And still, I waited,
relying on blood or
some quiet god to
make me speak.

In my silence,
the riant curve of your mouth
looked wicked and
willing to consume.

*****A link to some of my more recent poems. I just started this page because having them on facebook notes is just too unorganized, even for me. My poetry. ******