It's a crisp Sunday in January and I can't seem to find a way of keeping my feet warm, 3 pairs of socks later, I succeed. I'm glad I'm able to do that, in this world many don't have the luxury of wearing 3 pairs of socks at once. It has snowed about 4-6 inches since I lay my head down to rest last night. Sunday is my favorite day of the week, it's the fresh start. I always get dressed nicely to find my way to my local church, I spend my morning worshiping His name. But this Sunday is different. This Sunday church was cancelled due to hazardous road conditions. This Sunday God reminded me that I don't need to go to church to feel him. This Sunday he showed me He is in the white crunches under my feet and the ice crystals on my hair
The poem, "Rain, New Years Eve", reminds my of this revelation I had this morning. Maggie Smith writes about the fondness of the "broken" parts of our world. In the first five lines she writes about how her young daughter has already learned this lesson. She goes on to remind readers of this she is not fond of, assuming they wouldn't be either, like "roughhousing" and "sticky hands". But the turn in this poem is that the mother figure in this poem (maybe Maggie Smith(idk bruh)) is asking to allow herself to love these not so lovable things.
My favorite part of this poem is that last two lines:
"Let me listen to the rain's one note
and hear a beginner's song."
As the old folk always tell me: when one door closes, another opens. The mother's last wish, for lack of better words, its to be able to see the light in the bad, the convenience in the inconvenience.
Let me be snowed in on a Sunday
and still hear Your words.
I suppose this will be the most nontraditional analysis I will do this year, my thoughts about this sweet short poem. One of, scratch that, my absolute favorite novel and movie of all time is Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. I easily saw similarities between this poem and that book.
But I want to elaborate on a deeper issue we're fast approaching in our society. I've found in my life girls are often expected to, and usually do, grow years beyond their actual age. Cummings gives light to soliciting of nymphets in his poem "wanta". The mystical easy-going attitude most of these young lovers give off.
The structure of the poem is very obviously unfamiliar to me, i'll admit that. But I feel as if the reader is supposed to read the lines in the way its written, "thewoman" and "was not" meant to be short and quick. Also you're supposed to read it staggered and slow.
Cummings goal was to show readers the situation a potential suitor could be met with.
After reading Kaur's poem, I was inspired to make, well, three poems. I found the mentor text to be quite asthetically inspiring.
"The very sight of you
has my arms spread
like a clothing pin with a line
begging for clean laundry."
"The very thought of you
has my heart pulsing
like a criminal with an urge
begging for blue lights."
"The very thought of you
has my hips swirling
like a dancer with a stage
begging for new eyes."
I began reading Clint Smith's poetry collection, Counting Descent, on a gloomy Thursday at about noon. I was working, life gaurding barely qualifies as a job on dull days like these. I settle down with my book in a lounging lawn chair to come about the poem, "Ode to the End-of-Year 6th Grade Picnic". The only poem I "doggy eared". I catch myself reminiscing on my own similar experience. Smith constructs his poem with riddles of caeseras, each stanza perfectly divided into four lines each. A perfect square.
"The girls danced in clusters,
becoming accustomed to the burgeoning parabola
of their hips, learning the power they wielded over boys
who were dawdling amalgamations of awkward"
Do you remember when you first looked in the mirror and saw yourself as a woman, maybe a teenager, nonetheless, no longer a child. You noticed your hips growing sideways and breasts budding. I believe that's the beginning of the ending of childhood. The thinning of what little innocence we have left once these realizations are among our thoughts. Smith's poem is written as if he has gone back. Not as if he is on the out looking in, not as a child within the moment. But as a man whom is now going back to his child self to remember the feeling that was there. And that's the goal, for the reader to feel the same nostalgia he is, because we've all experienced this exact feeling.
10. You cannot
9. Rank the
8. Countries in
7. World because
6. They are
5. All wonderful
4. In their
3. Own special
No joke, but I'm just joking here is my real list of things to know about me:
1. I am the 6th of 7 siblings. (A wonderfully combined family)
2. I consider myself moderately funny, not too funny though.
3. I like country music because I'm a "yee-haw".
4. I'm enlisting in the Air Guard because I love America and I will do anything to protect this bomb a** country.
5. My best friend lives in Manassas and that makes me moderately depressed from time to time.
6. I wear contacts. (Glasses suck)
7. I am an opimist and honestly can't remember the last time I was upset. There is so much to be happy about!
8. I heart Jesus, no need to ezplain.
9. When I grow up i want like 74829 kids.
10. Would rate myself a solid 9.9/10 on a dating website.