Walking down memory lane
Dec. 25th, 2010 05:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alee_grrlI was cleaning out my archived digital files the other day and found some of my poetry and other creative writing projects from college. I took creative writing in the spring of 2001, and it was a very memorable semester for several reasons. One was that I was incredibly ill that academic year due to the failure of my gallbladder. Another was my poetry creative writing teacher. I no longer remember her name, but her words made a lasting impression. She was a visiting professor, a published poet, and one of the most critical teachers I have ever had. She had me and many others damn near in tears after classes, and I despised her at the time. In retrospect I have to admit that my poetry improved ten-fold because of her critiques. I pushed myself to write something she couldn't tear apart, and it made me think of poetry in a different way. I can't say I like her approach, and I think that there are ways to provide constructive criticism without being so adamantly cruel. I will always be proud of the fact that my final poem was written well enough that the only thing she could say was "This is a finished poem. Well Done." Of course her comment to me after class was "Why weren't the rest of your poems that good." Apparently she had some difficulty in understanding just what "learning process" meant.
I am also proud of the fact that all of the poems I wrote that semester, and a few written after, were published in my college's arts magazine, and later on my college e-portfolio, which has long since been absorbed into the internet. I kept digital copies of the works though, and it was fun to read back over them. In the spirit of walking down memory lane, I am going to post those old poems here starting with the one that, for me, resonates most with the season.
In December of 1989 my maternal grandmother lost her long battle with cancer. In 2001 I wrote the following poem as a textual portrait of her. My mother wasn't too pleased with it because she felt it didn't paint the most flattering picture, and perhaps it isn't. It is a real reflection of my memories; each word lovingly, painstaking chosen to paint a portrait of the frail woman with an underlying core of strength and ferocity that I will never forget. So in loving memory of my Grandma Chris, I present: The Matriarch.
The Matriarch
She sits enthroned
In a chair of cheap cold tin
With a cover of blue speckled vinyl.
A matching table
Of fake gray-white marble with
Blue filigree along its edge is bowed
Before her. She is robed in faded night
Gown once ornate with vivid flowers.
A steel halo of stale cigarette smoke blends
With a bluish silver helmet of curled hair.
A paper hand rests
Next to a can of diet coke.
Brown eyes set in among
Deep crow’s feet avidly investigate
The pages of the romance before her.
I am also proud of the fact that all of the poems I wrote that semester, and a few written after, were published in my college's arts magazine, and later on my college e-portfolio, which has long since been absorbed into the internet. I kept digital copies of the works though, and it was fun to read back over them. In the spirit of walking down memory lane, I am going to post those old poems here starting with the one that, for me, resonates most with the season.
In December of 1989 my maternal grandmother lost her long battle with cancer. In 2001 I wrote the following poem as a textual portrait of her. My mother wasn't too pleased with it because she felt it didn't paint the most flattering picture, and perhaps it isn't. It is a real reflection of my memories; each word lovingly, painstaking chosen to paint a portrait of the frail woman with an underlying core of strength and ferocity that I will never forget. So in loving memory of my Grandma Chris, I present: The Matriarch.
The Matriarch
She sits enthroned
In a chair of cheap cold tin
With a cover of blue speckled vinyl.
A matching table
Of fake gray-white marble with
Blue filigree along its edge is bowed
Before her. She is robed in faded night
Gown once ornate with vivid flowers.
A steel halo of stale cigarette smoke blends
With a bluish silver helmet of curled hair.
A paper hand rests
Next to a can of diet coke.
Brown eyes set in among
Deep crow’s feet avidly investigate
The pages of the romance before her.
