Monday, April 30, 2018

Final Homework


This class taught me about how the structure of poetry was often indicative and evocative of the art world surrounding it at the time. As the focus of art shifted, ebbed, and flowed, so too did the way people formed their poems on paper or how they arranged images to create a ‘text’ to present their message. 

What I took away from the course the most, however, was a sense of personal release. A majority of my work this semester, while it had certainly started as personal, eventually felt like it had been taken away; the connection I once had with my pieces was no longer present, instead removed by outside influence or axed by critique. While this is certainly a good thing for visual works, I felt I was being dishonest with myself and catering towards others to service a grade rather than express something I wanted to because of the basic need to emote. 

This didn’t apply to this class. My poems were innately personal, and the message was intimately tied to the composition and wording of each one that it would fundamentally change the piece as a whole to remove or edit them. Slight things could change, yes, but the meaning was always there, and it was often unapologetic. I wrote many of these works out of desperation, looking back on the experiences in my past for inspiration, and I wanted to voice things I couldn’t in my other art. 

This relationship I had with poetry is what I think the ultimate lesson of the course is. To leave a message, immutable, open, and with dignity, and to let others see and have it challenge them.

That being said, the goal of most art today is seemingly impersonal. Many people come to this school in particular to get hired; art is a commodity, it’s commercial, and it’s everywhere. There hasn’t been too much of a spotlight on art as an overarching narrative or media like there has been in the past, but that’s because our lives are so busy and intertwined with so much that we don’t necessarily see what’s around us. 

The job of the artist today is based more in the realm of what is practical for them to compete and survive in today’s society, which isn’t a bad thing, it’s just not the typical narrative many would expect. People provide for the world around them, they create, inspire, and build, but they do so with motivation to also support themselves. I think that the romanticism of being an artist is the only thing that’s really changed overall; there will always be more creative and inventive people, but now there’s a strong industry and commercialization for them to enter into like most other fields. 

Art can still be challenging, there’s still cartoons and satire, and commentary being made and that will stay consistent as well; art is just ‘no longer naked,’ there’s a uniformity and practicality to it now. It’s being channeled into new paths and directions so that it has more of a global impact, and it’s recorded far more accurately and in real time so that it’s chronicled more effectively as well. 

Artists today may be workers, but they still have the same purpose they always have: say something. Make others notice. Leave your own monolith. 

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Final Project: Candle

Individual Frames

















https://giphy.com/gifs/fire-tiger-poetry-cPJUbn9OQV6IFcLPDc


Candle


Have you ever been so hungry, that you swallowed a candle?
Devour it whole.
Praying the wax would melt
Fill in the hidden fissures
Like a bastard’s kintsugi



Were you so cold that you swallowed a match?
Let the small flame sear its way down
And burn a trail of pain
Of useless pain

But of warmth nonetheless


This timid light a hearth
Then a burgeoning forge  
A roaring beacon
Hunting shadows 


Sunday, March 18, 2018

Homework 11: Collage/Found Poem


Thoughts During Winter in New England; Filled Woods and Empty Hearth



Some say the world will end in fire

I have been one acquainted with the night
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars
Of easy wind and downy flake

Some say in ice.

The dust of snow
If that was your idea, against the breeze
I went to show you how to make it stay
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought

I think I know enough of hate

But ‘twas no make-believe with you to-day, 
Something interposed between our sight
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Without so much as wishing him good-night.

To say that for destruction ice

One man can’t fill a house
Consigned to the moon,—such as she was
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
I outwalked the furthest city light.

Is also great

And miles to go before I sleep
Nothing gold can stay
Icicles along the wall to keep
At last to learn to use their wings

And would suffice.





Robert Frost Poems Used and Edited:

The Wood Pile (1912)
An Old Man's Winter Night (1916)
The Exposed Nest (1920)
Fire and Ice (1920)
Dust of Snow (1920)
Nothing Gold Can Stay (1923)
Stopping by Woods on a Snow Evening (1923)
Acquainted with the Night (1928)

Sunday, February 25, 2018

Homework 10: Narrative Poem


Pride||Silence


When the heat roils in the summer
The asphalt shimmering and singing
A congestive cluster of rainbow drunken Pride
Rolls into the city like a July thunderstorm
Thick, sweltering, electric
Promising an unrelenting and percussive
Release of static and tension

Batten down the hatches
Reinforce your foundations
You cannot weather this storm
For a part of it lives in your house
Rattling your roof from within
Pride breaking down archaic walls
Thunder on their breath

Every year when I see this happening
I seek to ride the air 
Get swept into that intoxicating throng 
Chanting, marching, celebrating
Freedom, freedom, we will not be ignored!
Freedom, freedom, we’re worth so much more!
And every time I’m stopped

The last time I did something like this
I had a stalker follow me home
Tell me about all the things he wanted to do to me 
Talk about wanting to murder his father
About how I was item 1-9 on the list
Of people in the world he wouldn't kill
And he was number 10

I remember the time I was told
“You can’t be ace, you’re not a plant”
“You just haven’t rode my dick yet”
“When I’m done with you,
You’ll need chapstick on both sets of lips”
As if that weren’t already my biggest fear
And the reason I stayed in the closet up until college

I remember the time my best friend’s father 
Tried to molest me, so I told him I’d call the police
I remember the time someone grabbed me 
On the school bus in eighth grade and I was frozen
Now, I wish I’d turned around 
And slapped him so hard I’d have broken
His stupid Rayban glasses 

I remember the time I was called a faggot
For wearing a boy’s shirt
For not wearing makeup
For cutting my hair
For having a girlfriend
For being gender fluid 
For being a tomboy

What have I learned from my pride 
Except shame
“Go back into the closet 
Because you don’t look gay
You’re just a bitch
You’re not butch
And you’re not a good femme either.”

I have a boyfriend
So that obviously means I’m not queer
Not like pano-romanticism is a thing
Where you can just love people
Not caring what they identify as 
Because you’re so drunk on the security 
Of being wrapped in their arms

My queerness is weird
But it’s real regardless of a lack of label 
It’s stayed with me, in me, as me
And I keep crawling back to it
Scared and hiding
My mom doesn’t believe it
My brothers don’t think it’s true

So I sit in the darkness
Confined in a closet 21 years too small
And watch as another thunderstorm
Overtakes our city
Rainbow lightning flashing and flying
Sparking and arching and screeching 
Joyous release

One day
I will
Join them
For I
Am of
Cloud and
Lighting, too

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Homework 9: Beat Poem

Brother Dearest


When mom was trying to convince you not to smoke marijuana
Because you were fourteen
Already kicked out of one school
For being a troubled kid
You screamed so loud the house shook
Windows reverberating
Walls shuddering
Doors rattling

A sudden, swollen swarm of insults unleashed like a plague
A pestilence so determined to overtake everything
Your tongue the same fire they warn us about
In catechism
In mass
In the fucking bible
In that moment
You were Hell

And she started weeping,
Locking herself in my room with me
Scooping me up in her arms
Recreating the Madonna and Child
And crying into my hair
Lips reciting prayers
Listing Latin and Psalm
Into my scalp

As your storm pounded on my door
Until Dad came home
And with a single exchange
The tempest ceased
Waters calmed
Plagues undone
The house a home again
But cracked

You had kicked holes in the wall
In defiance
In desperation
I don't know
But the holes were there
And you patched them later
But it was sloppy
And we always knew what was under the paint

We lived like this for years
You shouting at mom
For her asking you to turn down your guitar
For her asking you to pull up your grades
For her asking you to be nicer with your words
For her asking you to be nicer to us
For her asking you to do anything
For her just being there

I will never believe you've changed
Even though you've gone to college
Even though you graduated
Even though you've got a house you share
Even though you've got a job
Even though you keep insisting
Even though you keep saying all these things
It's always just talk

Your name means 'traitor of God'
I will always remember the fights
I will always remember the shouting
I will always remember the sobbing
I will always remember what you've done
I will take it with me to my grave
And you will to yours
For the wicked do not go unpunished