Published

I submitted some poems to my school's literary journal this semester and they accepted two for publication! This counts as an official publication, but I reserve all rights for future publication.
Last week the English department hosted an Author's Gala in which they gave out copies of the literary journal, Metaphor, and had some of the people published in it share their art. They asked me to read one of my poems.

A Moment Between Two Artists

He steps through an invisible wall
Into his music
And weaves disjointed tunes
Accenting chatter

Five feet away on a worn red couch
She's confined in her own
Groping words
Fragmented symbols, unformed mosaics

His fingers along the keys
He names them all

"I call this one, Beautiful Girl is Writing"

Blushed lips, timid
She thinks the tone is fitting
Somber and serene
A weeping willow swaying through a storm
He knows her very well

"Your turn," he grins
"What is that you're writing?"

She whispers
"Handsome Man, Keep Playing"

Besides poetry, the journal contains excerpts or short fiction and non-fiction, music, and visual art. A few other writers read their poems or excerpts from stories, a couple of the musicians played their songs, and an artist or two explained their work.

Now that it's over, it was fun! My American Lit teacher had me read my poems in class on Wednesday too, slowly I'm becoming accustomed to reading my poems aloud, though it still makes me nervous and shaky, not to mention rambly to do so.

When you read a poem in front of a group of poets, they like for you to take a minute to set the scene. So, I stood up and started explaining my poem (above). "This poem comes from a moment between my friend and me. We were hanging out one night and he was playing the piano as I sat writing on a couch close by. The moment in reality wasn't anywhere near as romantic as the poem turned out to be. In fact, until I wrote the poem, I had never thought of him as anything more than a friend. But then, as the poem took it's final formation, I thought, 'Oh my! Really? I had no idea I felt that way! Hmm, maybe.' (that made people laugh). Sometimes poems have a way of revealing things about ourselves that we didn't consciously recognize before. But, no matter what the poem says, he and I will only ever be good friends."

I don't understand why this particular friend has such a creative affect on me, but I am very grateful to him for allowing me to absorb some of his artistry. I am also grateful to him for indulging my requests for his time and attention so often these days. He has helped me in so many ways, far beyond demolishing my writer's block. Between him, Fozzy, and The Artist, I'm becoming more comfortable and trusting of men. They are kind and caring and without even knowing they were doing anything at all, they have helped to bring me back to life and I'm even beginning to believe in love again...meaning, I'm beginning to believe I can be loved by someone I love.

Sorry for that tangent. My other poem that was published is an imitative poem I wrote for my poetry class last semester. It's influenced by the contemporary poet, Dean Young. The assignment was to read a book of poems by a living poet and then analyze their technique and write a poem incorporating this technique. One thing I noticed in Young's poetry is that most of his poems have a really strong and gripping first line, something odd that catches your attention right at first. He also has a tendency to sound a little like he's rambling and some of what he adds in his poem doesn't seem to make sense, but it feels right in the poem. Anyway, here is my attempt to imitate his style.

Where The Go

Kleptomania was not my intention.
I only collect the luggage and the socks
that airlines and dryers misplace.
You thought it was goblins or trolls
wreaking havoc just to make you late
for school or work or your important date.
But it was me, taunting your sanity.
Stealing t-shirts, shampoo, underwear,
and extra shoes thickens the blood.
My own socks aren't enough, I have to
mismatch them with yours for my
feet to feel free to wander from
Texas to Chicago with connections
in Paris and Tokyo. I only wear your
socks, never your trousers or the
stolen hotel bathrobe, because socks
can be hidden inside shoes and beneath
long jeans so no one knows they
once belonged to someone else.
The suitcases are homes for the sock
people made from the too small or
too large cotton sheaves; they need
someplace to hide. Everything else
goes to the people on the streets;
those you forget to look at
as you hurry to catch your flight.
So when you see a bum wearing your
Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, or
Armani, think of me...
I'm wearing your socks.