Roethke’s Poetry Exercise

Roethke’s Poetry Exercise

The eye, hot to bruise itself;

a throat to ruin the cool, soft burn.

A wavering slag to curve red leather

and too sharp to cut a rock.

Blue kiss to mourn belief

of the surprised frog and on its cloud

a tough bite to cut mud

for its once important merriment.

Sing and say, no dog should know

to swing the moon and rightfully lay.

Blush, done, over, anon.

No longer is its revelry.

A Reflection of English 1102

Where to begin, where to begin; I suppose the beginning is as suitable a starting point as any, so here it goes. In the beginning of the semester, to be quite honest, I was a tad skeptical of what this class would be like and how it would play itself out. I previously attended Berry College, which is where I took my English 101 class (the equivalent of 1101 at Georgia Highlands) and can honestly say I thought I had lost it, "It" being the immense love of literature and the written word that I had developed so easily during my High School years.  I graduated from Woodland with every intention of becoming an English major with an education minor; a dream which was diminished single-handedly by one bearded, balding man with an understanding of literature as narrow as my pinky and an ego that could have spanned every square inch of Berry’s 36,000 acre campus.  He took everything I loved and enjoyed about literature and writing and turned it on its head, leaving an unsavory taste in my mouth for what might come. To my pleasant surprise, the first day of class felt like reuniting with an old, beloved friend. “It” had been restored. The structure of the class was so much like what I had experienced in high school that often times some of the readings were even the same, but that was exactly what I needed. A taste of the old, as well as the introduction of the new; a little something to say here is what you loved before, and this is why you loved it. This class has been a haven of sorts for me this semester amongst the midst of daunting math classes, multiple jobs, and the stresses of home. No matter what was happening that week, or what had gotten me down, all I had to do was think “I’ll have English tomorrow” and everything else seemed to be okay. It has been a wonderful journey, and I was blessed with a class who truly cares (or can at least fake it very well) and that has made it even more than I could have ever imagined it to be. And we cannot forget the teacher,  a teacher that has such an infectious passion that made even those who before wouldn’t have given literature a second glance, the confidence to voice their opinions and reactions on a daily basis. Every element of this class seemed to come together in a way so perfect in its imperfections, that my passion and adoration of literature has been once again restored. I am genuinely sad to see it come to an end.

My Car

This is not my car.
Infected with rust,
no longer whole.
A Frankenstein of motor vehicles,
original parts missing,
defined by the replacements.
This is not my car.

Unfamiliar.
Touchy Steering.
Sensitive Pedals.
No. Control.
This is not my car.

Defined by age,
lousy with experience.
Miles on miles on miles,
But this is not my car.

My car is
controllable,
innocent,
"reliable."

Been nowhere.
Going nowhere.
Getting there fast.
This is my car.

Fresh paint,
Matching tires.
Seemingly Perfect
Fearfully Sheltered
This is my car.

In the "now."
Much like most.
Invisible.
Judge if you must,
Because this is my car.

Library Spectacle, Class Debacle

Last Wednesday, in celebration (or recognition, depending on how you look at it) of Woman's History Month the Drama class volunteered their time and efforts to speak to what portion of the student body wanted to listen, or just the portion that needed extra credit perhaps, to bring light to the true nature of Woman's History Month. By highlighting quotes, poems, stories, and memoirs authored or spoken by Women throughout history and in the present day, these students brought forth the issue of gender equality (or lack thereof) in global society. This demonstration later sparked quite the conversation in class. Both those who did and did not see the scene in the library had something to say. For the most part we seemed to have similar core beliefs on the issue and everyone was quick to voice said beliefs. I did not, rather, I sat back and listened. Absorbing the mayhem that unfolded around me, I waited for the opportunity to be persuaded by or at least further informed on the ideas of others. I know what my beliefs are, and because I am in fact a woman, I can assume that others might be able to guess my general position on the subject as well. What I discovered in class is that I am a tad less feminist than I had originally perceived myself to be. Don't get me wrong, I am still all for girl power, but I also believe more in the power of the individual now, than I ever have before. What I realized once we were dismissed from class on Wednesday was that it is not an issue of gender, but an issue of individual people making poor or misinformed decisions or judgments based on lack of open-mindedness, which in my personal opinion develops with the continuation of formal education. It was touched on in class, and I truly believe this with every fiber of my feminine being, that until the individual chooses to educate him or herself we will always live in a world in which "issues" of race, gender, social class, mental and physical ability and so on will cause prejudices and hate to prosper in a place where it could be so easy for love to grow.