fandomhigh | Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Eight

Entry tags:

Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Eight

[Professor Chaucer is again sitting quietly at his desk. He looks pretty much the same as he did yesterday, although possibly a little more worn.]

Welcome to your final poetry class of the term. I want to tell all of you how much I've enjoyed this class. Teaching it has been an incredible experience, and you have all been a joy to get to know. I wish you all well during your holiday and with whatever you move on to next term.

[Final Project] Please present your sestina to the class, and then hand in the written copy before leaving today. Final grades will be posted tonight.

[OOC: I'm against a deadline, folks. I need your projects posted here no later than midnight tonight EST. Grades will go up at some ungodly hour after that. It's been fun, guys! Thank you!]

FINAL GRADES for Creative Writing: Poetry

leeadama: A+

lisacuddy: A

scissors__: A

chasingangela: A+

the4thsister: A+

positive_angel: B-

rory__gilmore: C+

death_n_binky: A-

ihatedenmark: A

swerval_zero: A-

kikidelivers: A+

sheltered_texan: A

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Present and hand in your sestinas here.

Sestina:

Go, you, that loveth beauty.
More still you, who worship grace.
These things lie not in truth
When it shows bare to glaring light.
This solace you will not find here,
Hiding within my humble art.

For what, indeed, is art?
Just that which shows beauty?
The daubs of paint put there or here
To show a ballerina in her grace
Or the falling of soft light
On a portrait showing a face’s truth?

Or is it found in universal truth,
The edicts of math and laws of art
The physics of a ray of light,
Is this what embodies beauty?
Then where fits the sense of grace,
That intangible presence that dwells here?

These thoughts within my mind here
Searching in my soul for truth
And deep within my heart for grace
Which gives voice to my simple art
While I forever wonder, "Beauty!
What is it brings it to light?"

For there can be always just a single light
One sparkling point that shines here
From which springs great beauty
Although ringed by dark and ugly truth
And that is a work of art.
That is a shower of grace.

When there can be grace
Though hard it is to bring to light
When it glows even once it is art
And it is always welcome here.
When this has shown itself as truth
Oh yes, then therein lies such beauty!

Each one here has their own peculiar grace
Under the light of unmistakeable truth
And within mortal art there may be immortal beauty.

[Original, but you knew that already ;-) ]

Lee presents his sestina, which details how hard it is for two lovers to communicate in this day and age.

[[And here is my OOC cracked out sestina for fun and giggles]]

OMFGWTF CRACKED OUT SESTINA

Mini!OTP
bombgirl17: jaaack, i hate being a kid again, omg
jackjackattack: but now i can stare at your legs, lol
bombgirl17: sir, wtf
jackjackattack: *snerk*
bombgirl17: what's so funny, plz
bombgirl17: no really!! tell me!! *sad cries*

Pouting Leads to the Dark Side
emopadawan: woe, *sad cries*
hrvrdgrl7679: cheer up, emo kid, omg
hrvrdgrl7679: I need a little r&r, plz
emopadawan: srry, lol
hrvrdgrl7679: ur so cute when u pout,*snerk*
emopadawan: really, wtf?

CallyNAnders
capricabucsr0x: i am so frakking tired, wtf
tinymagichands: no fade to black? *sad cries*
capricabucsr0x: i was just teasing,*snerk*.
tinymagichands: that was not right, omg
capricabucsr0x: *pounces*, lol
tinymagichands: omgdirty, yes plz!!

Hot in Black Leather
warriorblonde47: come see me, plz
warriorblonde47: wtf
notstakedy3t: srry, on the phone, lol
warriorblonde47: stop ignoring meee,*sad cries*
notstakedy3t: I'll be there in two minutes, omg
warriorblonde47: you are already whipped, *snerk*

Emotive Pilots
apo11ochan69: *snerk*
Flygirlstarbuck: bitch, plz.
apo11ochan69: *rolls eyes,* omg
Flygirlstarbuck: lee, wtf!
apo11ochan69: *sad cries*
Flygirlstarbuck: ha ha, lol

Meet Me in Outer Space
whitedeathpod: c'mere, lol
canbemore: I am not a slave to your hormones, *snerk*
whitedeathpod: *sad cries*
canbemore: o plz
canbemore: stop sulking, wtf?
whitedeathpod: You fell for it! *tackles,* omg

Minis Again
jackjackattack: see, carter, you just called me 'sir', lol
bombgirl17: oh shut up, jack …*snerk*
jackjackattack: *sad cries*

Angela is not in class, but she gave her sestina to Chaucer yesterday.

Lisa stands up very quietly, reads her sestina (http://www.livejournal.com/users/lisacuddy/6500.html) quickly, and then sits back down.

Paige reads out her OMG sucky teen love sestina (http://www.livejournal.com/users/the4thsister/29574.html) looking very self aware and hating every second of it.

She also hands a copy to Geoff

Edwards sestina:

Here in this bleak city of Rochester,
Where there are twenty-seven words for "snow,"
Not all of them polite, the wayward mind
Basks in some Yucatan of its own making,
Some coppery, sleek lagoon, or cinnamon island
Alive with lemon tints and burnished natives,

And O that we were there. But here the natives
Of this grey, sunless city of Rochester
Have sown whole mines of salt about their land
(Bare ruined Carthage that it is) while snow
Comes down as if The Flood were in the making.
Yet on that ocean Marvell called the mind

An ark sets forth which is itself the mind,
Bound for some pungent green, some shore whose natives
Blend coriander, cayenne, mint in making
Roasts that would gladden the Earl of Rochester
With sinfulness, and melt a polar snow.
It might be well to remember that an island

Was blessed heaven once, more than an island,
The grand, utopian dream of a noble mind.
In that kind climate the mere thought of snow
Was but a wedding cake; the youthful natives,
Unable to conceive of Rochester,
Made love, and were acrobatic in the making.

Dream as we may, there is far more to making
Do than some wistful reverie of an island,
Especially now when hope lies with the Rochester
Gas and Electric Co., which doesn't mind
Such profitable weather, while the natives
Sink, like Pompeians, under a world of snow.

The one thing indisputable here is snow,
The single verity of heaven's making,
Deeply indifferent to the dreams of the natives,
And the torn hoarding-posters of some island.
Under our igloo skies the frozen mind
Holds to one truth: it is grey, and called Rochester.

No island fantasy survives Rochester,
Where to the natives destiny is snow
That is neither to our mind nor of our making

((OMG stolen from here (http://www.uni.edu/~gotera/CraftOfPoetry/sestina.html)))

Sestina:

This is not the season for our grief.
Vibrant green surrounds us and the sun
mocks us with its cheer--the briefest freedom
lightens memory's burden. Capricious time
grants us just this scant reprieve. A hard
dart of pain pierces the bright wonder

of a stolen moment--the joy of wonder
spun with a familiar thread of grief.
We stained the cloth ourselves, we plucked the hard
and bitter fruit from stunted trees no sun
had ever nourished. We have stranded time,
collapsed distance but haven't found the freedom

we were promised. I've learned there is no freedom
and pain may be illusion, but I wonder
how the Buddhas learned to live with time.
In winter, it is easier to grieve
even in a land of midnight sun.
I tried to meditate. It was too hard

to sit cross-legged and pretend the hard
work of healing would bring me any freedom.
I left you chanting to the morning sun.
I thought I would return before you wondered
how I had escaped. Still, the grief
followed me and so did you. This time

I will name the ghost who haunts our time
between the blooming of early dawn and hard
frost of night. I will share this grief,
drink it down with you. Our only freedom
when we're drunk with truth, too late to wonder
if I've chosen well. I'll let the sun

bleach the photographs of all the sons
and daughters who have been betrayed by time,
by broken promises; cursed to wander
lost in dreams. These stones make digging hard--
the earth itself denies us one last freedom.
We can never fully bury grief.

I squint into the sun, embrace the hard
won freedom with a child's sense of wonder.
This time I understand the gift of grief.

Sestina

There's something magical about an island.
No other meets the feeling, quite serene,
of walking on a quiet beach of white sand
and skipping stones across the liquid blue.
The solitude is seen in wandering footprints
and heard in whispering leaves of nearby trees.

The kingbird and the bluebird perched in song trees
bring music to the silence of the island,
and chipmunks on the ground leave tiny footprints.
The flight of gulls above is so serene.
The flowers in the meadow, bells of soft blue,
and daisies spring up sweetly from the sand.

The dune is but a mountain made of beach sand.
Its borders are made green with cedar trees.
The green appears more bright against the sky's blue
to compliment dune's bleakness on the island.
The dune crest, place for resting, so serene,
gives way in gentle servitude to footprints.

A blowout in the dune is crossed by footprints.
One dancing in delight across the sand
falls silently to sand and rests serene
beside decaying trunks of cedar trees
and feels the peace of being on an island,
while gazing up at skies of brilliant blue.

The dune slopes down to meet the water's blue.
The water fills small craters left by footprints.
Footprints trace the border of the island,
leaving peaceful stride marks in the sand;
and inland from the beach, the whispering trees
still sing a gently melody, serene.

Is there a place on earth that's more serene?
A place where there's no cause for feeling blue?
If they could speak, these solid, stately trees,
of past explorers who have left their footprints,
what messages would they write in the sand,
of solitude discovered on an island?

[OOC: Mun apologizes for being late with this, but has had several actual finals & term papers to deal with in RL and has not had time to write one. Or post the plagiarized one on time. Please don't dock her character too hard for this.]

I look back to days of freedom;
the days that stretched to end of time.
There still was struggle, long and hard
in morning's gentlest, easy sun.
Boredom grew from napping wonder
in days before the raging grief

Hold to despair, and hold to grief.
Nostalgic tears hold to freedom.
Longing, deep, remembers wonder,
which would have reigned till end of time
if not for early setting sun,
and not for good times turned so hard.

Years to linger on the hard.
The path we cut from stones of grief,
Umbrellas up to shield the sun.
Whisper war we mask with freedom,
expanding anger over time.
High demand, synthetic wonder.

My head aches. Airwaves Wonder.
I've never seen us work so hard
for yesterday. And all my time
is laced and dressed in smiling grief
adorned with jewels cut from freedom.
We forget they gleam by our sun.

We forget. They gleam by our sun.
The one that drove us with wonder
and passioned truth, passioned freedom.
Drove us despite how bleak, how hard;
that energy now goes to grief
and fear, when all should have its time.

To everything, there is a time.
Those words as old as burning sun.
We dress up old times with grief,
they shine brighter with our wonder.
But yesterday was just as hard.
Can't afford blinders on freedom.

Past wonder grows with marching time,
and now it's hard to feel the sun.
Freedom dies in swells of grief

[ooc: RL takes precedence. No worries. :)]

Questions? Complaints? Compliments? Insults?

At some point near the end of class, Kiki quietly leans over and places a folded piece of paper on Paige's desk.

[omg passing notes in class! This won't jeopardize her TA position, will it? ;D ]

Paige is very used to this action and takes the note beofre unfolding it under the desk.

Sneeky huh?

[Hee, OOC has totally gone IG here! ;D ]

I had to change "hot" to "flame" to get it to work, (the note reads) I hope you don't mind! Enjoy. Happy Christmas, -Kiki ^-^

Under this is written the following:

For Sawyer

This passion in my heart is stubborn,
A burning fire and my soul to flame
That my every other thought is jealous
Of my devotion to this complete jackass,
This marvelous man with accent southern,
It fills my every nerve and muscle.

Struggle? Why? Exert my muscle
And waste my strength in stupid, stubborn
Resistance against his charm - his southern
Charm that glows like gentle flame
Hiding the fact that he’s a jackass
And then stare with eyes jealous?

Such would be folly, let those jealous
Selfish feelings then live in the muscle
Of my heart, for he, this jackass,
He is mine. I am stubborn
In my adoration, in my flame
The force that pulls me southern.

And he! He that is sweetly southern
He is like me, and savagely jealous.
I see in his eyes that same flaring flame
The passion in his sinew and muscle,
The force and the fight both stubborn
So well he deserves the epithet "jackass!"

Indeed, he can be a jackass.
Stuck in his macho southern
Ways, never budging, but stubborn
And bitter even with his jealous
Feelings that transfer to his muscle
With the speed of a racing flame.

That kindling, rising, racing flame
Mixing my heart with that of this jackass
Down to the very fibers of the muscle
That would unite a witchly girl and southern
Boy, and forever for each other jealous
And just as equally stubborn.

So burn, flame! I relish this southern
Passion for a jackass, give me his jealous
Love and muscle, forever together and stubborn.

Paige looks a little confused for a moment but as she continues to read the note she grins widely and starts to laugh a lot.

This was quite possibly the best Christmas present ever.

Having given up on being sneaky and subtle now she stands up and hugs Kiki, "I love you, thank you so much!"

((*goes to look for the engagement ring!*))

Kiki blushes - so much for sneaky! - and grins, returning Paige's hug. "I'm glad you like it," she laughs. "That list of words really wasn't very easy to work with!"

"Pretty much like the man himself then!" she replies

[ooc: *pokes* *pokepoke* Um.... ohhhh hell, I think I killed him! Gaaah! ;D]

((damn it you killed the love of my life! *remembers I can heal* *heals*))

OOC Questions, complaints, compliments, insults.

Look. I was going to write this thing tonight, which I know is waiting till the last minute, which, really, makes this all my fault. But I found out yesterday that my 10-year old Great Dane is sick, again. Further, a close friend of mine is going back to Iraq. And then today, we lost a bloat surgery at work, after 2 hours of emergency surgery and 4 hours of trying to save it. It ate the Christmas candy... so, right now? There will be no poem written. You can play it however you want and I will RP it approriately later. But, at the moment, I don't really care. Sorry.

RL comes first -- this is just a game. As far as I'm concerned, you're excused. Your character's grade stands as it is. I hope things get better, and I'm really sorry to hear what you've just told me.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Eight

FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

Re: TALK TO THE PROFESSOR

OOC

Re: OOC

Re: OOC