fandomhigh | 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

[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. :)]

Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Eight

Re: FINAL PROJECTS

Re: FINAL PROJECTS