fandomhigh | Poetry 101, Monday, July 2

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Poetry 101, Monday, July 2

"I asked Wikipedia to tell me what poetry was as I wrote this class," Romeo announced, once everyone seemed to be in their seats. It was a small group, so he'd pulled the desks into a circle, and there was a table of cool drinks near the door for anyone who might otherwise be too hot and thirsty to think. "It told me the word poetry comes from a Greek term, poiesis -- making. Though it is likely this is a mere accident of etymology, it struck me as entirely appropriate. For what is poetry if not a way to make our worlds by fitting words around them?"

"To go down some myths: Poetry does not have to rhyme. It doesn't have to fit into a certain form, though the constraint of working within such can heighten the art. In this class, we will write and read as much poetry as I can fit into two months. But I'd hardly buck tradition by depriving you of an introduction week. My suggestion, if you can, is that you fit your introductions into the form of either of two short poetic styles -- a haiku or a limerick. "

He went on to briefly explain the rules around both, while reading some famous examples.

"But if you find you've too much to say to fit into either form, write a different kind of poem and I will listen. You've fifteen minutes to write, then the rest of class is for sharing your poems."

"A few more bits of business, and then you may start. First, I have been informed Miss Cassie Blake is to be my assistant, for which I am profoundly grateful." A pause as Romeo reached for anything more that seemed important. "Oh, and I'm Romeo. Don't call me Professor Montague, I'm not nearly that aged."

And then he stopped, sipped from his water, and bent over a piece of paper, hoping the students would be encouraged to write by seeing the professor doing it as well.

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Introduce yourself in a haiku or limerick. Or in freeform verse, if you must.

Messy pinging encouraged.

Once Fawn finished chewing her lip and tapping her pencil, she finally decided that she was going to stick with the first version of the poem that popped into her head when they started the assignment, reading it off quiet and shy:

"There once was a girl"--she hadn't exactly meant to emphasize it--"named Fawn
Who often went to bed with the dawn
Because the things in her head
Were grim like the dead
And dark like the shadows she'd drawn."

It was a little morbid and in complete contrast with the sing-song cant of the form, so, to her, it was practically perfect, and she'd managed to hide behind her hair through only half of it.

Edited 2012-07-02 15:24 (UTC)

Maeby put her hand up. "Is that a Goth thing?"

She was sensing a Goth vibe in like half of her classmates. She just wanted to know if there was a reason for that.

Edited 2012-07-02 20:51 (UTC)

"Er, no," said Fawn, after a long moment. She shrunk back a little, pulling her scribbles on the paper closer to her chest, and frowned at the other girl. "It's a...me thing."

Romeo smiled a bit, attempting to be encouraging.

"I know what you mean," he said, since he didn't want anyone to shrink in this class. "I used to shut myself in my room with the curtains closed when sorrow overtook me."

Which would be interesting, since shrinking was what Fawn did best. She pulled back a little more, her hair almost entirely obscuring her face. She couldn't have curtains in a classroom, but she could have her hair. "I just sort of made it up real quick, anyway," she said, as if to completely dismiss the poem.

Evan hesitated before sharing his haiku. It was personal, something that had been eating at him for months, and he wouldn't have dared to share it at his last school. And yet...

Well, nobody here really knew him, yet.

"I am who I am.
Not who they say I should be.
Who am I to you?"

He hadn't shared his name, no. Not to be difficult or contrary, but because there just hadn't been any place for it in that particular poem. He hesitated as he finished reading that, and then perked up and said, totally off the cuff;

"Evan, by the way,
Still growing into myself,
I'm still just a kid."

Frank tilted his head. "That's really good," he offered.

Evan couldn't help but perk up a little bit at the compliment. Right there, that was solid proof that he was in a completely different group of people from his last school. He gave a smile to Frank, caught himself looking kind of stupid with that grin of his, and then scuffed a toe against the floor.

"Thank you," he said, still wearing that silly smile. "I was kind of unsure about sharing the first one at first, but... might as well go for broke, right?"

"That sums up a lot about how this school seems to work, yeah," Frank agreed. "I wasn't sure about sharing mine either. I mean, the title of it is what my mom calls me," he admitted, with all the embarrassment of a fourteen-year-old boy admitting to being called a cute pet name by his mother. So, a lot. "But I figure if you can't go all out and admit things here, where can you, you know?"

Evan gave an emphatic little nod at that. Finally, a classmate who spoke his language!

"And I liked yours," he replied. "I grew up on a farm in Kansas, and I know what it's like to think maybe you can do something bigger than what you were stuck with, even if you have to kind of squint to see what else might be out there for you, you know?"

"Exactly!" Frank agreed. "Which... so far looks like this place." He grinned. "It's not such a bad haul, at least."

"So Kansas, huh? What's it like there?" Somehow Evan didn't fit with Frank's mental picture of the place. Which mostly involved people with farmers' tans and overalls and somewhat less Jonoface.

Hey, the Jonoface was the best part!

... It was also fairly Evan-specific.

"It's okay, if you like chickens and tornadoes," Evan replied with a little shrug. "There was a baseball team in town, and I'd go play once a week, so there was stuff to do when it wasn't all chores, you know?"

"...So pretty much exactly like New Rochelle, then," Frank concluded sheepishly. "Well, except for the tornadoes. But my mom really likes watching The Wizard of Oz."

"And I've been thinking 'There's no place like home' since my Uncle took me to my last school," Evan quipped, "but I might be wearing the wrong shoes for that to do me any good."

"I'm sure you can find a place in town that stocks sparkly slippers," Frank said cheerfully. "Sizes might get a little weird, but you could probably manage."

"If I'm going to be stuck here for a while, I think I'll settle for something that I can play baseball in," Evan decided with a little laugh. "I don't suppose they sell running shoes with rubies all over them in town?"

Frank grinned. "Well, it is Fandom."

So... probably.

"Maybe try Demon Marcus?"

"That's a clothing store?"

Admittedly, Evan had just kind of looked at the name and had decided to maybe steer away from that one. It looked sort of shady. In a... high-end, fancy, expensive sort of way.

"Maybe I will..."

Frank spent a while on his poem, not sure of exactly what he could really say about himself. He knew a lot of things to say about his hometown and his family, but describing himself was always trickier.

Still, he gave it his best shot.

When he was done, he stood up. "I'm gonna call this 'Dreamer,'" he said with a faint blush, then cleared his throat.

"Stuck in New Rochelle
Try to see the world from heights,
Sunny as it is."

Bucky stood on top of his desk, and delivered a dramatic performance of his masterpiece:

There once was a cat named Bucky
Who was not descended from monkey.
And all of the humans
Who did not bow to him
Kept their lives only because they were lucky.

He would insist that it rhymed just fine, even though it clearly did not. And anyone who used the word "assonance" to describe the poem would probably be viciously attacked before they got to explain what it meant.

Maeby stood up and began reading off a piece of paper.

"My name is Maeby.
Save your jokes, I like my name.
I didn't mock yours.

Misuse of umlauts
Can be frustrating. My last
Name is not 'funky.'

Ran away from home
My credit cards don't work here
Expiration dates.

At least this island
Will provide good fodder for
My film studio job."

Maeby shrugged. "That last one is a syllable over but we were out of time."

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Poetry 101, Monday, July 2

Share Your Poems [7/02]

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