Final Project Proposal

Final Proposal

Chapbook!

For my final project, I think I will be doing a chapbook.  But instead of doing just a bunch of random poems all thrown together, I would like to use the poems I have already written, but then write poems that almost contradict the one I am putting it against. For example, if I were to use my Jabs poem, I would write the opposing poem about a specifically great moment on the ice, a moment that represented the peace and freedom of skating and leaving all of your worries behind, opposite of what happened in the Jabs poem.

Mick

Poetry Reading-- Review

I attended the poetry reading at the Black Dog Cafe, in Lowertown.  What I initially interpreted as a weird event quickly transitioned to a respect and admiration of the poets who spoke their thoughts in front of the crowd. Every poet had lines and verses that made people smile, or in some cases, think hard about what had just been said.  It was extremely easy for me to track the acceptance and reception of every poem, simply by the faces of the rest of the audience, who's reaction was sufficiently different from my own.

The poet that evoked the most emotional reaction, by far, was Marcus Harcus, a black poet who talked about the extremely prevalent racial stereotypes he experiences first hand, or watches on a day-to-day basis.  It was not only the words of his poem that got such an exceptional response, but his delivery evoked just as much, if not more, emotion than the poems themselves.  His theatrics included rapid hand movements, parading around the stage while marching to the beat of his own voice, and concluded with him tossing the papers he was reading from up into the air, leaving them to flutter down lightly, a somewhat comical gesture that, to me, contradicted what he had just said in his poems.

The most influential and powerful poems that Harcus read was entitles "The Missing Class Ain't the Middle Class."  In this poem, Harcus protests the attempts of the American government to solve the "problem" facing America.  He depicts the picture of "former slaves, rising from the abyss of poverty, and yet still considered the filth of the population," an image that evoked emotion out of not only the black audience members (which made up the majority), but out of everyone listening to him speak.

Overall, the poetry reading exceeded all expectations, and broke many of the predispositions I had about such an event.  The atmosphere was incredible, and there was immense support of each one of the nearly 20 poets that came to speak.  Every person in the cafe had either a sketch pad or some sort of note-taking device, and was reflecting their own thoughts, putting them into words or a picture.

Poem of the Day (10.31.13)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXU3RfB7308

I chose this poem because it has warm feelings attached to it, even though it is an especially dark poem.  This is one of the few (or only) poems that my mom truly knows by heart, so whenever I hear someone talking about it, I always think of her.  I chose it to be read by James Earl Jones because, Darth Vader, need I say more? I also really enjoy Poe's poems, because the art and style with which he writes is truly legendarily descriptive.

Louis Jenkins

Louis Jenkins Response 

Of all of the poets we have had visit, and read their poems, he has been the most relate able. The first poem I read of his, "Change," made me think of all of his example in my own life.  Instead of "moonshoes" and "crockpots," my family had home phones, which are now iPhones, and light-up shoes that are now Sperry's. All of his poems have this relate able quality that makes them very enjoyable to read.  Unlike Chris Martin's, which were hard to decipher and mainly had stories only he could step into, Jenkins uses broader themes that everyone can relate to, and still manages to use specific examples from his childhood that all generations should be able to read and understand.   

I am excited to see what he says about his own work,  in our class today.  

Fall Memories.

Mick Sullivan 

Autumn night

Beneath a cozy,

Purple blanket, hiding

From the calm, crisp, and sacred air.

Living. Everything around me,

The trees, bugs, and even the fire,

Dancing in leaps and bounds,

The living embodiment of burning passion. 

My Favorite Song

Mick Sullivan

The deep rhythmic carving of steel on ice.
Every stride, every crossover, every stop.
Each has their own distinct sound, yet
few can even do them,
and fewer still can tell their sound apart.

This song takes years to make.
Years of practice, years of training.
Countless speeches of being praised for our additions
to the song, and even more speeches critiquing
and criticizing our use of the instruments.

The sporadic clang of rubber on steel,
the sound that can call for celebration
like church bells on Christmas,
or can call for more work, more effort
like the bell ending a miner’s lunch break.

The upbeat roar signifying the former,
as if Hendrix,
 Daltrey,
Page,
Gilmour,
and McCartney
just walked on stage together.
A celebratory eruption heard seldom in a close game,
often in a blowout, and never in an opponent’s slaughterhouse.

These elements,
these instruments,
all come together in one momentous
symphony.
To create my favorite song in the world. 

My Guitar Gently Wails

My fingers know the notes to every song,
Across the decades, my mind helps them play.
They dance across the scale, they’re never wrong.
Even without lyrics, the stories stay.

Every solo, and the backup notes,
I can play without falter, effortless.
The songs resonate, down the halls they float.
The guitar strung down low, below my chest.

Parading down the halls, proud as can be,
The guitar in my arms, it fits just right.
The sound travels pure, it’s like they can see.
The pick on the strings and my eyes closed tight.

I have never played the guitar, never.
But my mind, air guitar, let me play f’ever. 

Mick Sullivan