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

Response to Chris Martin

After reading some of Chris Martin's poems, his writing struck me as extremely sporadic and intriguing. Upon first reading a poem, the first thing I do it looks for some sort of a rhyme scheme or pattern, which, with Martin's poems, is purposefully left out. He writes in such a random (for lack of a better word) style that it makes the poems hard to read, and therefore hard to track. His first poem entitled "Time," was no different.  Focused on the failed American Dream, it took several attempts and reading and breaking it up to come to the conclusion that the American Dream was the true subject.  Overall, his poetry is very hard for me to make sense of.


AFTER MARTIN'S VISIT
After hearing him read his poems, with the way he paused and read the poems as he intended, the meaning and flow became much more evident, and completely changed the way I feel about his work.

#Jabs13

The boy looked up and saw them dressed in black
They had not started but began to sweat.
Seeing them, clipboards turned discreetly back,
Scouts could change his fate, men he had not met. 

At first puck drop, helmets began to pop.
Shoving, hitting, anything just to score.
Ignorant to how his career would stop.
It was no one’s fault, the timing was poor.

He lay on the ice, no movement at all.
Everyone, parents and players, a hush.
Counting seconds, then minutes, since the fall.
His spine, to the hospital in a rush.

Jack will not skate again, he’s now a sign.
Of hope, since the day 13 broke his spine. 

-- Mick Sullivan

The first poem of hers that I read was called “Ever After.”  Though it is not a long poem and does not go into very many sensory details, I am still able to feel her pain and sadness, and even see their “hands (yours, mine) clasped on the knife that was sinking into the tall white cake.” This poem, reminded me of the music video to Guns n’ Roses’ song, “November Rain” for obvious reasons such as Axel and his wife cutting the cake, however I was also reminded of Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” in which Brent Michaels sings of his recently ex-girlfriend, and all of the things that remind him of her.  Another one of her poems, “From Out of the Cave,” just reminds me of my mom; the only line in the poem is “Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.” This almost exactly mimics what my mom says every day, no, every time I leave the house—to act like a gentleman, use good judgment, and keep in touch.  After reading almost ten of her poems, every one of them is relatable to an everyday occurrence in my own life, making Sutphen’s poems easy to read and connectable. 

Grace Owens-Kurtz.

If you meet her first in a large group, and she does not talk,

Do not be alarmed. Get her alone, and just talk, she loves to talk.

Her loving parents and only sister she adores, and they her.

Being with her family, Scotts and Irish alike, with Thanksgiving turkey centering the table

is where she feels most comfortable,

or reading a book with the sun on her flowing red hair.

An unquenchable thirst for knowledge stems her interest in science

a field in which she can surely succeed.

An extremely friendly and open second impression,

She enjoys ice cream, almost as much as her best friends

Harry, Ron, and Hermione, in whose presence she feels at home.

Her morning trips to Starbucks with her mother create warm memories every day.

Grace, never has a name been so accurate to the person it belongs to.

Grace.

Mick Sullivan
Mr. Wensman
Poetry
9.4.2013

Mick's Poem of the Day

Life is Fine
by Langston Hughes 

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

Reasoning: I chose this poem because of the personal transformation that the author undergoes.  In the beginning of the poem, he thinks he wants to kill himself in some way, however, by the end of the poem, Hughes states that, "I couldve died for love-- but for livin' I was born." He realizes that he has much more to live for, and there are more important things in life than this one love that he decided to not kill himself for. 

Privilege Poem

Mick Sullivan

I take it with me everywhere I go.

To friends’ houses, on dates, to parties, and sports events.

It is not an object, it is a label.

A design found on shirts, pants, hats, and jerseys.

“Prep kid, rich kid, and Daddy’s money.”

SPA students carry a name with them,

Along with their own. 

One to be proud of, and yet one they feel ashamed.

Harder to fit in, among public school peers,

Like walking around, head under a “dunce” cone.

SPA students only get a short time

To change a predetermined notion, about who we are.

We hope for a fresh start.

A chance we rarely receive,

And even more rare--

Do we chase that one chance.