Crocus in January

The streets are straight and narrow,
Overflowing with downy snow.
The houses sit nestled in close to each other,
Coated in their thick blankets of alabaster flakes.
The neighborhood is doused in a heavy darkness,
And the stars seem brighter, sharper
Like the dry air that pricks my throat
And crackles in my lungs.

The sheets of white draped across the houses and streets
Suck up every bit of sound like a vacuum.
The crunch of snow beneath my dragging feet
Is immediately extinguished, the echos lost.
The burnt orange glow from the street lamps
Illuminate the large tufts that spiral down
And catch themselves in my hair and kiss my cheeks
With icy lips.

I feel my breath condense between my mouth and scarf,
Droplets of water dampening the hair
Pressed against my chapped lips.
My breath rises above me and curls about my head
Like a crown. I lift my head to see the plumes of smoke puffing
Out of the chimneys like pipes smoked by old men
In Hemingway novels. The smell of cedar smoke
Leaves a tang in the back of my throat
And a pleasant tickle in my nose.

I ascend the porch steps, crawling out of the shadows
And into the light of the single light bulb that hangs
Beneath the forget-me-not blue arch of the ceiling.
I take in the soft, buttery yellow of the walls,
The cornflower of the door,
The warm, all encompassing light of the kitchen beyond.
I turn the handle of the door and listen to its familiar creak.
I push myself into the gaping maw of the old Victorian
And breathe in the smell I've long since acclimatized to,
A smell that is me and a smell that is home. 

Early Morning

Before the day has truly come to be,
The sky is stained in pale and weakened light.
The steam curls up and twists above my tea
As the sun slinks beneath the guise of night.
Soon his fingers stretch towards the moon
To wrap her up in silken sheets of gold.
He drags himself above the skyline, soon
He's cradled in the tree tops feeling bold.
The brilliant light refracts within the dew
Of blades of grass. They push up from the earth
And bathe in sunlight that they soon accrue,
While never wondering what a day is worth.
The moon becomes a shadow, pale and thin.
I feel the warmth of sunlight brush my skin.

Joyce Sutphen

One of the first things I noticed about Joyce Sutphen's writing style is how each new line did not necessarily start with a capital letter unless it was a new sentence. It made reading the poem very relaxing, as if I were reading a story that just had various line breaks in it. Her poetry also describes experiences that are easy to relate to, but presents them in a way that makes them extraordinary, more beautiful and haunting. In her poem Death Becomes Me, she describes how death is always lingering, using this as a way to describe the intricate connections and forms of the human anatomy. She also connects math to the biology, all the while presenting it in an artistic form: "Death is counting my hair,/ figuring out the linear equation/ of my veins and arteries,/ the raised power /of a million capillaries, /acquainting himself with the /calculus of my heart". This summary of her body using mathematical metaphors combines the artistic and formulaic system that is the human anatomy, making the reader realize the amazing and mysterious side of something they don't often think about. In her poem Ever After, the way she breaks the lines into pairings of two lines with large gaps between the next couple emphasizes the separateness that she and her husband experienced in their divorce, yet also reinforces the idea of them together by using the lines in pairs.  She also masterfully writes a poem that is both narrative and from another perspective in her poem In Black. She describes her grandmother's life and hardships, starting at her grandmother's father's funeral and describing the loss of one of three children: "This was the grandmother who lost three of those/ thirteen, who hung a million baskets of wash,/ who peeled a million potatoes, and splattered/ her arms with the grease of constant cooking,". She gives a quick but descriptive summary of her grandmother's life, giving the reader a peek into her experience. She also introduces her grandmother at a funeral and ends the poem at her own funeral and the experience of Joyce's own mother in the same position as her grandmother once was. Throughout many of her poems, she writes of her divorce and of nature and of the human body and experience, and though all these things may seem average or cliche poem topics, her writing makes them beautiful and real and easy to connect with. Throughout her poetry her simple yet descriptive and haunting imagery, Joyce Sutphen leaves a deep impression on the mind of the reader.

To You

i love
your happy sigh.
so let me hold you close,
safe beneath the soft shadows of
rain clouds.

A Moment That Stays REVISED

A Moment That Stays

The parking lot of the grocery store is bathed in grey

As thick woolen clouds mute the afternoon light.

The little girl sits in the back seat of the burgundy Buick

Her stick legs tucked beneath her like a fawn.

Her face pokes between the front seats

Like a flower through cracks in the sidewalk.

The old man sits in the driver’s seat, staring forward.

He smells musty, a deep warm scent that is comfortingly familiar.

The skin on his long face hangs,

His five o’clock shadow white

Like fine salt sprinkled on his jaw.

They listen to the murmur of the engine

And the rhythmic thwip, thwap, thwip, thwap of the windshield wipers

Gliding back and force across the glass in a squeaky repetitive ballet.

Tain pricks the glass and roof of the car

Tik, tik, tik, tik, tik.

They watch the entrance to the store vigilantly

Like a pair of hunting dogs

Waiting for mother and grandmother to return,

Weighted down by brown bags bursting food.

Grandpa tells the little girl of his days in college.

Bored by the story, entranced by the voice, she listens.

He begins to sing in a low, gravelly voice,

The crackles and scratches sounding like an old record.

We are poor little lambs who have lost our way

Ba, ba, ba.

Tik, tik, tik.

Thwip, thwap, thwip.

Sometimes she wonders if the memory is even real.

---

The most useful parts of this reading definitely included the part about writing from a different perspective other than first person. The part about imagery also helped me to show more than tell in this revision. I also tried to change up both the word choice to make it more visual as well as ending the poem with an abstract statement instead of another image. I also went for changing how the poem is written on the page. I liked how in the chapter on editing it talked about how there's no specific number of times a poem needs to be revised or how much it should be revised, and that it's relative to each poem. I also found it comforting to read that every poet ever has a "shitty first draft". It made me feel better about not producing the perfect poem as soon as I sit down, and how editing is part of the process of creating a good poem. 

The Gate's Lock

The Gate’s Lock

She was a little girl

Living in Nashville

Ten years old in 1935.

A party is planned at the local pool

The Tennessee sun reflecting diamonds off the turquoise water

The sound of cicadas on the warm June breeze

The clean smell of chlorine stinging her throat.

Her feet slap the concrete as she runs to the gate

Her dark brown curls short and bouncy

Her mother follows behind.

The girl is pulled towards the flickering oasis

And reaches for the latch on the gate

When her mother grabs her wrist, pointing to a sign on the gate

No dogs

No blacks

No Jews.

No Jews.

The girl frowns and deflates

Turning away from the glittering sea

Away from the laughter of children

Away from the children allowed inside.

To some,

The pool was always closed.

A Moment That Stays

A Moment That Stays

The parking lot of the Lund’s is grey

And the sky is grey too

Blanketed with thick woolen clouds.

I sit patiently in the back seat of the burgundy Buick

My stick legs folded underneath me

With my face poking between the driver and passenger seat.

The leather is cool on my face.

My grandfather sits in the driver’s seat

He smells musty, a deep warm scent that is comfortingly familiar.

The skin on his long face sags, his five o’clock shadow is white

Like fine salt sprinkled on his jaw.

We listen to the murmur of the engine

And the rhythmic thwip, thwap, thwip, thwap of the windshield wipers

As the rain pricks the glass and roof of the car

Tik, tik, tik, tik, tik.

We watch the entrance to the store vigilantly

Like a pair of hunting dogs

Waiting for my mother and grandmother to return,

Weighed down by bursting brown bags of food.

Grandpa tells me about his days in college,

A concept still so foreign to me

At only five years old.

He sings a part of his old school song in a low, raspy voice.

We are poor little lambs who have lost our way

Ba, ba, ba.

Tik, tik, tik.

Thwip, thwap, thwip.

This moment always stays with me.

I’m not always sure why.

Classmate Poem

Alex by Sarah Coleman The life of an only child The last of a family name, The source of its continuance. Who returns for his parents Despite the cold and silence of snow. The caretaker of the caretakers. Human blend of Asia and Europe Back and forth between the two As each week comes and goes. It is intrinsic to human nature to have the same goals  And to help each other push past the limits of the sky. He is among those who reach for the planets Beyond the gravitational pull of home Past the moon To play amongst the galaxies As home drifts along like a dust mote in the light. His expression remains stoic As he stretches towards stars.