I might as well admit...

I used to poke horrible fun at people who blog. It seemed like the most ridiculous, impersonal, over rated cry for attention. At the beginning of the semester I felt horrified and slightly embarrassed at the mere notion of placing something in public where others can freely criticize (I've had horrible experiences witnessing the next generation's online opinions). I would have rather run nude through the streets of Cambridge. After several weeks I have found blogging an excellent way to share and receive ideas, knowledge. It's a way to share information on a tricky topic, or post/read examples of a difficult pattern. Also, blogging gives us an opportunity to get to know each other as individuals and not just text on a page. Even though we can't get to know every poet's work we'll ever read, knowing each other on a personal level helps us help each other portray a desired effect. Then the awakening occurred: my favorite source of information in the equine industry, Fugly Horse of the Day, is a blog. A very popular, very funny, very aggressive blog. It really is funny how most of the things we dislike (people, places, and things, but mostly people) usually end up becoming an extremely valuable, irreplaceable resource.

Curious, as Always

Today in class it seemed impossible for several people to come to the same conclusion with the same preference on any particular piece. It amazes me how differently people perceive what they hear. Are such preferences (content, repetition, alliteration, consonance, rhyme, etc.) cultural or genetic? Do people enjoy certain poems or songs because of an internal processing system, or because they became accustomed to a particular rhythm? Do the same people who dislike music dislike poetry? Or do they only appreciate certain types of poetry? Even within the styles, do you think people who are visual learners align with and value more colorful, descriptive pieces? Obviously not everyone who dislikes poetry dislikes music, but I wonder if somehow, on any level, the two have a connection. Also, do any of you think it is possible, to an extent, that maybe some of us dislike seeing elements in other people's poetry because we cannot make them "work" in our own? Even beyond poetry, (at the risk of sounding like a therapist) maybe we disapprove of certain elements in other people's writing because we were chastised for making a similar attempt.

Possible Anaphora?

The Cure-Love Song

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

However far away I will always love you
However long I stay I will always love you
Whatever words I say I will always love you
I will always love you

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am free again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am clean again

However far away I will always love you
However long I stay I will always love you
Whatever words I say I will always love you
I will always love you

Technically, due to the consistent line repetition, is this an anaphora? Regardless, poetry, throughout my past and currently, inspires me. I enjoy patterns and receive a great sense of accomplishment when I discover not only a previously unknown (to me) pattern, but a symbol, or even a repeating concept. Although I possess no musical talent, often I hope to write a series of words worthy to be put to music. In each class, when studying a new form, I hope to discover the secret form to create the perfect song. Upon further observation I realize no secret exists. There is no formula, and no particular reason why one form proves better suited for a song than another. Songs reveal themselves in couplets, tercets, quatrains, and every combination. The rhyme schemes are numerous, sometimes obvious, and are equally not present at all. They range from free forms to, possibly, an anaphora. And while I feel as though I should feel disappointed, I am elated; you should be too. Brilliance, although often momentary, comes in every shape and style imaginable. Some of these styles don't even exist yet! We have endless opportunities to leave our literary mark, and that mark is often permanent.

Aubade

The Cure-Just like Heaven

"Show me how you do that trick
The one that makes me scream" she said
"The one that makes me laugh" she said
And threw her arms around my neck
"Show me how you do it
And I promise you I promise that
I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you"

Spinning on that dizzy edge
I kissed her face and kissed her head
And dreamed of all the different ways I had
To make her glow
"Why are you so far away?" she said
"Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you
That I'm in love with you"

You
Soft and only
You
Lost and lonely
You
Strange as angels
Dancing in the deepest oceans
Twisting in the water
You're just like a dream

Daylight licked me into shape
I must have been asleep for days
And moving lips to breathe her name
I opened up my eyes
And found myself alone alone
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me

You
Soft and only
You
Lost and lonely
You
Just like heaven

This song contains all the major elements of an aubade. A dialogue persists between the lovers, one of them knows they will part, and in the end they are separated. I particularly enjoy the language because of the way the each person's speech is distinct from the other. Also, the description of the waking deeply moves me due to the image of a man who wakes, as if from a coma, and reaches for his lover who left and not to return. The lines "Alone above a raging sea/That stole the only girl I loved/And drowned her deep inside of me" breaks my heart. I am in love with the language and complexity of envisioning someone drowning inside of another. The multiple readings of that metaphor create an interest I often find myself lacking when becoming involved with other literary works.

Ode to a Worm on a Sidewalk

Oh! How I pity your tender rosy body;
Laid to rest on harsh ground by careless waters.
Those giant beasts who pass you by
Pay no respect to your lifeless form.

Forced unto your Maker by harsh sun rays,
You writhe in pain until darkness comes-
Reminding you of your home,
Your birth.

The place you were ripped from
Before your time
Like a premature infant,
With little chance at survival.

That is the place you shall return to,
Soon, but not soon enough.
Not even I, who pities you stops to return you to your home.
No, it does no good.

Your home washed away-
Leaving you to an unfamiliar grave.

I apologize, and am a little embarrassed, but this idea sticks to me every time it rains. I feel horrible for these little critters. They are small, extremely sensitive, and I feel a tiny sense of guilt every time I step on one of them. Also, any suggestions on how to improve this piece? And I apologize if this topic has already "been done" so to speak.

Dictionary

Very often I ponder how it would feel to read and retain all the information in the dictionary. Although it sounds strange, I cannot imagine what one would do with that type of knowledge. But it still skimps across my mind. Being the showoff I am, I'd probably go around using large unfamiliar words correctly and within complicated sentences. At one point in my life I knew a girl who did this. She stayed much more modest with her skill than I ever could. Now a new question emerges. The only dictionary in my parents' house released from publication in 1975 or 1977. Do you have any idea how language transformed in the last thirty years? If you've survived this planet for more than fifteen years, I possess no doubt you noticed the change in the appropriate context for many words. When my parents reached the age I currently reside, "ain't" could not be found within the dictionary. However, it is still considered an informal word of certain dialects. As I check the word count using the Microsoft program, I realize "ain't" ain't even considered correct there, at least not yet. Regardless, it made its way into the dictionary. Things of this nature make me wonder what it would be like to have all those words at my disposal. At the rate language evolves this could turn into a particularly expensive hobby. I may need to purchase a new dictionary twice a year. And here comes another thought: How many words have been discarded? And what did they mean?

Poetry to Me

Horseback riding, in America, developed into two major disciplines, English and Western. Within each of these categories lays numerous, more specific categories. English, to name a few, hosts: hunter/jumper, dressage, park, saddle seat, etc. The same concept applies to Western which hosts: roping, reining, pleasure, trail, stock seat, barrel racing, pole bending, etc. I find this concept applies to poetry. To accomplish a certain effect, one uses a couplet, tercet, or even a combination of stanzas. Even within the Sonnet, there are two main types. A solid foundation remains the leading cause of success. As aspiring writers, it is essential that we learn and practice the rules before trying to manipulate or disregard them. No one gets on a horse for the first time and jumps six feet in good form just like no one writes a perfect pantoum their first time. On that same note, once the rules and foundations are established, a certain amount of liberty may be extracted. I've run barrels in a hunt seat saddle, and I've jumped in a trail saddle. I recommend neither. In both arts, a very select few people are blessed with a shred of natural talent. It happens, it's rare, it's nothing to fret over. People who spend thirty years in the saddle have accidents the same way authors who write their whole lives still find themselves overwhelmed with writers' block. At the end of the day we're looking at two beautiful, remarkable arts. This is how I make poetry make sense to me.

Were the Poems Lost?

It seems very nearly inappropriate to label found poems as "found." Since poetry revolves around the proper placement of words, I find this a legitimate concern. Do these poems know that they were lost in the first place? Maybe they are not "found" poems, but "hiding" poems. How do we know we're not upsetting these poems by finding them? Actually, it seems that naming this style hiding poetry is more appropriate and particularly to the serious observer and/or writer of the poetry. I am convinced of this fact because when we look seriously, when we want to see nuggets of inspiration, we see it hiding among the ordinary. It's hiding in the clouds, in the rhythm of a knife on a cutting board, in a recipe, and sometimes in a magazine article. The fun fact is that they are there all the time! It is not as if these poems slink around the house, avoiding our minds and pens, trying to keep us from "finding" them. All the same, it remains quite a wonder to me how someone can see anything, and use it to create another piece of something, very nearly on command. I get a bigger "kick" out of watching someone writing than I do out of watching a series of magic tricks. This probably stems from me knowing that anyone can hide a deck of cards in their blouse. Not everyone can learn how to raise awareness with a few well placed phrases.

Listing Poem

This poem is inspired by an article published in the magazine Family Circle. The intent of the article is to relay twelve ways to be happier every day. Two of the twelve are left out. I whipped out my creative license, and...

Domestic Bliss

Being positive takes effort.
1. Count your blessings-make a list
2. Look again-you needed stitches, but at least the doctor was attractive!
3. Don't stew-you're perfect the way you are! No need to compare!
4. Tell someone they look great-lying makes everyone feel better.
5. Nurture Relationships-anything can be salvaged with enough paste.
6. Get lost-until it's time to pick up the kids, clean the house, make dinner, do laundry, and feed the pets!
7. Remember when...-nothing takes you back like thinking about life before marriage.
8. Pursue a long neglected goal-how about hunting down a reliable sitter so you can get your hair trimmed?
9. Cope calmly-it's in bad form to upset your family with talk about bankruptcy, bills, and Daddy's affair!
10. Forgive-if you want to be happy, you must let go of your anger. Even towards the college roommate who slept with your fiance.

Sexism

In my practical criticism class, sexism and the perception of women in "our" culture is the topic of debate as of recently. This image, which I found on the internet via google image search sexism, sums up my feelings towards the subject perfectly. If a woman is constantly aware of how she is being perceived and how she perceives herself, then why is there a problem? And yes, men and women are being treated differently. Should they be allowed the same opportunities at the same rate of pay and completion time? Absolutely! However, there are some things one sex does better than the other. It's not sexism, it's evolution. If women and men were identical in problem solving, stature, over all intellect really (NOT to say one is better, just different), than the human race would die off. Men and women wouldn't need each other. I, as a woman, personally feel that the only problem with "sexism," is that sometimes women still don't realize they are being objectified. An even bigger problem arises when they do not wish to be viewed in that fashion, but they allow others to gaze regardless. To conclude, I wish to state another problem I feel gaining momentum. Society tells women (girls too, but until one reaches a certain level of maturity, I'm not sure one should make this particular decision) that if you don't want to be seen as "this," you need to dress like "that." Pardon me, but I feel as though that intrudes on personal freedom. Why not tell women, "demand to be treated with respect regardless of what you're wearing, and regardless of you're body type. Don't ever do, or say, or wear anything that makes you feel uncomfortable"?

Opinion on "Drinking Song"

The first line of the first stanza initially put me off to this poem because it feels so cliche. For some readers, the line "I want to die in the saddle" creates a point of familiarity because it is a common theme for songs and movies. When I read it, I heard someone who gave up on his existence because of the poor personal choices he made. Of course he wants to die...nothing is more painful than navigating a horse while nursing a nasty hangover. The next stanza, "I'm going to be a child about it and I can't help it, I was/born this way" frustrates me because, again, he's making excuses for his circumstances. I wasn't born to do math, but I found a tutor and pulled through, so don't give me that crap. And, if he's going to act like a child, then it may be in his best interest to stop drinking and get a job instead of fishing. Oh...but he had a job. However, he quit because his wife left. Well, let's see here, losing a spouse probably means you're losing half your income, so it might not be a good time to quit. Besides that, she left because he's a childish alcoholic. Maybe he should be evaluating his actions. "whiskey is good for the brain." If you're trying to pickle it! "What else am I supposed to do in these last days but fish and drink?" How about apologize to your boss, find a job, and beg your wife for forgiveness?
I am fully aware that this poem is a token to creative license, and it captures images and utilizes the words perfectly. Also, this is the best example of the form I have been exposed to, but with my inexperience, I need to explain why I respond negatively to certain pieces.

Poetry and Culture

Poetry seems to reflect a predominate trend in culture. We know from our readings that forms evolve to accentuate a language. Upon establishing a suitable pattern, who ultimately decides what the content should consist of and why? The most acceptable answer I found is the way a poem is organized. The organization of stanzas and syllables seems to dictate whether a confession, season, or argument will emerge. This seems to be where the issue of translation enters. An infinite amount of words may exist to replace one of a separate language. Under that circumstance, who decides if that content and poem form should be removed from its original "context"? I wonder this because it seems as though the combination of words in their precise order directly reflects a need, issue, and/or common concern within the culture that establishes the new or improved "form". If a form is removed from its culture, is the purpose and meaning, to an extent, lost? Do you think that altering a form or content within a form distracts from the deliberation it was created with? Sometimes I feel that by making these said changes I am in a way disrespecting another culture and creator.

Writers' Block

The more often I engage with the art of literature, the more I find writers' block to be equally inconvenient to a bad case of the sniffles. Most people grow up being told "write what you know," and this is something that pops up at least once a week for me. Actually, I'm having a problem with it right now. Sometimes it helps to sip a cup of hot tea with cream. Others find inspiration during a hot shower. One time I was told by a charming young writer "my best ideas come to me naked." I very much would like to know what you do. Sometime sketching relieves that appropriately named "block" from my brain, as does jogging and stretching. Every now and then a stubborn entity feels the need to block my creative flow and all focus dissipates. It seems like the little flashing icon that the letters sprout from upon the screen (I'm over tired, please don't mind me) is telling me to hur-ry hur-ry. First of all, that is simply rude. Second of all, I find I preform at my best the second an assignment is assigned. I am also curious to know, those of you who preform under pressure, what specifically makes that your preferred method? And does it always work?

My Favorite Collins Stanza

Quatrain out of "Lines Composed Over Three Thousand Miles from Tintern Abbey"

Nothing will be as it was
a few hours ago, back in the glorious past
before our naps, Back in that Golden Age
that drew to a close sometime shortly after lunch.

This stanza painfully reminds me of the moments I have, that we all have, when in a single instant we fudge up. It takes less than a millisecond to alter the course of a relationship, life, and ideal. Of course, that same second possesses the ability to illuminate a truth, moment of compassion, or secure a friendship, but I find discussing the element and meaning of chaos to be more fun.
That moment of change is the one before you realize your breaks have no intention of working during rush hour traffic. It is the moment you acquire a case of word vomit and fall victim to passion, rage, etc. Once those precious collections of characters and syllables fall from one's lips, circumstances change. Worlds dissolve. All other arrangements of characters are rendered useless. You might be left lifeless, a victim, a criminal, and there is no physical possible way to return to the second before the incident occurred. This stanza references the realizations one has to how perfect the imperfections of their lives were, and will never, ever be again.

Form is Everywhere!

Lost Cause
Beck

Your sorry eyes; they cut through bone
They make it hard to leave you alone
Leave you here wearing your wounds
Waving your guns at somebody new

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy; nobody cares

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

There's a place where you are going
You ain't never been before
No one left to watch your back now
No one standing at your door
That's what you thought love was for

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

While trying to enjoy some mindless entertainment, which seems impossible now that I'm being trained to see patterns, signs, and symbols, I noticed a familiar pattern. Aabb. Then I heard the abcbb. It presented me with an urge to turn this melancholy song into a consistent poem of the aabb ccdd etc. rhyme. For the purpose of this exercise I removed the chorus, or refrain; I'm not sure which is the correct term. Also, note that I limited myself to about eight syllables per line.

Your sorry eyes; they cut through bone
They make it hard to leave alone
Leave you here wearing awful wounds
Waving your guns at someone new

So few people already know
They see you come they see you go
They know your tears and you know theirs
This town is crazy; no one cares

There's a place where you seem to go
No one left to watch your back now
Never again you'll be before
The power of your big oak door

Pulling my dreams out of your wings
But what could all of these tears mean?
The war is over; we both lost
While fighting for a useless cause

Any suggestions on how to alleviate the awkwardness of the last line while excluding the extra syllable?

Even Metal Heads are Well Read

She seems dressed in all the rings
Of past fatalities
So fragile yet so devious
She continues to see it
Climatic hands that press
Her temples and my chest
Enter the night that she came home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

She is everything and more
The solemn hypnotic
My Dahlia bathed in possession
She is home to me

I get nervous, perverse, when I see her it's worse
But the stress is astounding
It's now or never she's coming home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

Hard to say what caught my attention
Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction
Carve my name in my face, to recognize
Such a pheromone cult to terrorize

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

(Yeah!)

(oh-oh)
I'm a slave, and I am a master
No restraints and, unchecked collectors
I exist through my need, to self oblige
She is something in me, that I despise

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

SHE ISN'T REAL!
I CAN'T MAKE HER REAL!
SHE ISN'T REAL!
I CAN'T MAKE HER REAL!

She isn't real (She isn't real)
I can't make her real (can't make her real)
She isn't real (She isn't real)
I can't make her real (can't make her real)

This is a song, Vermilion, by the metal band Slipknot. Even in the counterculture of the "metal heads," literary references are rampant and force alternative meaning and depth into the songs and the over all style. "Rings of past fatalities" seem to me a reference to Dante's Inferno. "The night she came home forever" can easily be interpreted as a reference to Browning's poem "Porphyria's Lover," and the final stanza can be interpreted as evidence to support this claim. "Dahlia" clearly refers to Black Dahlia, the Massachusetts murder victim who inspired a vast amount of literature and film. The Dahlia is also a flower, and the phrase "Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction" is a poetic notion that compares her to the flower, and him, to a bug, an aphid, that cannot help but ravish her. Think on the phrase "Such a pheromone cult to terrorize." It's stunning and odd, but is open to interpretation. Since pheromones are what aids attraction, and a cult is a collection of people who partake in nonstandard thinking or practice, often times harmful ones, then how do these words offer different meanings depending to the reader? "I'm a slave, and I am a master" is a clear Biblical reference. The list goes on infinitely; it is far longer than the word requirement allows. My point is, even the most obscure of cultures look to classical poetry and literature to influence their work. Also, signs are everywhere waiting to be analyzed. Before you write a song off as noise, observe and question the content. It's shocking.

Creative Process

I'm quickly discovering the magic of revision. Here is the first draft of a haiku I'm trying to "make work." Please bear in mind that I chose to this particular form because I want the concentration in the tone, even though the subject matter is not the norm.
Bones beneath the skin
Shimmers as ice on the like
Warm as the cabbin

It didn't have the coherency I wanted, so I move some words around.
Warm as the cabbin
Shimmering ice on a lake
Bones beneath the skin

I wanted to incorporate more of the weather inspired, seasonal elements so I tried to make the bones less predominate.
Warmth from the cabbin
Like bones hovering beneath
Shimmers on the lake

Still, I'm not satisfied with my current draft. I'm looking for words to secure the content but ease the subject matter into the message. The idea is convey an image of the light reflecting off the ice in the same way light bounces off bones hovering beneath the skin. Imagine a mother's hands. That's a lot to accomplish, I know, but poetry is about creation. I want this message in this form. Now I need the best words to convey it.

Open Mouth Insert Foot

At some point everybody makes a comment that acquires blank stares and inappropriate giggles. Sometimes it takes a long time to laugh about certain incidents. One time, I was enjoying my afternoon at a friend's horse facility and her farrier was present. David, the farrier, was in his early forties, and I couldn't help but notice he wasn't wearing a ring. I ask "David, you're a young guy. If you don't mind my asking, are you married?"
He responds in an exaggerated drawl, "Ohhhh no. I went through that rodeo once and I ain't ever doin' it again."
I took this to mean he had experienced a rather unpleasant divorce. I muster all my tact to approach the subject, and respond with, "What? Was she a bitch?" At this point my darling friend pipes up with a bewildered look upon her face. She replies to my question on his behalf "No, Ashley, she's dead. she died of a brain tumor." I began to cry. I cried inconsolably for hours, stuttering apologies. They both laughed and assured me the situation wasn't as bad as it sounded. Jesse passed roughly ten years prior to my inserting both size ten point five shoes into my mouth. I learned a valuable lesson that day: keep your mouth shut, and never ask personal questions until you know someone for more than five minutes.

The Beginning of a Stanza Piece

Unholy Occurrence

It was more than a loss of life endured
The self lets go the spirit follows
Across the bridge are footsteps heard
Fear like blood washed the Hollows

Women, children, not one spared
Civil war commands men to garner
A village dissolved in the same nightmare
Terrorized by a spirit darner


And then I drew a blank. A long one. The legend of the Headless Horseman is a favorite story of mine, and I wished to retell it in my own words, in my own way. The historic setting is perfect, I feel, for the abab cdcd etc. form. However, this version of the tale is more closely related to the 1999 Tim Burton film than the 1820 story by Washington Irving. The first two lines refers to the fact that it was a spiritual force that drove the horseman to act. In the film, a woman possessing his skull controlled the murders, though the town felt they were at random. The idea of random killings, by a spirit, raises the town into an uproar. The men watch for the big black horse in shifts and are ready to attack. In the legend, the crossing of the bridge is the gateway of the unknown; the hessian soldier (in Irving's story) turns into a skeleton upon crossing. I'm looking to complete the tale but the two stanzas almost feel complete to me. Suggestions are most appreciated.

My Favorite Couplet

The Comfort of Nite

The day was beautiful, the twilight is long
off in the distance, I hear a bird's song.

He's saying goodnight as the light passes by,
and darkness approaches to cover the sky.

But the cover of night is no reason for woe,
for it filters out trouble from the world down below.

Night seems to bring comfort and peace,
and turmoil and tension just seem to cease.

Away from the world, in the comfort of home,
our problems drift off, our minds free to roam.

You close your eyes and relax just a bit,
all at once the puzzles seem to fit.

The answers to problems that once were not found
are dancing like asters in the air all around,

for darkness slips by and a new day is here,
promising hope and a day of new cheer.

So darkness you see has a mystical power-
from a troubled seed it brings a bright flower.

So don't look to twilight with fright or despair,
for night plus the dawn brings love, hope and care.
~Bob Cray

The words of this couplet, in the order they follow one another, invokes a swell of emotions. The way the words rhyme at the end of each stanza flow together effortlessly. A clear message is conveyed, and punctuation is used as a subtle guide, not a glaring map. I feel if the lines were combined, it would lose most of its message; it would look to simple and feel too complex. While this poem certainly will not appeal to many readers, the use of form is clearly, undeniably, well done. Bob Cray intentionally put his "best words in their best order."

Basho's Haiku

Evening darkens. Hunched
On a withered bough, a crow.
Autumn in the air.

It amazes me how in thirteen words, everything that needs saying is, simply, said. As a young and inexperienced writer, it seems difficult to stop at a specific point, and it seems impossible to put the content into words that fit a specific pattern. This poem contains images that don't need an explanation of colors or textures. All is embodied in the chosen words. The words and lines work together as a team to create one magnificent piece. After reading this I am left with an image of a wooded skyline with a hint of red lingering in the blackness, and a bird resting on a ceder branch surrounded by hundreds of other tree's orange leaves.

Coincidence? Who knows?

"Is it still bad luck if a black cat crosses your path, but you hit it with a car? Don't you think hitting it would negate the bad?"* I was asked these questions in a tone that demanded serious attention. I was in absolute disbelief when I found myself pondering them. Even if one isn't superstitious, s/he still knows the rhymes and sayings. To name a few: step on a crack, you'll break your mother's back, find a penny, pick it up, and all day you'll have good luck, and break a mirror, and you'll suffer seven years of bad luck. Some people seem to find legitimate truth to these sayings, based on their personal experiences. Another topic from that category I ponder frequently is karma. Fortunately, I am at a point in my life where I do "good" things because I want to. Unfortunately, this a recent development. Previously, it seemed as though every time I went out of my way to be kind, I found myself in a positive situation. If I chose to do nothing, nothing ever happened. To this day, no matter how I've been wronged, I find myself punished for seeking revenge. These events could be complete coincidence. My question is, could statistical probability be considered proof of a fact? Either way, the thought keeps me from keying my ex's car.

*This same person wants to know, "If a turtle loses it's shell, is it naked or homeless?" A dear friend of mine called him an idiot for it, and supplied the answer "niether. It's dead."

They

I know I am not the first person to question this particular anomaly in the English language, and it very nearly pains me to know I will not be the last. All the same, I spend many nights awake in bed contemplating the fact that no, I do not know what they say. I want to know who the heck they are, where they came from, and what they want. What if "They" was once a legitimate name? What if this "They" was so influential, his/her name forever embedded itself into our language? Maybe the law enforcement was once referred to as the "they." It could have been a slang term for royal or religious leaders. Regardless of where the phrase and the word itself originated, it has come to represent a positive and negative entity. Most people, very nearly all people use the phrase "you know what they say" without even realizing they said it! They is a collective term so internalized, we do not even care who these things are. What if they are not human or plant? And how would we know?

A Little Humor (Free Entry)

While talking to my mother, I came to a wild realization. Relationships are like bus rides. We ride them to the end of the line, and then we get off and wait for the next one. One can easily become frustrated while waiting. Equally as easily, one might long for a repetition of the previous rout. Some routs are longer and bumpier than others. Greyhounds are like rebounds. Some are cleaner, quieter, and run smoother than the rest, and some run all the way to your final destination. My aunt rode the Chinatown bus from Boston to New York once. It sounded similar to a one night stand, and similarly, the faint heart should not participate. A ten dollar ticket takes you across the east coast. Depending on who is driving, you are not guaranteed to make it out alive. In fact, during the ride, one might regret their decision to board and long to be in a New York cab. Lastly, there is the party bus. Usually a nice time and sometimes ridden with those one actually cares for, the passengers tend to feel relief and comfort upon returning home. Most people eventually tire of riding the bus, especially if they take the same road to the same disappointing destination daily. After careful consideration, test driving, and self evaluation, they purchase and care for a car of their own.

History

In my practical criticism class, we discussed the concept of "New Criticism." Although it is hardly new anymore, it emerged in the thirties, the methods are still practiced. Even though I (as nearly all people) was trained to read in that fashion, two points boggle me. One: everything the reader needs to know about the content of the text is already in the text, whether the author intended it to be or not. Two: historical context may be considered, but should not effect the way the reader interprets the literature. I had a hard time finding these two elements possible, and I am thoroughly impressed by the reasoning behind this science. New critics believe that a text must be strictly read for content and that any moral to the story is irrelevant. They wanted the reader to be wary of history due to the fact that history tends to be distorted through individual perception, and texts possess the ability to actually alter the way events are perceived. Over time entire occurrences can be morphed into something else entirely. The entire concept baffles me, even though I see it all the time. It is the seemingly simple matter of people seeing what they want to see, and projecting that image onto and into something else.

How I Rate Creativity

First of all, I would like to state that I find creativity to be an extremely personal thing. Studying poetry is an opportunity to gauge how people have changed their perception of creativity over the centuries. One thing I find important is how many questions a person asks. Curious people tend to display a wider range of intellect, and tend to be more "creative." If you like knowing how things work, or stop your class, even if there is two hundred of you, to demand clarification, you are creative. If you desire to work with color through sculpting, painting, or describing, you are creative. If you wish to discover alternatives to a particular problem, or cannot seem to receive the help you desire and develop your own methods, congratulations! You are creative. If you have a passion for life, art, imitation, even understanding death, well, you know what you are. If you are capable of loving, and have a willingness to share that emotion, or any emotion, you are most certainty creative. My point is that in twenty short years, I have found that one needs not have a knack for words to be creative. All you need to do is live, breathe, feel, and realize "it is such a simple thing to look beyond the immediate present." Winnifred Gies stated perfectly in her poem, the title of which slips my mind, "that all she really needed was simply just to be." I think THAT is what it means to be creative.

Free Entry: On My Favorite Word

My Favorite word is benevolent. I first noticed it, I believe, while reading my favorite book Everything is Illuminated. Maybe it is the fact that I found it in my favorite book that makes me partial to it. I think I might like it because it evokes the same feeling in me that the dictionary says it represents. It's positive, vibrant, not overused, or "sticky." It's versatile, clean, and looks pretty written in script. I tend to feel similar towards the word eudemon, meaning good or benevolent spirit. It takes something that is feared and morphs it into positive entity. I have found that most people have a favorite word. Sometimes two or three. A lot of people do not know they have a favorite, but use it all the time. Words fascinate me because of the way they can change and grow and transform over time. They are like people in that sense. Sometimes, a generation does not even realize that they have transformed a word. That interests me.

An Old Favorite

Angel's Destiny
I looked up to the sky
My wings were spread in the summer breeze
A halo of gold wrapped gently about my head
Each feather along my wing
Tells a warrior's great legacy

Banished from mortal villages
I search the sky
Looking for the one who's perfect for me
Questions run through my mind
My doubts of finding love grow each day
Will I find her or will I die?

Days have passed and I fall from the sky
Suddenly I find my self caught in a woman's arms
Her wings are radiant!
Full of beauty!
Our gazes lock as we fall into a kiss
This is the one for me
~Grunkle Bob~

This poem was created (forgive me if this is the work of someone else), by the boyfriend I had my freshman year of high school. Although he was sixteen when it was written, and I was little more than a girl, the words resonate deep within me to this day. I feel that it is "good" because it feels complete. It possesses a beginning, middle, and end, and it centers around a conflict while still including a resolution. The subject matter appears to stem from Greek literature. Although there are no hidden metaphors or meanings, the reader can still sense the speaker's urgency and fear in the first and second stanza, and feel the relief of the speaker in the third. The speaker must find his lover, who he has not yet met, or he will perish from existence. Love sustains him; nothing else can because he is obviously not human. He's not a god figure either, or he wouldn't have been sent away from "mortal villages." However, like a god, he knew his lover, one of his own kind, immediately. I often ask myself, who is he? Equally important, who is she? And why does it matter? I find the lack of rhyme and the present word order aesthetically pleasing. I'm thrilled to have an opportunity to share this piece with you all.

#1 About Me

My name is Ashley Miner, and I am twenty years old. My brother, Mathew, is sixteen, and both my parents are living. I have a cat, and help my brother take care of two lizards and a ball python. Since I was eight I've taken horseback riding lessons and still own my horse who I have worked with since I was fourteen. As with most little girls, and to this day, I enjoy all things that involve horses. I paint them, write about them, ride them, and use them to teach confidence and self-assurance to other young girls. I started coaching when I was twelve, and when I was thirteen, I began assisting challenged children and adults at a specialized riding facility.
I thoroughly enjoy helping others and learning, and am happiest when those two elements combine. Writing has always been a passion and I look forward to expanding my abilities. Being technologically challenged, I ask for forgiveness for my frequent, seemingly ridiculous questions. Also, I am impossible to offend, so there is no need to preface a comment with "no offense but..." That is not necessary, I am here to learn.
Lastly, I love to work. Whether it be waiting tables, washing dishes, working in a barn, cleaning a house, or working on a paper or project, I absolutely love to work.