The image is the poets pigment. The image is not an idea, it is a radiant node or cluster a vortex through which and from which and into which ideas are constantly rushing in. it is as true but painting and sculpture as it is for poetry

I decide to take line breaks for different reasons depending on the intent for the poem. Sometimes I think one line doesn’t match up with the rest of the poetry in terms of length and it feels out of place while other times it’s more intentional where I want to emphasize on that specific word by breaking a complete thought and forcing it to be the first word you read in the line. I love playing with fragments and the unsettling quality they can harness since realistically it would be an abnormal way to communicate with someone else.

In Hirschfield’s informative “The Line”, Hirshcfield breaks down poetic devices in an easy to understand matter. Even when he uses more “complicated” words like disquieting or saxophonist, the words in the sentences surrounding the complicated word are simple and give context clues as to what the word might mean. Hirschfield also stays unbiased in his opinion of which method of poetry writing is superior and instead incorporates different ways to write poetry to describe variations that can be successful all using the same poetic device. He provides a lot of alternatives as to why and how someone could break a line and explains why they’re successful and what makes them successful. Hirschfield also provides a lot of different poets in his writing, acting as a better resource for exploring different poetry. Over all Hirschfield’s advice seems very well researched and unbiased having included different poets, poetic terms, as well as different expressions of poetry.

Meaning in poetry

I think poetry is something very personal to the writer and that a poem always has inherent meaning to an author. Meaning to artwork and writing is essential to it’s creation. Even something like an advertisement has meaning; that meaning might be to get the customer to buy the product but it’s still a meaning regardless. I think like art, one cannot truly separate the creator and the creation. Poems become so much more rich when there is context to the author and the kinds of experiences that could influence certain imagery or word choice. I don’t think poetry needs to be extremely direct in it’s structure to be a successful poem but I do think word choice needs to be as direct with an audience as it can be. There are countless ways to express a feeling using simple words. That is not to say that one cannot use a complex word and write a meaningful poem but a poem can lose meaning to a lot of people if they cannot understand half of it. I think ultimately poetry serves to give the reader something whether it ends up being an insight or simply the motivation to look up a new word. It’s when you make your poetry a task for someone that it becomes tedious because you have clearly not chosen the correct words to explain your idea.

Sound Poem

Open letter to my countries:

America America America I heard America.

There is no place like America.

Warm beaches and stretched out farmlands.

Crowded cities and humble hometowns

yearning for a better living. America?

America.

And isn’t it America that has been the country of underdogs alike?

Who fought for freedom!! For Justice!! For white liberation.

And when I get asked where I’m from there’s a pause.                  

Florida well- not quite Florida it’s Miami and before then Venezuela

But really I was very young so does it even count? Does it count?

What does it mean to be foreign in a place where you’ve lived in your whole life? Well it’s a confusing answer to a confusing question

Filled with confusing back and forths between differing opinions.

First and foremost I remember Venezuela for what it’s worth.

I remember little things like my grandmother’s house,

the drive to school she would take me in

and I remember the beach house and the warm breeze

that glossed over me in Chichiriviche when we drove there with my grandma’s cat.

I remember making hallacas once a year with my family for Christmas

and the way I knew it was my uncle dressed as santa claus

because he was the only one who called my cousin Hector cachorro.

I remember the night coming to America,

waking up lazily in a speeding vehicle

and asking my mom where we were going.

 Being told to go back to sleep I complied

not suspecting there was something else

and there was something else America.

America you took me in right?

After all I’m thankful I guess.

Better here than there here than there

there was no going back as far as I’m concerned

but when your father stages a coup de’tat

against Hugo Chavez himself

it doesn’t LOOK promising.

And that’s what America is right? Promising?

 Well you were gracious to let me in of course

 but your open door doesn’t fool me

shut to so many others like me.

But you’ve kept your promise America so far

so I’ll leave that note for another day.

There was no freedom in my coming here

and there was no justice in what happened.

 I have not been back there although

 I used to fantasize packing my bags

 going for a visit anyways

 and meeting a gun if it meant it.

 I felt prepared enough here in America

with gun stores located right next to

your family friendly arcade.

Make sure It’s locked and loaded Venezuela

you could learn some things from America.

But Venezuela you might have already

with your current situation.

 And how are you Venezuela

I haven’t seen you in a while.

I doubt you look the same you did 15 years ago.

You haven’t aged very well I heard.

 And hear is all I do concerning you.

Phone calls, posts, and texts

But it’s never you just a messenger

Just another family member

 Did I leave you or did you leave me no other option

Since when did you get that scaron your cheek?

 I’ve seen the pictures. Believe me when I say

 I wanted to come back. I wanted you to hold me

with your latin heat and shower me with your soft rains.

But you are not the Venezuela I left behind

or the one my parents speak about.

I can never have that Venezuela back

Kids spoke about visiting all the time

To their home countries I mean

I remember being jealous of them

As a kid because I did not understand

Why I could not go back

And as a young adult because I did understand

Why I could not go back

I became a US citizen for you Venezuela

Don’t look at me with that face

It was the only way I could visit

And you know that

But how can I see my people

When they cannot see each other

When there is no power in the streets

or in their homes.

When each day is met with hungry people

and lack of water and yet my people fight

with more vigor than you ever could

America and why? Don’t you have it all

America? Bigger and better America

 building for bigger and better

things and then-                    A WALL?

Cubist Poem

From: Tammy walsh Subject: Passing Of a Student

He was like you too He was like me too

He was like that too He was like this too

He was like everyone He was like anyone

He was a stranger He was a person

He was my friend

Big announcement Big announcement there's a Big announcement 

A mass email has been sent out sent out sent out to everyone to every student
to every teacher to every faculty member to all come one come all to 

Have you heard Have you heard have you heard the news yet have you

Containing  contents  so concise in 8 sentences all there is 8 sentences

Did you read did you read read what there is in those 8 sentences ?
words words words turn lines lines lines into sentences sentences sentences
and yet there is skimming before deciding to read before deciding to stop
stop stop stop there is a familiarity to this stopping yet it is new and raw and
stop stop stop you need to keep reading stop it's only 8 sentences sentences sentences

In a chilly room it'll only get colder and colder until it gets all too hot
hot breath hot head room spinning and then the heat will rush rush rush
down a slope and through a corridor of flesh there it is the moment
of water running down in streams running down in rivers running until
a pair of sunglasses indoors comes more handy than the normal person will admit
a pair of sunglasses at night comes more handy than the normal person will admit
a pair of sunglasses although there is only one item yet there are two were two are two
two knocks or knock knock and doors open and there standing there in there will grab
and hold and soothe or try to soothe and try to comfort and try to ease and try to
fail at doing all and none of those things and all of those things will come at once and cease

Things I forgot from before and during my exile:

-The way my grandma used to carry herself before growing old

-The way she would say authority without ever saying it

-The way she hit the maid that beat me with a shoe

-The way she packed my bags that day and took me

-The way she’d peel a mango for me in the mornings

-The way she’d hold me in the nights I cried out for attention

-The way her hands must have been worn then too

-The way that she must have been worn then too

Things I didn’t see from before and during my exile:

-The son who at a young age killed himself

-The bags under her eyes the days after he did it

-The way she cried out when I moved here

-The nights she held the clothing I left behind

-The phone calls my mother received shortly before

-The desperation in her eyes when she realized

Our home is a foreign threat

-The secret meeting my family had

-The secret luggage they packed for us

-The politics behind what was happening

-The politics that involved me before knowing

what politics even were

-The car ride I fell asleep in on the way to the plane

-My home country

for over 15  years

and counting

forgotten and unseen

Things I forgot from before and during my exile:

-The way my grandma used to carry herself before growing old

-The way she would say authority without ever saying it

-The way she hit the maid that beat me with a shoe

-The way she packed my bags that day and took me

-The way she’d peel a mango for me in the mornings

-The way she’d hold me in the nights I cried out for attention

-The way her hands must have been worn then too

-The way that she must have been worn then too

Things I didn’t see from before and during my exile:

-The son who at a young age killed himself

-The bags under her eyes the days after he did it

-The way she cried out when I moved here

-The nights she held the clothing I left behind

-The phone calls my mother received shortly before

-The desperation in her eyes when she realized

Our home is a foreign threat

-The secret meeting my family had

-The secret luggage they packed for us

-The politics behind what was happening

-The politics that involved me before knowing

what politics even were

-The car ride I fell asleep in on the way to the plane

-My home country for over 15  years and counting