Why You Should Give Poetry A Chance

If when you hear the word poetry you can associate it with anything else besides an agonized Shakespeare bent over with the stabbing pain caused by lover's woes, I applaud you.

Poetry is the kind of activity not taken seriously. Enjoying poetry basically equates to playing Frisbee golf. You know its not the least bit funny, but the satanic side of you internally giggles. Poetry. 

But alas, methinks thou dost form opinion most premature! 

Do you even poetry? If you're not even right now, fix it! Fight the cure of poetic apathy and spread around the message #evenpoetry

Some is Cliche

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

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You've heard it in a graduation speech at some point, trust me. 

It's not a bad poem, but it's been beaten to death by (improper, might I add) overuse. And I mean, come on, two paths, the mighty protagonist most choose to decide their destiny with their brilliant powers of deduction? This isn't the Copernicus of poetry.

Some serve as a delightfully acidic comeback

Charity by Unknown

There is so much good in the worst of us, 

and so much bad in the best of us, 

that ill behooves any of us 

to find fault with the rest of us

I Shall not Care by Sarah Teasdale 

When I am dead and over me bright April

      Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,

Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,

      I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful

      When rain bends down the bough,

And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted

      Than you are now.

Pure win right there. There's a reason why they call it a poetry slam. Next time someone insults you, throw some classic rhymes at them, that'll shut 'em right up.

Some just gives you tingly inspirational feelings

For Whom The Bell Tolls by John Donne

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

The Charge Of The Light Brigade by Lord Alfred Tennyson 

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Someone had blundered:
Theirs was not to make reply,
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging and army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunging in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not--
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that fought so well,
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of the six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble Six Hundred!

We never know how high we are by Emily Dickinson 

We never know how high we are
Till we are asked to rise
And then if we are true to plan
Our statures touch the skies --

The Heroism we recite
Would be a normal thing
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King –

Theme For English B by Langston Hughes

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me 
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what 
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white. 
But it will be
a part of you, instructor. 
You are white-- 
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. 
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. 
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true! 
As I learn from you, 
I guess you learn from me-- 
although you're older--and white-- 
and somewhat more free.

So of course by now you should be practically salivating at this delicious concoction of words. Amirite? 

Oh so this is your first experience with poetry you say? You want more, you beg? I suggest reading "A Treasury of Poems" compiled by Sarah Stuart. Yes, I know it sounds like your grandma's favorite book, but it's actually for cool people like you too. 

Mini-series: John Green and Why I Kinda Sorta Hate Him

 

Please don't rifle through all my various social media sites and cross reference my internet trail to find out where I live so you can come slowly kill me in a variety of cruel ways, possibly involving viciously beating me with a hard copy of The Fault in Our Stars. And then posting a picture of my mangled body on tumblr. There's a reason they are called nerdfighters.

Seriously, it's that bad. Well not literally, but I can say with a lot of confidence that planned murder is among the thoughts of Green's cult members dedicated fans when I casually comment that I'm not a fan of Green. People literally glare at me like I just said that I hate puppies and small children.
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<Disclaimer: I have the utmost respect for each and every person's literary tastes. Just because I don't like Green doesn't mean that I don't understand why other would. Understand that public criticism is inborn in the career of writer, and every one there ever was has been subjected to it. In the next few post I will cite exactly what it is about his writing that rubs me the wrong way and cite specific plot points and quotation.>
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In my not so humble opinion, John Green is an above average YA writer. There, see! This review isn't totally biased. His writing style is pretty original, and he doesn't rely on ever-present, cut and paste phrases like "a chill ran down my spine" to get his point across.

So if I think he's a good writer, why am I hating on him?

I will answer that in this upcoming mini series reviewing the books of his I have read. In this segment, I only wish to comment on the overbearing culture surrounding him that serves as a shield against public opinion.

Upon reading TFIOS, I was actually an uncommitted fan of Green's. I honestly liked the book, it was a respectable novel. Is it the "best romance novel of the decade" as one reviewer of the book states, don't make me laugh that is up to you So, wide eyed, innocent me picked up a few of his other works, and was disappointed. But then again, in the oh-so-wise teachings of the Green man himself.
 
Call me crazy for hating one of the most popular YA writers of this age. I however find Green to be obsessed with his own brain, sure that his philosophical meanderings are deep rather than uninspired. This is not reality people! Basically, his philosophy says f**** society, and limits, they only constrain us and ruin our fun! His fans think of themselves as "better" than ordinary teens with oh so boring outlooks when their's are just self-serving and bogus. The die hard fans partake in an small minority of his ego-loving cult , with the outliers being meandering, lost conversions to "literature". They have absolutely no idea how to read a book. It's harsh I know.


These are the type of people gushing over the merits of TFIOS. Its as much of a conversation piece as last night's Biology homework or One Direction's latest concert. This is how the conversation usually goes.

"Ohhh my gosh, did you read the Fault in Our Stars?"
"Yesssss, oh my goshhh, I was like literally crying my eyes out, like I can't even!"
"I know, like what even is air?"
"Oh my goshhhh I knowww, so sad."

All the while the hard core TFIOS fans (who actually read the book and understood the themes and literary techniques that they were reading) and the rest of us who are silently punching ourself repeatedly in the face.

The catty girls who refuse to read The Great Gatsby assigned to them in On-level English class because its just sooooo boring are frantically clinging onto the experience of reading the book as a social life raft. Can we please just go back to reading not being cool anymore? I'd rather have people make fun of me for being a nerd than having the horrifying experience of fake girls pretending that they really do think being awkward is cool all while making fun of that girl in the corner who may be just like on of the characters in Greens book that they claim to so adore.

asdffdgdfgdafgdgd

I'm not saying that in order to be a "literary person" you have to be part of a certain friend group or have a certain personality, but I guess I am saying that there are so many teens that only read because they want to do what they always do, fit in by faking. Its great that our society is encouraging reading, but I am just not attracted to the kinds of books that illicit participation from people who otherwise wouldn't touch a book with a ten foot pole. Face it, the Green fandom is no longer a group of socially awkward teens who know more about Pokemon than social convention. It is now grown to include basically every single high schooler who wants to appear hipster, a dubious goal at best.These fans don't take what they are reading or their motives seriously so why should I take them seriously?

To conclude, the reason why I only kinda sorta hate John Green (more his writing than personality) is because his fans aggravate what would have normally only been a casual dislike of his work. Please, at least only proclaim undying love for books that you read for the pure joy of literature, not for a status symbol. Its an insult to the author and reader community.

The Silence of Sound

In a crowded room, the air is tightly coiled. People were not meant to be contained you see, and the numerous entities of labels float like username tagging in a videogame. Molecules collide with human thought, and the energy reverberates.


"How are you?" A person inquires without really wanting to know.
"Pretty good, and how about you?" Eyes glint with practiced care.
"Great." They reply, amused at their own usefulness.
Like a child given a toy to play with, all are satisfied with their rituals and make believe; placated by purpose.


The voices arise in a silent crescendo, meaningless phonemes vibrating the atmosphere. Particles swirl around like bees but slip through your fingers like a vapor. The mouths move with purpose. Thin, tight lips disappear in concentration, full red lips gab open proclaiming reign, unsure smiles curl up around the edges, chapped ones purse in self-satisfaction. A figure stares at the ground with her shameful lips, the ones that aren't making themselves useful. She would join them, but all the sounds they are making are ones she can't hear. Not really. 












 

Quotes: Reading/Writing/Imagination

"Of course it's happening inside your head, Harry, but why on Earth should that mean it is not real?"-J.K. Rowling 

The inspiration for the title of this blog, this, as you know, is derived from Deathly Hallows. People say that your unrealistic imaginings happen "inside your head", but is that such a bad thing? You have a whole world inside your head that no one can journey through except you, be proud of it and don't be afraid of seclusion into its corners.

"Stories never really end...even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories go on. They don't end on the last page anymore than they begin on the first page" -Cornelia Funke

I can't tell you how many times I stayed up late to finish a book, as if the faster I read it, the more safe my characters will be. They become almost real people, and when you put that book down, you find yourself yearning for that alternate reality you'll never have. That's what so hard for others to understand about readers, we are not more philosophical than everyone else, we are just so unfortunate as to be in love with people and places we've only seen in our heads.

"The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet" -Jandy Nelson

What a beautiful idea it is to think that the world is full of blended lines and smeared boundaries. The infinity of the universe isn't off millions of miles away in space, it coexists in the air you breathe, coiled up under your mattress and stuffed between the sheets. You don't have to reach for your dreams, you already have them if you just pluck up the courage to see them through.

A Review of "Stolen" by Lucy Christopher

Five Stars: The ability to use the readers emotions against them and the unique perspective of a gray area earn this rating
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I simultaneously hated and loved this book, what I thought was going to be a flowery, "no really, he does love me" dominating kind of captor relationship turned out to be a dark glimpse into the desires of the human mind. 

"Stolen" is about a girl who is, you guessed it, stolen. Pretty simple right? Hate the creep who takes her and admire her courage, determination, blah, blah.At least, that is how the experience begins.

Ty, an older quiet man, has been following Gemma for years, and he has singled her out as his "target". He abducts her and takes her to live with him in the Australian desert with no hope of escape. Yet, interestingly, he never forces himself on her.

The captor is both clearly delusional and strangely...intelligent and caring in a confusing way, which demonstrates that every human has the capacity for love and insanity. Christopher successfully weaves psychology with a dose of humanism in her work that is beautifully disturbing. The topic is highly controversial and I applaud her for tackling a topic with such grace and I personally believe the typically harshly negative reviews to be unwarranted. 

It is also a letter directly to her captor, this unusual point of view is disturbing. The constant use of "you" creates an eerie feeling the the reader is the one she is writing to; the one who took her.

The author isn't excusing this behavior, and instead blatantly sneering at the heroine's behavior, which I thought was extremely brave, and how her brain twists in on itself to form somewhat false perceptions of reality, they will realize that any claims that they would act differently in the same situation are not factually based. It leaves you wondering, is insanity always as a bad thing as most people think? Interesting.

Singularity

"Gifted."

The world alighted on my head from the clouds as I looked for rain. It marks my existence with its weight. Paraded around as a kite on a string, I'm yanked with sharp tugs, bobbing along. I pass through blinding clouds, the world turned white. My torn wings are ripped through gnarled trees, so high above it is a wonder I could see them; the black and white and in between specks swarming in accusation, grappling for the string.

How dare you.

You can pretend otherwise, but you roll in the dust too. A pebble can't outrun a mudslide, they shouted to me, but the words are muffled by the distance.

Traitor, the warbling voices chant. You left us.

"Quiet" The Label Guarranted to Annoy an Introvert

I like things quiet.
Ever since I could remember, people have referred to me as such.
Quiet
Shy
Antisocial
And my personal, assuming favorite "nice".
As if my lack of speech somehow conveys that I am a meek hearted person who never has the conviction to say much of anything at all.
In actuality, my lack of speech is mostly due to the fact that I have no interest in speaking at all. Or even that I have no overwhelming desire to make my thoughts known.
Why waste my inner world with somebody who expects a chat about the weather rather than what their favorite time of day is or how the color gray makes them feel.
In actuality, though I am admittedly a bit tongue tied around people I feel the need to impress, I am not a shy person.
Speaking in front of the whole class did not make me shake.
I am not glued to my tumblr dashboard, in fact I am almost always outside.
The thought of telling others my opinion did not send me running for the girls bathroom.
I don't dramatically fling myself across a bed when the world doesn't function the way I want it to (I'm looking at you, Disney princesses).
I am not a doormat.
That could be the thing that kept me from fitting in.
I am not a charming nerd with glasses who stutters adorably.
I am voracious, stubborn, adventurous, and also somewhat of a...well, you know.
I am nice to those I believe deserve it, and icily cold people who only see me in terms of what I can give them.
Have you ever called someone quiet? I suggest you think about it before you do. Reserved people are easy targets after all, they won't tell you that what you say hurts them. They probably won't even admit it to themselves.