Visual Poetry: The Queen


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Concrete Poem

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Spiraling The chickens hop in a line Circling around my frontal lobe The crowd parts into two One for each eye The chickens walk down the caruncle Like a staircase Their pointed feet poking at my eyelids The burrow into my eye Behind the skull Then lay their eggs in my brain They make a nest of the pink crevices They peck their beaks into the flesh Sending a signal down my spine It pinpricks my neck Awakens my gut The eggs hatch The cycle starts again
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Final Blog Post

What did I learn from this class? From the first day of this class, I thought it was going to be more of a history of poetry class, with some comparisons to the visual art that was being made at the time. I liked that the class was actually more about different styles of poetry. I think the class format worked well- I feel like simply learning the history of poetry wouldn’t have been as effective as learning a bit of history and then diving into creating our own poems. I learned that poetry is much harder than it looks. However, I also learned techniques that can make a poem stronger, such as imagery and structure. There were some genres of poetry that I had never even heard of that I ended up loving, such as cubist, dadaist and surrealist poems. When I was learning about those movements in art history, I did not realize they overlapped to writing as well. I had no idea what a Cubist poem could even be. The cubist poem by Gertrude Stein gave me an understanding about how diffe...
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Surrealist Poem: Chickens

Rub your eyes Rub them hard enough That you see purple and yellow speckles form Like stars in the sky Contained within your skull Then lean your body Crane your neck till it's lined with your knees Then rip your arms away As chickens fall from your eyeballs Like hectic tears Bocking and bawking Hopping off of your thighs And plopping onto the ground Chest first, then jumping up with a start And walking along the floor Hopping around one who broke her foot on the fall To lay an egg The tiny birds Peck at your sneaker Like being poked at with the end of a pencil You stand up and hear a peep Look at the bottom of your shoe To see a chicken smeared As its comrades hustle and bustle And peck crumbs out of the carpeted floor
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