Visual Poetry: The Queen


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Realist Poem

Sitting outside the waiting room The woman at the front desk seems a bit annoyed Understandable, everything must run smoothly The chairs are stiff and gray The walls are decorated brightly, orange and yellow With inspirational quotes In white text. I sit Bundled up in my coat A purple scarf my friend knitted me And a hat from a store. My aunt is antsy to get out She shows a picture of her dog She's been in this kind of place before And doesn't care to relive it But she hides behind a smile on her face. My grandmother appears Walking slowly, but firmly She tells me to follow her That I should see this for myself That it would be good for me. When I go back, My grandfather is in a chair, with tubes sticking out I think that he's happy to see me But he'd probably be happy to see anyone He smiles He gets up and hugs me When I was little he'd squeeze so tightly I'd laugh But today I'm the one squeezing His strength is faded I have ...
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Symbol Assignment- Smoke as Shame

Deep breath, inhale, exhale, Head between my knees, The air turns artificial, stale I'll keep my eyes shut, squeeze The air is a napkin on the tongue Looking up, I see the source Smoke is filling up the hallways Lurking to the back of the throat, coarse The more the air dries up, The more my eyes water, My hands become fishes that have escaped the bowl, Shaking, trying to find some normalcy If only I was free of the smoke, I could push open the doors and Feel the fresh, winter air Smacking my face like a wake up call But the smoke follows me I escape to a diner, staring at a matchbook Behind me, the windows have clouded up The more one tries to get a better look, the more it obscures They say even non-smokers will have gray lungs From just existing in the city From being exposed to those who hold the embers between their fingers And inhale their fates The churches, the schools Have become factories Pumping out thick, black clouds When they could be ...
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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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