In one of my
earlier poems, “Butterfly,” my writing is for the most part literal: “His sneakers echo in the empty mall./ Only
the theater is open now./ Part of him chickens out. He thinks to call/ it off, but at this point
is not sure how.” It’s like I’m telling
a story—very narrative-driven—and it’s only in the final couplet where a
metaphor emerges: “That first date led
to another and soon/ the butterfly emerged from the cocoon.” And it’s a clichéd metaphor at that.
In a newer poem,
“Nothing,” I again explore a gay relationship, but this time it’s less cutesy
and less narrative-driven. I make use of
more striking visual metaphors: “You stand, showering./ Naked. A scarecrow/
with no crows to scare,/ no crops to protect.”
Phrases like “your raw skin bleeds… I keep on scrubbing” are less
literal and more metaphorical, and I think, more effective. Comparing “Nothing” to “Butterfly” is like
night and day. Other poems I’m most
proud of now included “Wishes” (“girls resembling flamingos/ with long,
stiletto legs/ and bright, warm coats above”) and “Helpmeet” (“But then you
smiled with/ fruit juice dripping/ from the corner of your/ apple lips, your
mouth a/ yawning hollow”)—poems that have definitely benefitted from my professor's stewardship, the workshops with my peers, and my own deepening understanding of
poetry.
2 comments:
one of my favorite parts of that class was seeing everyone grow and improve.
I think your poems were always amazing, what I saw grow most from you was confidence.
we need to keep in touch, if not only so I can keep reading your incredible work. :)
Thanks, Austin. We should definitely keep in touch. You're one of my favorite people from the class.
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