I've been sick. But more poetry class stuff.

It's now official: my poetry "teacher" is a dumbass who I do not respect a single iota.
However, this doesn't mean I can't glean something from the course, right?
Here's a sonnet I wrote today in class which I kind of liked. The assignment was to write about a block you know really well or something. I totally blew it off and wrote about a scene I came across earlier today. Mostly I guess I like the way it fits the form; less sure about the content.

WEST CLIFF SONNET

A white-hot spot up on my beating right.
There is a tree which flattens to make shade,
and here two gossipping old ladies walk,
and hear a shy musician try his trade.
A flock rolls by. Twentysomething women,
all pushing plush and multicolored strollers.
The carted chat drifts by: Today she slept
so well. Today he ate. And how is yours?
They look at me alone and unstretchmarked
and I shift to the water, blue and brighter
than any baby's eyes, its glitter-ripple
always alive, always alive. I'm lighter,
but should my helium be weighted down?
Unburdened, I still dream of greater towns.

Poetry class

I've begun taking a poetry class once a week, which means (theoretically) a lot more output.
So here's a draft I wrote last Tuesday which I kind of liked. The prompt was to write a "poetry poem" starting with "A poem is...".


POETRY POEM

A poem is flowering across you, mossy:
Slap it off your face and smack it down
onto a page. Or don't; I'll peel
and steal it.

In the air it comes to life.
Crusty letters crumple out,
origami polaroids
and maybe it's not ours anymore
but your crease is there, mine here. We're
makers, or something, shaping the ashes that land
in our hands,
our palms charcoal.
Can we breathe now?