Poets use poetry to deal with such issues as heroin/alcohol addiction, spirituality, death, abandonment and sexual and emotional abuse. The following poets illustrate the use of writing to deal with these issues.
Poets use poetry to deal with such issues as heroin/alcohol addiction, death, abandonment, and sexual and emotional abuse. The following authors illustrate the use of writing to deal with these issues.
Water Gidge Trott*
It flows serenely through river and stream. It sparkles in sunlight, its eddies a gleam. The fields and the meadows its traverse refreshes, The trees by the wayside their shadow enmeshes. The birds from their boughs will sweep down to drink— from the cool passing water, from the banks to its brink. It flows through to help, in the heat of the day— The grass and the flowers then goes on its way. We hope for the showers of soft summer rain That brings on the harvest and fills out the grain.
But the water we long for, for which we should pray, for the water that eases the Spirit each day. The water that quenches our thirst without end, that comes from Our Lord and the teaching He sends. He offers us treasure if we drink from His Word Living water of Life when His message is heard. The Baptismal water is blessed from above That washes away our sins with His love. How we welcome the babies, parents bring to be Christened, and others, whose hearts, to God’s message have listened. For this gift from Our Father and so much does He give. Secure in the Hope, through Blessed Water we LIVE! *90 years old
Hollywood, October, 1941 Robert Swanson
The war hadn’t quite started yet. But rumors of war fluttered over my head like fireflies I couldn’t catch. Three years old, I was clumsy with my oatmeal. Dad wasn’t clumsy though. His hard fists conked my head. I was too slow to duck. One of my first words was ‘bruise.’
There was a place behind some exotic bushes where I could hide. I played in the dirt, building the mounds of a town. The dirt was paltry though, not Illinois loam. One day in December, aunt Betty was all excited, “Pearl Harbor! Pearl Harbor!” The Big War had started. But my little war was already over.
1920 Robert Swanson
All of a sudden, girls discovered they had
legs. And they swung them side to side with
long-suppressed ecstasy. And suddenly, the dusty
roads were full of automobiles. You could get
from Fort Wayne to Terre Haute quick. And
in the back seat, a boy and a girl could
get someplace quick. Different from before,
boys and girls danced the Charleston, and
the Blacks danced to Louis and the Whites
danced to Bix. “Oh, I love that white boy.”
And for a little bit, racial discord found
harmony. The skyscraper was perfected
and even farmers in Iowa knew the New York
skyline by heart. I was born in 1938,
and missed 1920, but I have read The Great
Gatsby, listened to King Oliver, looked at
paintings by Picasso, and I have perched
on a rooftop, watching the Bronx come alive.
Your Favorite Son Scott Brotherton
You are the best man in my life I know because My mom’s your wife And one great thing that Mom has done Is give to you Your favorite Son
Sometimes I’m very, very bad I think these genes, I get from….(Mom?) And all the good that I have done I hope you’re proud That I’m your Son
Before I leave this Planet Earth I thank you Mom & Dad For birth. I love you, Dad, I’m forty-two I hope one day I’m just like you….
I LOVE YOU FOREVER, Your Favorite Son Happy Father’s Day, June 19th, 2005 Scott Brotherton
Golf cart apocalypse: Photo by Josh Borewn
Ditty William Z. Saunders
Before: when I was all ways always dishonest… I was willing to believe in everyone. Once I got a little truth down, and I became a little honest, I couldn’t believe anybody anymore It was just too easy to choose to lie. ’Twas just as easy to pick up the telephone and start some shit. Nevermind how it would finish. static William Z. Saunders
28 Dec
cleaning the toilet and floor behind the toilet made me feel like Ghandi inside,
until i heard myself react to a knock at the bathroom door… “YEAH!?”
it hurt to hear the sound of my voice. I wish that wasn’t me in my heart. gonna have to clean more. noted.
Toys Morgan Jones
I am broken banished to the bin With wind-me-ups that no longer go No one touches the bin And we bitterly laugh at life’s nervous Half-baked attempts to keep us in Too tired to even try to reach my wind-up dial Maybe she broke me with her vicious words And rumor based judgments And my snake friends who turn plastic When every other option gets too hard Or perhaps he broke me with the seductive love games “Baby I love you.” “Just once, it won’t change things.” Caught in the fake glamour relationship lies And the fascinating songs that mesmerize us in the Crushing Flirting Kissing Better yet, my blood broke me with blind rage punches And margarita laced glassy-eyed kicks But I bet they broke me With mindless memorization assignments Will a year of finding ‘x’ get me anywhere? Or do those polyatomic ions admit me into Rice? Teasing the scum failures But haunted by the realization that it could be us So we push the pencils till everything breaks And you’re all cried out forgotten in the pathetic bin Lonely and rueful And we don’t even wanna wind ourselves up again.
“Toys” won 2nd place for 9th to 12th grade poetry in the Dana K. Barber Writing Contest.
With an Open Heart Elissa Vura
Open your hands toward heaven and let go. Open your heart.
It splits me wide open when I let it. This ripe watermelon of a world pink insides—mush and water and seeds. Stripey dark green rind brash as summer.
It never forgets us. It wants only good for us.
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