June 3, 2016

More of My Poetry

All right, this is the last of these posts, I promise. I just wanted to share a couple more poems I wrote for my class this spring. All of these went into my final portfolio, so I think they were some of my best from the second half of the semester.

Sakura (an ekphrastic poem)

Bricks through windows
My brother
Followed home
Black eyes
And split lips
Many others
Bear the same marks
Cherry blossoms
Dormant until spring
A bomb
No, many bombs
My parents
Were shocked
Whispered phone calls
Neutrality no more
We stand
By our new nation
Barbed wire
Not home
Snaking branches of trees
No cherry blossoms
Despite the summer sun
Sandy, gritty dirt everywhere
Far from friends
No true crimes committed
To put us here
I miss
The cherry blossoms
Two bombs
Damaged children
Orphaned children
Dead children
Cherry blossoms
Will bloom
Not today

The World Wouldn't Spin Right (a line poem, first written between the lines of an e.e. cummings's poem, then revised and made more my own)

“If earth was heaven…” ~e.e. cummings

If freckles were lovely, I’d be Helen of Troy.
If a lie were the truth, I’d spin webs,
and I would never be melancholy.
But the world wouldn’t spin right,
and I wouldn’t be me.

My head would be full
of algorithms and workouts.
I’d walk to school every day,
spend my afternoons on the soccer field.
Popularity would be second nature.
Children’s cries would curl my lip,
and the sound of a Broadway soundtrack
wouldn’t catch my attention.
But I would never be happy,
for I wouldn’t truly be me.

If fear were courage, I’d run the other way.
If tears were smiles, I’d laugh them away.
In this other world, would I be
the only one to notice how wrong things were?
But, then again,
I wouldn’t be me.
I would stroll through life,
think everything normal.
It wouldn’t really be a different world,
to those who lived in it.
In such a place,
I’d be as oblivious

as everyone else.

The Dream (a fairytale poem)

Ever since I was a little girl,
I have rarely dreamed, at night or during the day.
Yet there has been a recurring dream
of an enchantress, a prince, a rose.

I told my mother about the dream;
the secret accompanied her to the grave.
I never spoke of the enchantress or prince again.
I was already the town’s eccentric,

their crazy Rose for all these years.
Now my family is destitute;
Papa drinks to quell his demons,
and I must be his brave Rose.

My sisters wanted soft silks and velvets,
when he journeyed to see his ships.
He asked what I wanted—
his safety was my true desire
but I asked for a rose.

Now our troubles are worse than ever.
I do not truly blame Papa,
but my sisters do. He only wanted
to bring me what I requested, a single rose.

That is why I have to go,
to the castle, as the prisoner of the beast.
He is a mystery to everyone in the village;
we know only that he loves roses.

I have to hide my suffocating fear.
Papa cannot return to the castle,
and my sisters are selfish.
I have to be my father’s brave Rose.

I journey to the castle, iron and foreboding.
For some time, I see only the enchanted servants.
They allow me to explore, but they warn
of the West Wing and forbid me to ever pluck a rose.

But the West Wing is alluring.
Its mystique calls to me; I cannot resist.
Amidst rags, and splinters, and dust,
something glitters—a rose.

It beckons me; I am powerless to resist.
I draw nearer and nearer, my head in a fog,
the beast appears and shoves me back.
He will not let me near his rose.

His roar shakes the walls and floor.
I have never felt such terror.
I turn and run, straight out of the castle.
I am no longer my paper’s brave Rose.

The wind bites through my cloak,
and Philippe struggles through the blizzard.
I am certain I will die, and all that will remain,
buried in the drifts, will be a Rose.

The beast finds me, blue and lulled half-asleep.
He lifts me with gentle paws and carries me
to his castle that now seems warm and inviting.

I slumber and dream once again of princes, spells, and roses.

He Saw Her (a random poem I wrote that plays with words)

“Suit yourself,” he said.
He wore a suit.
When there was no reply,
he turned to his left.
She wasn’t there;
she’d already left.
Their plans to meet at the altar were forever altered.

The first time he saw her,
she was covered in flour and smelled of thyme.
He’d held a single flower in his hand.
It was close to closing time,
but she was so enchanted
that she lost track of time.
He marched into her life
on that rainy March day
that changed the course of their lives.

It hadn’t been easy after—
the journey was a difficult ascent
but she’d given her assent.
He was reluctant to say it aloud at first—
he’d allowed himself to fall in love.
Something worried his soul, though,
ever since he’d seen the initials on her sole.
He brushed his worries aside,
and believed their love would withstand.

When they were apart,
they sent letters.
Hers were graced with the scent
of her lavender-vanilla perfume.
His days without her were hazy;
he was in a lovelorn daze.
His were not the only letters she received.

They were reunited early one morning,
when the ground was still covered in dew.
He asked if she’d say, “I do.”
She said yes.
Yet, when she saw the gilt ring,
her gut jolted with guilt
for she had secretly fallen for another.

She didn’t tell him,
and he fell for her fa├žade;
the girl he was to marry
was not who she said she was.
Soon the merry day arrived,
but guilt gnawed at her conscience.

She gave her reflection a little nod.
She knew what she had to do.
She had never meant to overdo this lie,
and now her confession was long overdue.

She would never be at peace,
if she went through with the wedding.
She wouldn’t give the priest a chance to say,
“Speak now or forever hold your piece.”
As the bells in the steeple pealed,
she peeled herself off the chair
and went down the hall to see her groom.

They argued—
he was angry, but she was calm.
The bells continued to ring,
but the ring fell to the floor.
She ran out the door into the rain
and gathered the horse’s reins.
The horse’s bridle jangled
as she abandoned her bridal best.
Their relationship didn’t last;
that was the last time
he saw her.


  1. I usually don't read poetry but these were really good!

    1. Thank you! I don't read a lot of poetry, either. I only really started writing it for my class this spring.


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