Poetry

Poetry.

Poetry can be beautiful, and poetry can be kind.

And no, I’m not a great poet.

But I do read it.

For school…. Does that count?

I guess I’ll just give you this then:

“Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,

Taught my benighted soul to understand.

That there’s a God, there’s a Saviour too:

Once I redemption neither caught nor knew.

To view our sable race with scornful eye,

“Their colour is a diabotic die”

Remember, Christians, Negro, black as Cain,

May be refin’d and join th’angelic train.”

This is a poem from the 1700s, written by Phillis Wheatley called ‘Being Brought from Africa to America.’

A few days ago, while I was doing History for school, I learned about slave trade. I’m not getting into that right now, but I will say that it was horrible, cruel business. Slave trade was also what Phillis Wheatley was talking about above.

Fun Fact (or more of a fun question): Who do you think ‘Cain’ is? *wink wink*

I guess what I’m trying to say is that poetry is both easier and harder to write. It’s figurative and short, but so short that it’s easy to nit-pick. Maybe it’s the poet’s voice, or their style.

That’s why I wrote you a little bit of poetry.

Did I originally write this poetry for school? Maybe…

Have I shared it with any of my family members? No….

Should I share it wih my teachers? Probably, but not now.

I wanted to share it with you first:

In The Fire, by Claudia B. Liedtke

When I said I wanted to burn, I didn’t mean it literally.

I wanted to fly, I wanted to fall.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to smile.

But no one was there anymore, no one cared.

I wanted to burn in the flames, to cry as my world fell apart.

But I couldn’t, because I wasn’t on fire.

You were.

You burned, you tore, you destroyed.

And I couldn’t save you.

That’s why I’m here, in the dark stillness.

In the ripping, broken silence.

I want to speak to you, to tell you you’re stupid and I love it.

I want to tell you you’re colourful and perfect.

Just the way you always were.

But you’re gone.

And you’re never coming back.

I’m sorry for the hurt I caused you.

I’m sorry for not listening, for not looking back.

I’m sorry for my mistakes, for the ways I made you angry.

Because I wanted you to feel pain, but only then.

That long, long time ago.

I think I’m different now. Maybe.

I don’t want you to hurt anymore, and I want you to know that.

But I can’t tell you, because you’re not coming back.

Never. Coming. Back.

I’m sorry, my friend.

I never meant to hurt you.

My Old Home, by Claudia B. Liedtke

My old home is sweet and sour,

Home for seconds, weeks, and hours

Wooden beams and cussion couches,

Soft white walls, and sky blue siding,

Lamps of bright light,

Home, so far from sight,

When we leave to feed the animals

At my old home, we must not slouch.

Times were hard,

Memories bombard,

But sometimes, there’s nothing you can do,

But hide in your cool, dark room.

And now, I’d smile, now I’d grin.

For my old home, is mine within.

(Fun Fact: This is an Italian sonnet, one octave followed by seset [aka eight lines of poem followed by six lines of poem].)

The Hunter’s Gold, by Claudia B. Liedtke

I’ve started coming back, coming back to my river.

I came back to the place I called my home.

But, during that time, I turned around.

And he was there.

The Hunter who used to call me his gold.

He ran up to me, trying to tell me he was back, back for real.

I couldn’t believe him. He lied to me.

All that time ago, he still lied to me.

I gave my heart to him, I shared my secrets.

And what now?

Should I let him come back?

Should I let him be in my home?

Should I feel like Lady Liberty with him?

Am I free with him.

Or am I just going to break my heart again?

Am I just going to be lost? Lost of all the feeling I had before.

And when he was there, watching me, I cried.

My knees buckled, my shoulders shook.

I couldn’t control my breath and hiccups racked my lungs.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You weren’t supposed to lie to me.

Because I was the hunter’s gold then.

I was his Ring of Power.

I was his shimmering star.

Or so I thought.

Now I’m bent, now I’m broken, now my heart is stiff and still.

I’m in a lump, thrown into the trash.

And I’m not the one who can make it better.

You, the Hunter, are.

You want me to be your perfect gold again.

But I’m not the Hunter’s Gold anymore.

Writing this poem, I was tasked with using allusions.

An allusion is the use of a word, usually a place or object that does not directly relate to the poem, but can be used to solidify the poet’s theme of message. I used two allusions in the poem above, one a place, and one an object. Let me know if you find them. ;)

I would keep going, but I’ll pause for now.

Poetry is related to figurative writing, but not as much as you would think.

Poetry is delicate and poised and special. It is beautiful and strong, because it’s short. Novels have strength in the plot and sometimes the length, but they’re long and drawn and have emotions in the relationships people build with the characters. You can’t do that with poetry, but it gives you that emotional sence that you’re not alone, because it uses too much imagery to make it escapeable.

God loves you, my friends. Stay faithful.

-Claudia