Learning How to Write Poetry When You Suck At Writing It by Jessica Longstreth

Let me just start by saying I like good poetry. I feel that I can appreciate this form of writing and I have some friends who are crazy good at writing poetry as well. It just seems to come naturally to them. So I wouldn't say that my problem is that I don't like poetry, it's just that I don't feel that I'm very good at writing it. Writing poetry has always seemed daunting to me, and when I rarely do write poetry I'm scared that they don't come off the right way. Poems just almost seem flimsy when I attempt to write them. I guess I just overthink it.

But recently, due to a recent English assignment, I've been forced to rethink how I write poetry. In class the other day, I opened up my poetry assignment an just stared at it awhile, unsure of what to do or write. My friends, who, unlike me, are good at poetry, were reading some of their own pieces that they were working on for the assignment. Their pieces just sounded so good! I felt (and still sort of feel) like I will never be able to write like that. So I asked, "How do you guys write poetry?"

And my friend just said, "It's basically just writing down whatever you're thinking."

That statement sounded so vague, but surprisingly, it got me started on writing some of what I think is halfway decent poetry. Things sort of just clicked about poetry when I let all of that sink in. Now, I wouldn't go as far as to say poetry is the most comfortable form of writing for me, but there are a few simple things about writing poetry that I've tried over the past few weeks that have helped ease the burden of writing it. Below are some of the ideas that helped me not overthink the writing process too much:

Pick a Topic or Idea to Write the Poem About
Knowing what I was going to write about definitely helped me keep my writing focused and direct. I found it important not to overthink my topic though and tried to keep it simple. I thought about what my friend had said and just picked whatever was really on my mind. This technique was also somewhat inspired by the poet Sarah Kay's method of making a list of ten things you know and writing poetry about those things. Keep everything simple. Don't overthink too much.

Know What the Poem Should Convey
Once I picked out a topic, I thought about what I wanted to say about that topic in my poem, and how I wanted to convey it. For example, if my topic for my poem was summer, I thought about what I wanted to say about summer in my poetry. Did I want to dedicate part of my poem to what I thought of summer? What about the summer weather, etc.? For a broad topic like summer, there are so many different thoughts that could be put into a poem, and because of this, I felt like it was a very real possibility that my thoughts could just turn into an jumbled rambling rant instead of a poem. Not that ranting in a poem is necessarily bad, but I didn't want to force thoughts into my poem that didn't belong. Therefore, I did give some effort to thinking about where I wanted my poem, or my thoughts, to go. Again, I found that it just keeps everything focused.

Poetry Doesn't Necessarily Follow A Certain Form
One thing that I had to get over when writing poetry was that poetry doesn't really follow a predesignated structure all the time. It doesn't have to rhyme, and there is not necessarily a beginning, middle, or end, like in an essay or story. Realizing this definitely made things a little bit easier, because when I was writing poetry, I could just sort of go with it. All I really thought about structure wise was that the thoughts/lines flowed well enough.


Anyways, these are just somethings that definitely helped me sit down and start some poetry for a recent assignment. I am by no means a great poet and therefore it is totally possible these pieces of "advice" could only work for me and my crazy thinking process. Just thought I'd share!

If I Could Speak by Amanda Sangalli

If I could speak, I would while in syllables
Instead of wasting away my pen.
Trade my pencil paper sword and shield
For a bullet alphabet.
I'd polish my old silence,
And I'd sand my rusty tongue,
A holster wrapped around my neck-
My locked and loaded gun.

I'd spit instead of stomachhimg
These rotten words unsaid,
And smear paper cut red fingers
Over all this fading lead.
I imagine taking aim
For every shattered dream of mine,
But even in my head,
The barrel james up every time.

. kasey senatore

this skin is not my own
it is a
fantasy, it is
an illusion, it is
it is a shield that i wear on my soul
this skin is not my own
when i fall asleep at night i don’t feel it
when i dream i don’t know my skin
therefore i am not my skin
have you ever felt that way?
it isn’t me, it is
I t   is
it  i   s
it    is
I?

we are all born Free*

      *but there is an asterisk
we are
restrained by our bodies
by the timers on our lives
by every saying about how short we have til we die
it restrains me
i am stuck in my skin
i cannot know everyone
i cannot know everything
i cannot be everyone and see everything
this skin is not my own

i want to break out of it i want to spread my consciousness across the world i want to be on the peak of the himalayas i want to be at the bottom of the grand canyon i want to be in tokyo’s modern streets and at the same time i want to be here in Sparta, New Jersey where i am.

it isn’t me
my flesh and bone, the cartilage in my ears,
the fat on my belly, the organs it protects,
it is my
mind, my mind is me,
my brain,
the fleshy folds of my unconscious  consciousness,
i am in my skeleton,
i am the nerves that run through this body,
i am the thought in every step,
i am me, but i am not my skin, i am not .

sleep deprivation and 3am philosophy -- Kasey Senatore

Time by Melissa La Fountain

“What if the clocks get so large,

That they cascade over every thought?” she asks.

Could we use the tattered string

In the craft room drawer

To pull the hands back a few hours

So that we could enjoy the time

Rather than dwelling on it?

We’ll pluck each clover from the ground

Four leafed or three

Just because they are nice

Not because we need luck

We will use the wind to

Let our hair fly back

Setting loose whispers of

“I’ve never felt so free,

Just watching time go by.”

We’ll write our names on the trees

What if time never stops?

We’ll keep moving with it

Taking every bend and turn

Going with the flow

Riding with it

My friends like to think about time

By measuring how little may be left

We live in a ticking place, but treat it as if

The clock has been broken for years

I tell them to take off their watches

To pick some clovers

To let the wind play with their hair

As it does with mine

I give them a pen

To write their names on the trees

“What if the time is up soon?” they worry

Then it will all be over

And you will have spent so much time

Watching for the end

That you have forgotten

To appreciate the beginning

Reflection by Sylvia Kloian

This is a poem that I wrote that follows Shakespeare's iambic pentameter.

I have a friend who does not like mirrors.
A curious thing, as that's where she lives
And though her reflection couldn't be clearer
She still doesn't see all the light that she gives.

But I think you're beautiful. Is that not
Enough? Can you not see you already
have all of the attributes that you sought?
So no need to keep yearning, stay steady.

Your eyes, brighter than any happy thought,
with a passion that's not easily found
You have strong armor that cannot be bought
And your words have meaning that will resound.

You have worth, use, you stand tall with pride
That's what one sees looking from the outside. 

The Happiest Place on Earth | by Samantha Patino

The happiest place on earth

Where dreams come true

And everyday is magical

Observing children pulling their parents to the next ride

Feeling the warm press of the summer sun

Hearing laughter and hopeful chatter

Tasting the sweetness of the mouse-shaped ice cream

Watching people drop from an elevator shaft

And race across a race track

And escape the grasp of the dreaded yeti

And travel to space and back in a matter of minutes

Everything here really is magical

To me it’s not just a slogan

It really is the happiest place on earth

Beware by Zoe Merold

Beware.

Beware of the place of beasts.

Beware of the people who they inhabit.

Beware of the savage hearts of those who have killed.

Run away.

Run away from them.

Run away from their evil ways.

Run away from the savagery that has poisoned them.

Hide.

Hide from their darkness.

Hide from their searching eyes.

Hide from the savages that wish to turn you into one of their own.

Artwork by Amanda Sangalli

You are art. You are a fiery red sunset lighting up the sky. You are the twinkling stars giving the empty night sky a meaning. You are art. You always have been. You were art before he ever told you. Before he hung you up on the wall to show off your beauty to the world. And when he replaced your picture frame with a brighter view, you were still art. You continued to be art no matter how many times you were switched out. And you will always remain to be captivating. No matter who shows you off or who shoves you in the back of the closet. You are art.

A letter to my Allergies

by Nuriel Rozenberg

You sneak up on me in class and 
arrive at the most inconvenient times
Puffy eyes, 
runny noses, 
random bursts of coughing
I deal with a lot of people 
mistaking me for being sick
The tears in my eyes that form 
at the start of the day 
and continue through the evening
The constant sneezing
the lack of tissue boxes the school has--
it leaves me to scavenge through classrooms.
I would prefer to wake up 
breath, 
energized, 
ready for the day 
like people in commercials.
I did not sign up for the congestion, 
itchy eyes, 
throat irritation
I didn't choose the allergy life
The allergy life 
chose me

Used By Zoe Merold

He gave his heart away,

Thinking that it would be cherished and kept safe,

That it would be treasured and valued.

But it was crushed,

And he could no longer breathe.

He gave his heart away,

To someone he believed he could trust,

Someone he thought would always care for him.

But they tossed it away,

And tossed him away along with it.

He gave his heart away,

Believing it would reveal how much he loved them,

How much he wanted them to be happy.

But they were blind to his intentions,

And he faded away.

He gave his heart away,

Not knowing that it would be worth nothing to them,

That they couldn’t care less about why it was given to them.

But he had no way of taking it back,

And he grew to no longer want it back.

He didn’t need his heart,

For all it could do was allow him to feel more pain,

The pain of realizing how little he meant to someone he loved.

And he couldn’t afford to feel anything,

Or he would collapse and shatter.

He no longer had a heart,

And he no longer felt anything,

Except for the silent and heavy void in his chest.

So he smiled at them,

And let himself be used.

He didn’t care anymore. 

Phone Calls by Amanda Sangalli

The phone is warm against my face, and your static laughter is crackling through the phone. Our lives have merged again through wire signals like tendons through the heart. I smile and tell you that I have taken hold of a new hand, and I am happy. But my heart is still jumping skittish over the space you left inside of me...
Fo r a moment nothing has changed and we're lying next to each other and hope is soft and i'm falling into us again like my old comforter. Time rolls up the conversation like an antique rug and we must say goodbye again. And the chasm cracks farther open, filling my lungs with an ache that means, "Come back please. Let's start from the beginning."
"I miss you"
"I miss you too"
An almost phrase constricts my throat and suddenly i'm choking on my own laughter. I almost heard you say it. I sigh into the dead receiver.
"I love you... I still love you."

A Poem by Lomaani Ranasinghe

I'm not a huge fan of writing poetry, but when it was my turn to write a blog post I decided to stray away from my comfort zone and write a poem. This morning, the band and orchestra left for the yearly Disney trip. While they were gone, it made me reflect on music and how large a role it plays in my daily life. So, while 99.9% of my friends are in Disney marching on main street, enjoy this poem I wrote about my love for music.

He holds no face, yet is most beautiful

He holds no heart, yet causes ours to pound

Amidst black keys, never more colorful

Through times of bliss, sorrow, or ire- he’s sound

The strum of a guitar on a dull day

Leaves youth dancing forever through the night

Banging of keys, keeping troubles away

Like tradition, enjoyed by candlelight

His cries fill the otherwise lifeless space

When I am crushed, he is what completes me

In times of need, he is my hiding place

Without him I’m lost, can you hear my plea?

For he’s not existing, but lives at heart

And through our lifetime we could never part

Reading a Good Book | by Samantha Patino

Flipping through the pages

They are sharp-edged and crisp

Every word pressed into the paper with black ink

The smell wafting up fills you with calmness

As you are thrown into the magnificent story  

The world around you blurs

And all of a sudden you are

Fighting monsters, solving mysteries, and throwing magic spells

You are seated alongside the characters

Floating through their world

Page after page

Visiting magical lands

While laying sprawled across your room

Hearing the character’s voices

Watching them dance through your mind

And sometimes watching them fall to the ground

Feeling the pain that they experience

Expressing your happiness as they do

Being surprised at the change of events

Having tears roll down your face

As you grieve for the characters who have died

Closing the cover page

Resting the book on the shelf

Whispering “Goodbye” to your new found friends

And that

Is how you know

You are reading a good book

What Does It Mean? By Zoe Merold

What does it mean,

For someone to be depressed?

Does there have to be tears streaming down their face,

Tears that are always concealed from view?

In the shower,

In their bed,

In the bathroom stalls of their school?

Does there have to be cries that are never heard,

Cries that beg for it all to stop and can no longer be held back?

Cries of suffering,

Of exhaustion,

Of surrender to the burdens that are always dragging them down?

Do they have to be stooped over,

Their head always drooping and their back always bent?

Trying to hide,

To go unseen,

To be ignored by and ignore everything that passes them by?

Do their eyes have to be vacant,

On the rare occasion that they look up to meet yours?

To be unfocused,

Emotionless,

Void of anything that could mean they are still there with you?

Do they have to be in great pain,

Pain that can never be remedied by anyone?

Excruciating,

Dilapidating,

Relentless pain that is always there within them?

Do they have to have battle scars,

Drawn out on their canvas of what once was smooth skin?

Sickening,

Revolting,

Permanent scars that will always tell the story of their endless war?

What does it mean,

For someone to be depressed?

What does it mean,

To you,

And to those around you?