We’re doing a poetry unit in my Creative Writing class. I don’t know if people realize how much is involved in poetry– meter, rhyme, alliteration, assonance, imagery, caesuras, and everything. We were supposed to write a poem that focussed on imagery. The criterium was to take a high, low, or turning point and base the poem off of that, describe and make meaningful a particular object, and to engage at least three of the five senses. Oh yeah, and it had to be at least twenty-five lines long.
It was hard.
I eventually created something. I don’t like it a whole lot, but there are a few aspects I appreciate. The “high point” I chose was creating “Masquerade,” which I consider to be my best work of last year. Here goes:
The Happiest Color
My colored pencils gave a fraction of
Their lives to the work. My Carmine Red bled
While my White sweated, and my True Blue shed
A tear or two in her labour of love.
Though the paper was still smooth to the touch,
The deep layers of color changed the flow
Of the grain. Of course, getting there was slow
Work, but seeing the color spread was such
A surreal experience, to think that
They could fashion something likes this.
A waxy scent accompanied the kiss
I gave it. Yes, I do that. Then I sat
Back to observe it one more time before
Sharing. Rarely am I completely won
Over by the art, but part of the fun
Is in improving. I had nothing more
To add, so I let my pencils a rest
Their dull and weary heads. I tucked them in
Their case, then quickly went online to win
The comments they earned from their best
Work of the year. A friend of mine even told
Me he’d buy a print! Sunburst Yellow beamed,
Blush Pink flushed faintly, and Apple Green seemed
Less sour when he knew his work would be sold.
But the happiest color, so they say,
Was Azure. There were many smiles that day.
Then in class today we were supposed to write another poem based on an aaa bob hard rhyme scheme. I might like that one a lot better.
The journal lay with edges worn,
Cover stained and pages torn
Upon the desk, lost and forlorn
The writer dead, the binding old,
Yet worth more than a pile of gold
The value in the stories told.