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Poetry and Creative Non-Fiction Portfolio
3/22/2016
Elizabeth Sanders
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Table of
Contents
Section I - About
Me
Self-Reflection
.............................................................................................................................................
1
Section II - Poems
Anti-Gravity
.................................................................................................................................................
3
Datable ........................................................................................................................................................
4
Over the Farm, the Dust Settles...................................................................................................................
5
Surviving Playtime........................................................................................................................................
6
Section III - Creative Non-Fiction
Drop Out .....................................................................................................................................................
7
Self-Reflection
In
my poem Anti-Gravity, I made several
big changes. The first major change I made was taking out the first three
lines. By the end of the poem, going back to the top seemed so out of place. I
also thought the language was very awkward and although I still think comparing
the nature to an appearance can add an enchanted effect, I don't think I did it
well and it's been done before. Another big change I made was making stanzas. I
think this slowed the poem down and made it "organized." I also took
into consideration the line break suggestion you offered to greater effect, I
believe.
In Datable, I also broke the lines up
further and replaced the "mattress" metaphor with a
"boulder" one. I agree with the fact that the metaphor was a stretch,
so I think this adds humor as well as sensation, rather than abstract ideas. I
added a paragraph after the first stanza as well, after realizing it wasn't
clear what was happening. I threw in a quote and a (literal) thought, which I
very rarely do, so I'm not sure how that will be taken, but I think it's funny.
Surviving Playtime had a
huge makeover as well. I was more straightforward with what the poem was about,
adding in:
"of frequent scratches, chips in her arm and face,
dents he made
when the laundry wasn't done,
the brisket wasn't cooked."
Again, I shortened the sentences and created stanzas when
shifting my focus in the poem. I think this emphasized imagery that I find to
be gross and brutal, like in the lines "and fondled, / smeared all over /
hardwood floors and beige carpet." I had fun writing this one particularly
because it came from a pretty bad poem about the things in my room.
First
major change about my last poem, Over the
Farm, the Dust Settles, is that I changed the title. I think it sets the
scene and encourages feeling from the reader (I hope). I also gave this one a
stanza break because I felt like I needed to show the shift in the poem. It
also leaves the reader on a melancholy line before continuing, which I wanted.
As
for my creative non-fiction piece, I edited as I went, which is a recurring
problem for me. Regardless, I found myself going abstract constantly and it
took a real effort to stay in the moment. I tried very hard to convey my
feelings through my experience and I struggled with including why I stopped
going to school and making the first paragraph relevant. I intended to say
something about the significance of the eagle in the end, but I kept finding
myself going towards the abstract again, so I cut it out and left it on a
quote.
My
writing has improved in the way of showing and not telling. I have spoken a lot
about that this semester already as it's so important in writing. The more I
write detailed and concrete, the easier it gets. I enjoyed our exercises in
class and the creative non-fiction pieces in our book. The exercises were
really challenging at times, but they always made me push the limits of what I
thought I could do. What I loved about the stories is that as I become stuck in
my creative non-fiction piece, I could look at theirs and see what they did in
similar situations, like describing someone, using quotation, saying how they
felt, etc. I looked at Aimee's piece because her style of writing is something
I want to aim for as I find my own voice.
I
would like to see myself grow in being able to balance abstraction with
concrete language. Specifically, I want to be able to convey a feeling or
belief through action and characterization in writing. I want to improve my
story telling abilities, in other words. Fiction is my main focus, both
literary and genre, so I want to be able to create a world that is believable,
emotionally or mentally stimulating, and impactful even after the reader is
done reading.
Screenplay
and short fiction is a mix of hard and fun. I've only written a 6 page play
before and I didn't really know what I was doing. Basically, I'm new to that
and have a lot to learn about it. As for fiction, I feel like the saying,
"save the best for last," fits here. I'm looking forward to
practicing characterization, scene setting, and world building, whether it's
literary or genre.
Anti-Gravity
We left the
gym-turned-ballroom
to be alone
outside,
away from
loud seniors,
drunk from
hidden flasks
under
Burlington wool blazers,
concealed
garters.
Finding a
soft patch of grass
nearby the
school's baseball field,
we laid
down our tired bodies
and
searched for constellations,
falling
into the endless expanse
of the
universe,
holding
each other's hand tightly,
afraid to
let go
in fear of
being
lost to the
dark,
alone.
I grabbed
at the ground's feathery surface
with my
free hand to stay anchored,
trying to
keep myself
from
lifting off the ground,
flying past
houses,
light
posts,
trees,
losing my
chance
to hold
onto something,
anything,
that would
keep me from floating
into the
night sky.
My date's
narrow finger
enters my
vision,
pointing at
a star cluster,
suddenly
reminding me
of earth
and soil.
She
comments that Libra
looks like
a peeled potato
and we
laugh,
our voices
leaping
into the
darkness.
Datable
Evening fell and I felt sick.
A fever had nestled in my head like a giant boulder,
every moment shifting its weight,
no matter how still I was,
making my head bob,
an apple in a barrel of hot water.
My friends, absorbed in tales of heroic defiance,
dress codes and attendance violations,
only noticed my whitening skin and red cheeks.
"You look so hot," they would say,
"and stoned."
Nailed it.
The fire-pit,
heat grabbing at my knees,
blew smoke over my eyes
with a behind-the-stage nonchalance
one might expect from Prince.
Yet the stone slate under me
pierced my bottom with a pained cold,
freezing bone and little fat I had.
My red headed, lanky boyfriend
was in the basement,
maintaining his friend's approval by playing Chocolate Rain,
warm and secret away from heavy smoke,
freezing slates.
I didn't really care,
though I pretended I did.
His presence was a prize,
a fashionable trophy signifying my victory,
a plaque reading "I AM DATABLE" we both received
as a result of our union.
I played the roll the way I played sickness,
a fashion statement.
But he was inside, with his friends,
laughing over flickering lights and CRT screens
and I was outside, with my friends,
admiring each other's growing cleavage
and pale skin
Over the Farm, the
Dust Settles
Day's work is done, yet I am awake,
staring at yellow wallpaper peeling like waxing strips
off dry legs.
A picture of my wife, grey haired, now gone,
sinks into the dresser, dustier each sunrise,
dull eyes staring, unblinking, out our bedroom window,
as if she too realizes
the garden would have grown anyway.
The cows will wake again soon,
complacent by years of life
surrounded by sturdy fencing
and under the cover of night,
graze on young grass. The hens,
high on their coop fast asleep,
dream about clouds and treetops,
breathless heights and even then,
only in a few short hours,
the rooster will crow.
Surviving Playtime
A burn hole, hot wax spills, even after seventeen years
of frequent scratches, chips in her arm and face,
dents he made
when the laundry wasn't done,
the brisket wasn't cooked.
Somehow she survived, a collector's Barbie doll,
torn and thrown,
used tissues in an overflowing trashcan, now long gone,
now like herself.
I have yet to read where she is again inevitably stolen
by muscle shirts, by dirty socks, by dust bunnies,
and fondled,
smeared all over
hardwood floors and beige carpet;
littering her untreated, elegant poise.
Some clean grow light, she forgot was on,
hangs off the top of her dresser mirror
to melt away her plastic skin,
she had wanted to keep on forever.
The flesh emerges here,
moist and tender,
metal becoming bone,
tissue and muscle, no longer atrophied.
In that
direction, her hair is still perfect,
in all its knots and dead ends.
Now that he is gone,
full is the treasure cove.
Drop Out
A bald eagle stood at attention on a tall,
gnarled oak tree in the forest nearby my home. It was about twenty feet above
me, or at least it must have been because I could see the yellow tip of its
beak, the curvature of its smooth, onyx-like talons, the loops of its feathers
that to me, resembled many soft waves washing over brown stone, and metallic
eyes that could drive a blunt arrow through a titanium wall. I stopped walking
to admire this bird of prey, taking in its wild demeanor. It was a good day to
just watch, the sun was out, the trees were changing colour, everywhere smelled
like fresh leaves and dirt, and I had no school. It had been a few years that I
stopped attending and my life had finally become my own.
***
The sound of small, electrical
song birds woke me up, gradually getting louder until it felt like one of them
was stuck in my eardrum. My alarm clock had been chirping for a good twenty
minutes, entering my dreams, teaching me to fly over my quaint cul-de-sac, and
gently pulled me back to reality. I rolled over and turned off the looping
track of Indigo Buntings and Common Yellowthroats, for the first time in six
months not caring to hit snooze. Instead of falling back asleep, I laid in bed
for an hour having already decided upon awaking that I was not going back to
school today or even this week. The only thing keeping me in bed; how am I going to avoid this conversation
with Mom?
Mother was a big lady, weighing
at about two-hundred pounds with self-described "flying squirrel
arms" that jiggled at every movement. She had recently given herself a new
look, moving away from curly, shoulder-length hair to straight, high volume
hair tapering off at her earlobe. She was under a lot of stress trying to wake
me up in the mornings, as it had always been, get me to do my homework, or
simply to just go to school. It hadn't been until my third semester in 9th
grade that she finally gave up. I hated being confronted on it, so if we were
to pass each other in the hallway, I would turn into the bathroom and pretend
to put on makeup. Meeting was inevitable however, since she didn't work, which
meant I would run into her the moment I entered the living room, only ten feet
from my door.
Once the numb discomfort of lying
down sank in, I finally got out of bed and took my hand-me-down computer to the
living room couch. Mom was in the kitchen with a facial expression that cool
fool a zombie into believing she was one of its kin. It wasn't difficult to see
that she was disappointed and I avoided making eye contact or even saying hi.
Unlocking the computer, I opened a word document. Now that I had no homework,
doing something intellectually stimulating seemed fun. I also didn't want Mom
to have a drop-out daughter that just watched YouTube all day; I wanted to
prove to her that I wasn't dropping out because of homework.
I took a moment to look out the
window. The sun was shining in and house wrens were stopping by to explore our
balcony. The snow was mostly gone, leaving our backyard a mixture of firm
ground and further down the hill by the creek, temporary marshlands. The
balcony door was slightly open and the breeze wafting in smelled like thawing
dirt. I turned my attention back to the computer and started writing.
***
By the time three o'clock rolled
around, I had written roughly three pages about a group of adventurers who
wonder through the countryside searching for an enchanted tree in order to
collect berries to heal their sick. The plot was basic, the characters and
writing were over-dramatized, and I started in the middle of a chapter that I
imagine would have been in the middle of the story, but it didn't matter. I
made worlds with my keyboard and was the omnipresent, all-knowing Devine
Creator. I could birth, I could kill, I could bestow supernatural powers or
make an ordinary life, yet it also felt like I was discovering these worlds and
creatures. I didn't have the power to control my real life, but on a word
document I had every freedom imaginable.
I stopped writing and looked up.
I had to let my eyes adjust to my surroundings. My living room was the same
since I had started writing, quiet, warm, and bright, but it felt surreal. I
had travelled a new universe, I met knew people, I tried knew foods and suddenly
I was back in my house, old and familiar. It was like I had an out-of-body
experience and I realized I could have a future in writing.
Gathering strength, I lifted my
laptop and walked into the kitchen.
"Hey Mom,
can I read you what I wrote?"
