Poetry ctd.

Yet another poetry assignment. This was inspired by my grandmother (although the characters are not supposed to be true portrayals of Grandma and Papaw), whose love for Elvis Presley must have been bordering on obsession. How I wish this story were true.


Leaving the Building

He was a god. A frequent hip-swaying,
smooth red velvet-tongued,
oil-black haired god.
Crisp ironing board ladies screamed his name
while clutching their bosoms with primly painted nails for fear of heart attack.
Elvis. Presley.

A blur of blond hair and blushing skin
my grandmother, twenty-something and in love
points her toes, straightens her skirt with a trembling tug and
reaches the plain gray, empty stairwell.
After so much color and conversation,
music and memory,
the steps leading out of the concert building are
an unwanted exit from a misplaced section of heaven.

She left someone at home,
a lover, a man who keeps his mouth shut when
“Surrender” echoes in their living room and
politely sings along without overpowering
the voice of a god.
My grandmother appreciates her man’s
careful block-letter love poems and
pictures of foreign buildings with little military men
smiling for the camera.
She appreciates his straight-line lips and weathered hands.
Any other night, she would be anticipating his fingertips.
Tonight, she is drunk and hypnotized
by the winged angel who sings rock and roll.

Her eyes follow the slight curve of the staircase
while adjusting to yellow hazy light.
A shadow boogies with no partner on the wall.
And then, collision, an explosion of light.
Like making love, those dark imitations of bodies
mix and intertwine as my grandmother glimpses her god.
A faltering smile on plump cherry lips,
a jagged intake of breath, hyperventilation.
He is a dream in person.
Elvis brushes past after a moment of awed silence.
Fingers reaching as if to hold on to an escaping memory,
my grandmother grazes the fabric that adorns a flawless being.

In a fog she somehow manages to make it home,
heart waltzing to every footstep.
For this night her body devours every second,
inhaling and exhaling a single moment.
He was a god. This is heaven.
Elvis. Presley.

Being Downtown

After a week of socializing and spending no time with myself, I decided that I was finally in need of a break. I promptly walked out of my apartment and headed down the canal for a little alone time, just me and the city. A vivid description of the scenery would not do Indianapolis justice. Yes, the canal walk bursts with fountains and elaborate waterfalls and gardens and statues and picturesque views of a vibrant downtown. But landscaping is the least of it. I could get lost here and still feel at home. I devoured the faces of passersby, marveling at the fact that each person was experiencing a different emotion, heading in a different direction to a different place, walking just to walk or moving toward some destination. How beautiful--much more beautiful than some water or a scenic view-- to read the emotions of strangers. How enchanting to walk in a crowd of strangers and feel independent and alive. How incredible to share a smile and realize that I will probably never see that person again, yet he or she will continue to live life and so will I. I suppose what I'm saying is that I find a thrill in seeing the ironic beauty of our world. We are all connected as human beings, yet we are all so caught up in our own stories. And isn't it amazing to think that life will never change in that respect? No matter what great technology we devise, we can always walk through a crowded city and be surrounded by strangers. I love the feeling, the diversity, the aloneness and connectedness. This, the conglomeration of interesting strangers all packed into one city, is where the true beauty of Indianapolis lies. Sure, I like the scenery. But scenery doesn't show emotion. Scenery doesn't allow me to catch snippets of conversation as they trail away. Scenery doesn't allow me to feel the impossibility and inspiration of this yin and yang world.

So, I headed out for some alone time. Silly me. I forgot that I'm never going to be alone here :)

Intro to Creative Writing Poems

Within the first week of class I have been assigned two poems...one called "Flipped Adage" and the other "Story of a Moment" :) Hope you enjoy!

"Flipped Adage" ... professor gave us five words to incorporate into the poem, and of course we had to flip an adage at the end :)

Standing on that rocky precipice between the

sickle and the rainbow,

my father, grey-bearded and sunken

extends trembling fingers to the

brass knob at the edge of his world.

We all know how the story ends—

And he died unhappily never after.

"Story of a Moment" ... focus on the sensory detail of a single moment in life :)

Colors of Silence

Wet black shoes reflect green blades of grass that are

trampled from standing.

Looking down, a sallow casket reflects the sunlight that

still shines from a sun that still rose today.

And my blue eyes reflect tears in the eyes of strangers.

A drab procession, we are the misplaced blackness

among the light of midday.

White oaks sway from the caress of velvety wind,

bluebirds glide overhead, blind to mourning.

And my uncle lies silent beneath an ivory box.

Pink laughter pierces deaf ears

of grey and black grief.

Sharp metallic chirping interrupts an artificial

silence.

And beneath my black shoes and the green brown earth

a fiery-red core ceaselessly burns

despite the stifling of a vibrant life.