Therapy Through Poetry by Julia Young

Therapy Through Poetry by Julia Young

It is just great being hypersensitive to absolutely everything.

The most minuscule of things can immediately set off a switch; 

And no, this is not just a light switch, it is a lever that opens a dam.

Everything is released all at once, and there is no going back once the deed is done.

Water comes pouring like a tidal wave, a tsunami.

Yet this wave does not wipe out cities,

It does not make the headlines on the news, nor does it make the ones in the newspapers;

It doesn’t even make it’s way into the circulation of local gossip, not even to the dinner table.

This wave is one that floods your brain;

One that blows the fuses of neurological currents, not electrical ones.

It drowns you in your thoughts, not others in water.

It knocks down your confidence, wrecking your credence instead of wrecking buildings.

Yes it is remarkable to be vulnerable to such microscopic things;

It is just delightful to be born with the fragility of a flower.

I’d had an extremely frustrating day the day I wrote the above poem. All my anger, frustration, and stress was balled up inside of me, and I needed some way to relieve the tension. Although I’d usually just sigh and groan and let my feelings out through physical methods such as curling up in a fetal position or crying, I thought to myself, why not write a poem about it…. I knew I was going to have to write poems for my English poetry assignment anyways. And so I began writing. Surprising to me, the words flowed out of my mind and onto my computer screen rapidly; it felt organic and natural for me to be expressing my feelings in such a way. I felt as if I was ranting… but in an artistic way. When discussing my thoughts or problems with my friends, I struggle to really express how I am truly feeling; no matter how hard I try to describe how I feel, I never feel like they truly get it. Yet, through this poetry, I knew exactly how I was feeling— I was completely in tune and aware of my emotions, which is a situation I had never really experienced before. 

What I am trying to say is, through being forced to write poetry for class, I discovered a new form of therapy for myself. When I am in distress, I can just open up my laptop and start typing. Writing poetry provides me with almost immediate relief when I’m feeling down, making significant changes in my mood. 

To anyone who struggles with becoming in tune with their emotions, I highly recommend trying to write poetry about them. You never know what might work for you, and I think poetry is worth a try.

Fire by Lomaani Ranasinghe

In your eyes there was fire

burning bright it was

I remember looking the first time

upon first glance it was a galaxy of stars

it wasn't long until it belonged to my universe

In your eyes there was fire

a fire that had grown each and every time i looked into them

a fire that i believed would never die

In your eyes there was fire

but one day

it just wasn't of the same kind

it had died down

in the dimmed darkness

i only saw loneliness and loss

in the faded darkness all i could see

was a reflection

of none other than

myself

In your eyes there is no fire

and no matter how hard i try

there's nothing i recognize

what was once a galaxy of stars has evanesced

leaving me blindly searching for a fire

i wish i hadn't burn out

The Longest Poem -by Abraham LaBelle

The title of this post might be misleading; I am not going to write the longest poem.

Instead, I will spread knowledge about the longest known epic poem, called the Mahābhārata.
This monster of literature has been called "the longest poem ever written", and apart from its name, which is already long enough, the Mahābhārata has more than 200,000 verses and about 1.8 million words.

The Mahābhārata is actually only one of the two major Sanskrit epics of India. The other is called the Rāmāyaṇa. The author of the Mahābhārata is Vyāsa, a revered figure in Hindu traditions. The epic is estimated to be written around 500 BC. It is no wonder why this epic is suggested to be at the same level as the Bible, and Shakespeare's works.

Vyāsa

If you are interested in learning more about the contents and themes of the Mahābhārata, you are welcome to read it. Front to back. All 1.8 million words.

Cinquains by Julia Flake

As we have been on the topic of poetry recently in class, I decided to try to write some poetry of my own. The following are cinquains, which are only five lines with a specific structure.

IPhone
Small, Bright
Addicting, Entertaining, Exciting
Destroyer of activity 
Technology

The first line is a noun that will be the subject of the poem. The second line is two adjectives that describe the subject. The third line is three -ing verbs that have something to do with the subject. The fourth line is a phrase that is 8 syllables. Lastly, the fifth line is a noun that is similar to the subject. Here is one more example:

Summer
Warm, Wet
Swimming, Eating, Boating
No more school work to stress about
Freedom

These are just five simple lines that do not take that long to write. Poetry can be easy if you let it! Try out some poetry of your own!

Secrets by Briana Cotten

Everyone has their secrets

Now some may be bad others just kept

Personal...

But we shove them in a box

A box so big

You think it's never going to break

It has the capability

To never 

Ever

Let 

You

Down

The one thing you can rely on

After all nobody can really be trusted
You see we rely on socializing
And when we don't have anything to talk about
We tend to talk about other people
Their lives
Who they like
And sometimes
Just sometimes
We spill the beans
Sharing the thing they trusted us with
Marking the end to that pinky promise
But then oh wait no
You realize
Your hands begin to shake
The sweat builds up and sticks to your skin
Like Glue
You try and save yourself
So what do you do?
You say okay so don't tell anyone Okay?
okay.
Hmmm is it really that easy?
No
The same thing happens on a cycle
A domino effect until in the end
It ends up getting back to the person
You know it is your fault
But that is the game
The game of trying to be someone you aren't
An attempt to make yourself feel better
Comparing yourself to others
Tearing them down
Going after their reputation
For what?
That's not right
What justice is it serving?
The truth is all that matters
Well now you try and keep everything once again to yourself
Back into the box the secrets go
But now
There is no more room to hold anymore things of privacy
So you make a new friend
Get let down
On
Repeat
Now this isn't the case for some people
But just know that if this is you
Stop
Find the people who don't care what others think
The ones who can actually learn to
Never
Let
You
Down
Nobody is perfect
People mess up
But
Know it will be okay
Okay?

                                           

"The City of Oranges" by Sarah Dioneda

So recently, a bit has happened. All my data on my phone got deleted, and I met up with a friend I haven’t spoken to in years. We were talking about what we had done over the last spring break, and she told me about her great volunteer work, and I told her about how I emerged myself in Spain’s culture. My favorite city was Seville or Sevilla. It is a great and lively city with an interesting personality. She asked for pictures because she wanted to see if she’d like to go there, but I didn’t have any as all of them got deleted. For a moment, I was sad because it would not take long for me to forget all the details that a picture could capture.

Thankfully, I wrote some extensive notes about the city, from the smell to the sights. So as a nod to national poetry month and the upcoming spring break, I wrote a poem about what I did last year during that vacation so I wouldn’t forget it in the future. 
So, this is for the friend who asked me for the pictures. I sincerely hope you go and visit sometime. 
I call it, "The City of Oranges."

~

So I have heard you wanted to travel to Sevilla.

As a girl who had walked amongst mouths with foreign tongues,

bodies fueled on different food, I say, 

this city has made an impression on me.

Nine, to be specific,

and if you’d like, I wish to tell you. 

1.

The city is full of people attached

hip to hip in between 

the narrow city buildings.

Late at night, parades are overflowing into the sidewalks, and 

if someone tries to take your phone out of your back pocket, I give you permission to step on their toe afterwards.

I had. 

2.

Be weary of falling, too. I have never hated or appreciated a road before.

They are beautiful and classic

with stones and cobble protruding out of the ground.

At times, it felt as if I was walking on the back of a toad,

afraid I was going to trip over because

the streets are not made of cement, but of

rock, or brick. If not

dirt or tile,

but, still, be weary because

you can easily slip and fall on both of them, too.

I would know.

3.

Here, in America,

kids know that religion is no longer cool, but

there, in Sevilla—

that is what keeps the city beating.

Jesus is on floats and paraded around on the streets.

Little girls hang their feet off balconies, just to get a better view.

Old women willingly push you to the ground to take a better look at a statue,

representing this man they believed saved them all. 

I did not appreciate religion until 

I could actually see it.

4.

When eating your meals, eat them outside.

There will be pollen and fallen leaves on your plate, but

the waiters are gracious enough to wipe them. It should not matter anyway.

Order something you cannot pronounce

because, then,

you’d have to pronounce it.

Speak Spanish when ordering, and 

if one, single waiter smiles at the way you say

Puedo tener la paella de mariscos, por favor

do not be offended. There is a great lesson in your mistakes, especially 

in language.

Do not worry, though, most of them are kind.

While waiting for paella,

watch the people at the other table smoke;

watch the smoke evaporate into the clear air,

relax

as much as those people are.

Sip some of the sangria that smells like fruit punch.

People look away.

If not, say you though it was fruit punch.

(Read: Don’t actually do this. Obey the law.)

5.

There are beautiful people on every corner.

You can find yourself

1. a mate.
2. your self esteem being lowered.

It is up to you really 

(I think it is because they dress well).

6.

There is a certain aroma that settles around the city.

It is not one of baked goods,

ice cream bars, but instead

like bad breath, hanging between two people,

but it is not bad bread, it is

horse poop.

If you smell something but find no horse in sight,

I advise you,

with a heavy heart,

to look down because you are probably stepping in it.

7.

Personal space and claustrophobia is 

uncommon (See number 1).

Streets are narrow, and sometimes,

filled with people. 

Everyone is closed in by buildings—

all tall with its own personality.

It is loud and can be quite chaotic, but 

I found it to be the best way to appreciate the taste of air.

8.

Admire everything.

Walk slowly, as if you were in the South,

but get out of people’s way.

The streets are splattered with orange from 
wax from candle sticks, orange peelings, leaves,

street lamps

hovering over the cobble stone streets at night.

My father did not like a single toned palette for a city

but I cannot help to admire 

having the perfect color of a sunrise at my feet.

The buildings are bright with warms colors

from deep browns to reds to yellows, and

it was as if twilight and dawn painted the city.

You must love it.

I did.

9.

If you find yourself walking in the same steps I have,

do not follow anything I have just said.

Walk somewhere else.

The best way to experience the city of oranges is to 

experience it yourself.

But 

if it just so happens, for some reason,

you find my missing hair tie,

a string from my sweater

or my whisper, echoing where you are walking,

would you please do me a favor

and take a picture?

Recently, I had lost all of mine.

~

Society by Briana Cotten

There will be times when the sun won't shine as bright

The grass won't be as green

And it will look as if the rain will never stop

But look up to see the rainbow

There will be times when the stress will pile up high

Higher than you've ever experienced

But you will get through it

There will be times when you aren't happy with yourself

Your overall attitude

How you treat others

Not doing enough for the world we live in

But make that change to fix it.

There will be times when society has become too much

Too much social media

Too much pressure

But know that you can take a break

The world isn't based off of numbers although it may seem that way

How many followers you have 

Your highest streak

How much you weigh

The number of friends you have 

What your ranking number is in school

How many likes you get

No 

Wrong

You are what you make of yourself 

Take chances 

Grow a root so strong that nothing can bring you down

Ignore the haters

Be true to yourself

Because you know that you set your own expectations

You are the holder of your destiny 

So you can either sit back and try and "fit in" 

Or 

You can take a stance 

End the societal factors that have become the "normal" 

So normal that without these things like Instagram are you even known? 

Who cares

After high school comes college 

That's the real world

Currently we are all in a bubble

Now sometimes that bubble may seem like it is going to pop

Yet just know that it will be okay

We all were put on this Earth for a purpose

So do not ruin it by trying to be someone you aren't

Stand up for what you believe in

Be brave 

When you get older you want to be able to remember 

Remember the good times 

Remember how you were the best you possible 

Nobody wants to live a life that they aren't happy with

Because that is the most important thing

Love yourself for who you are 

Embrace your crazy and everything in between

How you view yourself 

Matters so much more than how others view you

In the future they won't even matter

Once everyone goes their separate ways

You do not want to be left with nothing 

So make something of yourself 

While you still can

And just remember

You 

Are 

Amazing 

And capable of anything you set your mind to. 

Lord of the Flies, a poem by Liz Ukstins

Lord of the Flies

A Poem

by Liz Ukstins

They started off in a ruined civilization

And now are lost at sea

These children created their own nation

Without adults, they can be free

The boys gather at the sound of a conch

A leader is elected

Soon the boys will become raunch

All except one - Piggy is rejected

What is it about Piggy

that causes others to hate?

Is it his pygmy

or slightly larger weight?

He only wants to help

and always gets shot down

He is see as a useless whelp

Plastered on his face - a frown

Jack simply does not care

and Ralph is too distracted

They may be found ne'er

as they too harshly acted

Who will die and who will live?

That is the question

There will be no peace left to give

and all will end with depression

Will Piggy get murdered

or will he thrive?

Piggy is always unheard

To do his best, he strives

What atrocities are yet to happen?

Will their society become misshapen?

How much time will cease?

Will the hunter become the beast?

Invictus by William Ernest Henley Interpretation 

By Cynthia Loh

Out of the night that covers me, 

      Black as the pit from pole to pole, 

I thank whatever gods may be 

      For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 

      I have not winced nor cried aloud. 

Under the bludgeonings of chance 

      My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 

      Looms but the Horror of the shade, 

And yet the menace of the years 

      Finds and shall find me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 

      How charged with punishments the scroll, 

I am the master of my fate, 

      I am the captain of my soul. 

The idea of "killing the author" came up in English class recently. By kill, I don't mean to murder the author or having the author physically die. To "kill the author" means to destroy the identity of the author in your mind while reading and interpreting the piece of literature. This means to understand the message regardless of the author's personality or biography guiding you. For this blog, I will read and interpret the poem Invictus by William Ernest Henley while "killing the author". Afterwards, I will use the author's biography to interpret the poem. 

My Interpretation

From my interpretation, the author is surrounded by oppression and conformity. In the sentence, "Out of the night that covers me," the night represents darkness and evil that the author is faced with in life. To be more specific, I view "night" as rejection from society and/or other people, for example, something like bullying, racism, or gender inequality. However, even in face of all this hate and rejection the author faces, he has an "unconquerable soul" which shows that the author won't back down to the evil in his life. The term unconquerable means incapable of being overcome by force and incapable of being subdued. This evil in his life will not overcome him or subdue him. Henley says, "My head is bloody, but unbowed" showing that even though the author is hurt and being constrained, he will not submit to his oppressors and he can not accept this reality as destiny. The author is currently in a place of hate and fear, but he will not be intimidated. The last two lines and undoubtedly the most important and striking lines in this poem, "I am the master of my fate/ I am the captain of my soul," Henley expresses his unshakable will to live a better life. By calling himself the master of his fate and the captain of his soul, Henley refutes the idea that others can control or rule over his life. The message that I brought out of this poem is to have perseverance through the hard times because in the end, the only one who truly has power over you is yourself.

Author's Biography

When Henley was 12 years old he was diagnosed tuberculosis. One of his legs had to be amputated just below the knee and his other leg was barely saved from his disease by a radical surgery performed by his doctor. Henley became an inmate of his hospital. In his poem, the sentence, "In the fell clutch of circumstance," Henley was referring to his tuberculosis and his circumstance of having one leg. Even though he suffered since he was a boy, Henley communicates his tenacity and strength from his unfortunate situation. His tuberculosis will not and can not control him. Unlike what I interpreted, the author wasn't facing rejection from society but he was dealing with an inner struggle with himself.

                     

Home by Claire Riley

Home.

Home has walls, a roof and a bed.

Home has such comfort, to leave is to dread.

Home is the white picket fence in your yard,

that stands sturdy for years to protect and to guard.

Home is the place where children can grow.

Home is the house that you certainly know.

Home is the place where you flee to each day.

Home is the place that can wipe tears away.

Home will always be where your family lives.

Home will always be the place you find friends.

Home will always be the place you yearn,

It's where you belong; It's where you'll return.

The True Meaning Of Life By: Briana Cotten

One can not be kind

without learning the true values in life. 

Finding people who you just can't work well with,

like attempting to mix oil and water. 

Having the world at your fingertips,

being able to make choices that will decide what life you chose to lead.

Before you learn the tender gravity of one's feelings,

you must experience the world.

Experience the sorrow,

the happiness,

and every moment in between. 

Having an open mind, 

treating others the way you want to be treated. 

Never let others destroy your happiness,

don't let them decide how you live YOUR life. 

The behavior of others, 

you cannot let damage your peace of mind.

One may not know the that the words you say-

have a real impact on those around you.

So chose carefully...

You're deciding the legacy and impact you want to leave. 

The more you live,

The more you learn.

The more you experience, 

The more you grow.

The more moments you go through,

The stronger you become. 

The more you learn to love

The more you learn to give back--

The better life will be.

Because we are what make this world go round.

A world without kindness...

is a world I do not want to live in. 

A wise man once said, "Human kindness has never weakened the stamina or softened the fiber of a free people. A nation does not have to be cruel to be tough" ~Franklin D. Roosevelt. 

Take this from me. Instead of being so quick to judge a person by their appearance, the color of their hair or even how they dress- take a step back. When you first meet someone pretend as if you are blind, take away your use of eyesight. Instead simply just listen. Listen to what they have to say, listen to how they treat others. This is the only way to find out how warmhearted the person may truly be. Not everyone has the looks, but that is not the most important thing. The true purpose in finding a good friendship, a good soulmate, a good overall human being is knowing who they are on the inside-- the out should not matter. 

"Body House" by Sarah Dioneda

Poetry is very common in literature. We still read classics, (like Beowulf or the Illiad) in class, thousands of years after they were written. It has evolved immensely as the English language has, to the point where there are now poetry clubs and open-mics dedicated to tell stories through this type of writing. This poem was written on a whim after listening to some unheralded poets like Blythe Baird and Sarah Kay, and I was inspired by how raw they were. I call this poem Body House.

~

If my body were to ever to be a house, it would look a little something like this:

At the end of a cul-de-sac, there is a house. It is strange, beyond belief, and short, and flat, like the way a city looks from a plane. 

It is made of brick and wood, and each brick is painted an array of colors—the wood is white. 

The lawn is overgrown with flowers, chrysanthemums, mostly, and vines slither up the walls and to the roof. 

People often glance at it and the first mistake they make is that they think it’s abandoned. But the flowers and the paint are too pristine to be unkept.

The doors—they creak. So do the floorboards. But that’s what happens when you tire out a house too much; two years are added to the construction date. 

You should be warned that the outside matches the inside. 

The bed is unmade, every cabinet is wide open, and so are the windows. I have a habit of keeping everything too open. There were some things people should not have seen. But as corny as it sounds, I can’t seem to leave the windows closed; I have a penchant for bare sunlight.

Even though with sunlight, comes rain, and rain ruins all the furniture. 

The last time it rained, it was a hurricane, and it sopped up the  floors for a week. 

Sometimes, as I walk through the halls, I feel the water seep through the carpet, and they soak my feet. I am reminded that this water reached places dust and cobwebs occupy, places I haven’t dared to touch yet, and I think about all the things I had let in. I think about all the things I had let go.

Those are the days when I can’t bear to stay in the walls surrounding me. It feels like I am standing in cages, shrinking boxes, and I have to step outside. 

I stare at this short, flat, colorful, peculiar house for a while. It sometimes takes months to finally open the door again. 

When I do, I am greeted by the sound of squeaky door hinges, creaky floorboards, and the bristling sound of chrysanthemums behind me. 

I stop and, I listen. The house is whispering, “Hi—it’s been a while. Welcome home.”

~

No Matter The Wreckage by Sarah Kay

(my favorite book... next to A Monster Calls)

A Sonnet. (Ryden Mederos)

The following poem is a sonnet I wrote in 9th grade. I remember taking great pride in this piece at the time, as it had been my first attempt at a Shakespearian sonnet, yet I never ended up posting it anywhere or sharing it to anyone (of course, besides with Mrs Brennan). We were given a prompt simply about love, and as the single 14 year old I was, I didn't seem to connect personally to the idea of love. To the feeling of love. Rather, I viewed it, and possibly still do, as a concept. Love is not reserved to romantic affairs, of course, but that was the focal point of my writing. I attempted to explain the common perception of love versus the non-stereotypical point of view. But, alas, this proved difficult. I don't believe even the greatest writer could summarize love in a perfect manner through a brief work of poetry, but that does not matter. A part of me believes that to be representative of an extremely prevalent portion of love- it is not easy to understand or express always. Through action rather than words, love is best expressed. Even then, people wonder what actions show love and affection towards others. Should you be reserved and private, or open and proud? Regardless of the difference of opinion, I found this poem to be one I still find to be true to how I feel, and decided to share it here. Enjoy!

-Ryden.

Romance is a rather cliche matter.

There is simply never enough to say.

Not enough to give; we resort to attar.

Many cannot display passion today.

Crude paradigms often cause horrid regrets.

Upfront approaches are apace; forward.

Passion is bound to roses and secrets.

Soft kisses and boats travelling shoreward.

Romance is a rather confined matter.

There is simply too much we cannot say.

Too much to give, too much chitter chatter.

Many won’t dare display passion today.

Love is not just what we are told it is.

Love is just what we choose to make of it.