Poetry and Songs

It was interesting reading song lyrics as poetry, something I had never thought to do. Personally, I find it easier to understand ingest them by listening to them as lyrics to as song rather than as words in a poem, and that the words flow better with music attached to them. The music gives the words help elevate the meaning and tone of the lyrics that can't be found in just reading off the lyrics.The songs contain a lot of imagery in their lyrics, and are arranged in such a way that they almost tell a story. In that regard they are very similar to traditional poetry.

Song: "Roundabout" by Yes

"Roundabout"

I'll be the roundabout
The words will make you out 'n' out
I spend the day your way
Call it morning driving thru the sound and in and out the valley

The music dance and sing
They make the children really ring
I spend the day your way
Call it morning driving thru the sound and in and out the valley

In and around the lake
Mountains come out of the sky and they stand there
One mile over we'll be there and we'll see you
Ten true summers we'll be there and laughing too
Twenty four before my love you'll see I'll be there with you

I will remember you
Your silhouette will charge the view
Of distance atmosphere
Call it morning driving thru the sound and even in the valley

In and around the lake
Mountains come out of the sky and they stand there
One mile over we'll be there and we'll see you
Ten true summers we'll be there and laughing too
Twenty four before my love you'll see I'll be there with you

Along the drifting cloud the eagle searching down on the land
Catching the swirling wind the sailor sees the rim of the land
The eagle's dancing wings create as weather spins out of hand

Go closer hold the land feel partly no more than grains of sand
We stand to lose all time a thousand answers by in our hand
Next to your deeper fears we stand surrounded by a million years

I'll be the roundabout
The words will make you out 'n' out
I'll be the roundabout
The words will make you out 'n' out

In and around the lake
Mountains come out of the sky and they stand there
Twenty four before my love and I'll be there

I'll be the roundabout
The words will make you out 'n' out
You spend the day your way
Call it morning driving thru the sound and in and out the valley

In and around the lake
Mountains come out of the sky and they stand there
One mile over we'll be there and we'll see you
Ten true summers we'll be there and laughing too
Twenty four before my love you'll see I'll be there with you

Life

The sphere shall tremble at tis weight,

failing to ascertain a golden fleece

and its beautiful nature shall turn to rot.

Life will halt its course and fall like a stone,

its everyday becoming prisons,

and the sea will fade and vanish from us,

as we drop everything and face the end.

The world shan't continue forever,

but as human hearts remain close,

There shall always be reason to hope.

Love After Love

This poem speaks to how we must come to love ourselves and who we once were as people to truly enjoy life. To embrace that side of us that we threw away, but that has always been with us as we grew and matured. I find the poem to be very meaningful, especially in this age of people changing and conforming at mere whims. We are only truly living as ourselves when we love who we are as a person and what we really stand for.

Mariannne Williamson

This poem read by Nelson Mandela speaks towards how humans all have the potential to be great, but our fear of our own greatness prevents us from truly utilizing it. It's bright diction speaks to towards the positive and good nature of humanity, and creates an overall optimistic tone in the poem as it advertises how great we are as a race. The poem makes me feel very uplifted, as with all the chaos and destruction  by human hands in today's world often makes me forget about our good qualities and our overwhelming potential. If we embrace it and do not abstain from it, we can change this world into one befitting this beautiful poem.

Famous

This poem uses the word famous to describe a bond that two things have with each other, and is related to the role these things play in their respective natural order. Ultimately the speaker surmises how they do not want to be famous in the traditional meaning of the word, to be popular, but to be useful and carry out the purpose of life they were meant for. The poem has a distinct flow that moves from one idea or subject to another, and keeps the readers attention towards the final point. I also believe it makes use of about five beats per line over the course of the poem.

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

In this poem, I believe the message conveyed is that those who are beneath society's notice are truly lucky in life. They do not have to deal with the crowds of people who admire and swarm them. The poem is somewhat unconventional, with its numerous breaks that are signified by the dashes and how it flows. One moment its moving fast, then it breaks with a dash. Some of the word choices, such as the use of "the livelong june" and "admiring bog" speak towards its age and the period it was crafted. It is arranged as if it were a conversation between a person, with the speaker speaking to a fellow nobody.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

In this poem by Shakespeare, Shakespeare recounts many of the negative qualities of his lover compared to many beautiful substances existing on the Earth. He accomplishes this through numerous instances of imagery and through the rhythmic flow of the poem. Each description comes one after another and rolls with a nice beat thanks to the Sonnets meter. The poem ultimately culminates in Shakespeare saying how despite her flaws and how she compares to things such as the snow and sun, he is truly lucky to have her as his love.

We Real Cool

We Real Cool is a poem that at first glance appears to be simple but in reality has a strong message about today's youth. Its a poem that flows very well and has a simple rhyme, but that contributes to how it tells a continuous series of events that lead into one another. Its message speaks to how the youth of today shirk school and embrace sin with glee and how their irresponsibility will all ultimately culminate in their death. It is a powerful message that is conveyed precisely through the simple nature of the poem, in both its flow and diction.

This Be The Verse

This poem is very striking, especially because it uses such raw language from the start. It has an ABAB rhyme scheme, and has a message that is very meaningful. It discusses how much parents are responsible for how badly their children turn out, and this extends to the grandparents as well. The poem is brutal but has a very distinct rhythm that flows well, and its message is very clear. This all contributes to a very powerful poem overall, one that passes on the message of how the current generation should not let their parents' negative influence pass onto the next generation.

Poetry, to me is...

Poetry to me is a language of beauty that has always mystified and kept me guessing. My relationship with it has become more complex over the years as I've been introduced to more poets and works. Unlike with a story or tale, I find myself having difficulty truly understanding poems and discovering their meaning. It often feels as though beneath all the symbolism and lyrical verses is a message that I just can't hear.

It's not for lack of trying, as often I have to really wrack my brain to get at the meat of what a poem is trying to say but sometimes to no avail. I guess sometimes poems are just so heavy in symbolism, imagery, and subtlety that I find them to be overwhelming compared to my preferred outlet of the written word, Fiction. It also feels like I'm trying to peruse another language entirely, and that finding the meaning of the words before me is akin to translating a script.

But I still appreciate the beauty of poems and understand why people are so fond of them. And I am somewhat versed in poets such as Wordsworth, Keats, Frost, and Coleridge. Such poems as The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and The Eve of St. Agnes are poems that in classes I have gone over and studied, though more out of a need to complete schoolwork than an actual passion for poetry. Their is no poem that I can recite completely from memory, and I don't think they speak to me in the same way they do others, but I still acknowledge their worth in the world of literature and writing.

Repentance 2.0

“Repentance”

            As I stared at the pristine and well-kept body of my Uncle David in his casket, my blank face belied how much I hated him at the time. I had not known who my Uncle David was, until my parents had informed me, my father holding back his tears as best he could, about his untimely passing due to a heart condition. He was my fathers younger brother, a member of my family, and yet I didn’t feel anything. I understood the reality of death perfectly, and I knew just how badly it effected people and how one is expected to act towards such news, but an eight year old hardly has the capacity to truly mourn a family member they’ve never met. As cruel as it may have looked from an outside perspective, I took the news that we would be attending his funeral at the Woodley family home in Shreveport with displeasure and annoyance.

            “Why should I have to leave home for somebody I don’t even know?” Those were my unspoken thoughts as my mother and I packed my bags for the trip. I knew the answer was simple, “He was family, we have to go” but I never thought of nor knew him as family. In my mind, my family consisted of my mom, my dad, my sister, and our housekeeper and that’s all I needed. I barely had any relationship with my extended family, and our trips to Shreveport to see the rest of the Woodley family were rare and I couldn’t really remember any of my Uncles, Aunts, or Cousin’s.

            My father worked at the time for Nestle and was often traveling, so I was unused to him being around the house very much but was quite used to making the most out of the time he was home. I always wanted us to play together, experience things together, and just have time together as father and son in such a way that it was like he’d never been gone at all. And while after my Uncles’ death he was home for more than usual, he never had any time for me. On some days he’d just be in his room all day working or sleeping and I was explicitly told not to go in. Other days he’d be on the phone, talking to various, nameless family members and I was left staring at him longingly, waiting for a turn that never came. I barely had time with my dad anyway, and now it felt like he was being taken away by my Uncle, this person I had never met.

            As I often did, I brought my concerns to my mother, who could only reply, matter of factly, that “Uncle David was really important to Daddy.” But wasn’t I important? Wasn’t spending time with me, making up for all those weeks he was gone, also as vitally important?  When you’re a kid, at least in my case, you can feel so self-righteous and indignant towards things, believing you have the right to be the most important thing in the universe that you can’t stand to see otherwise. As innocent as children can be, they can be just as rotten if pushed a certain way or if they’re not given what they want or demand.

            And before I knew it, we were at the airport waiting for our plane to be ready. Excited kids bounced around in their seats, some running around while their parents chided them, adults sitting patiently as adults tend to do, and I was simply sitting at our seat staring blankly at my father next to me. He had been wearing the same expression for weeks, but only now could I truly describe it. It was a face that conveyed loss, that a part of his whole as a person had been forcibly ripped from him well before he was ready to part with it, and the life moving forward around him just seemed empty. I watched him, praying silently that he’d look in my direction, give me that genuine smile of his and talk to me like he always has. But he never did.

            I can say for a fact that the airplane ride to Shreveport was the best part of the entire trip, if only for the fact that I had a new game for my Gameboy and a Power Rangers playset to keep both my mind entertained and my imagination flowing. But even the toys and games couldn’t stray my mind away from the issue that was plaguing me, and I hoped in earnest that things would improve when we arrived and settled down in Shreveport. But it didn’t. My father continued to ignore me in favor of his brothers and sisters, whose names and faces became jumbled up as I kept being introduced to them one after another. Anita, Joe, Paul, Cecilia… they were all just names that came in one ear and instantly out the other in quick succession. I didn’t care for this onset of family members, nor did I care for the cousins who formed their own cliques and left me behind. All I wanted was for my father to look at me, and spend that quality father/son time with me that a father is supposed to do.

            With repeated denials of my desires and it appearing as though it was bound to continue, I acted in the natural way for a eight-year old: I threw tantrums for attention. Well, a tantrum might be a misnomer for my actions at Shreveport, because at that age I could be very destructive when angered.  I felt like I was in a competition for my dad’s affection against people who could somehow capture his attention at the slightest word, whether it be my extended family making small talk or just the mere mention of my Uncle David, and so I acted in such a way that I knew he’d pay attention to me. I deliberately appeared to be in a bad mood, mouths blown up to such a degree that a pufferfish would find it commendable, as mute as those Blue-Men group fellows on T.V., and adding a distinct hint of rage to my voice to convey to others that I was not someone to be approached. But my parents would always know what I really wanted, that all I really needed was for someone to listen to me and give me affection and I’d be back to my normal self in no time.

            But it didn’t work; at least not on the one person I wanted it to effect. My father continued with his daily routine of speaking to his brothers and sisters, likely discussing past memories of Uncle David that I had little care for. Laughing one second and holding back tears in the next, their reminiscing contained an aspect of joy that I had lost in recent days. My mother paid attention to me of course, but she couldn’t provide the fatherly attention I wanted and merely gave numerous unsatisfying reasons as to why my father was busy. And so I continued being a brat, a cold, angry, and uninspired brat, and then I believe karma answered in kind. The trip took a major turn for the worse as I received numerous injuries, from sprains, to accidentally falling off a high clubhouse, and even being assaulted by a chicken. It was as if god were trying to punish me for my outburst in such a time of mourning and yet it did not stop me. I only began to feel even more hatred towards the person who had posthumously caused all of this to happen: my Uncle David.

            In retrospect, a boy who had never truly suffered a major familial loss could never have understood what his father, or his extended family was going through. I had always had my sister, my housekeeper, and my two parents close by, so despite understanding death, I had never felt the pain of it. I had been sad about losing things sure, but it was always for material and trivial objects. Maybe in some regards my father was more human than I was at that age.

            And so came my uncle’s funeral where I, bitter and aggravated, asked my father if I could see his body so that I may finally see the face of the person whom I’d come to hate. My Uncle David didn’t look very different from most men, maybe different from my father, but he certainly didn’t fit the demonic image my seven year old mind came up with. That of a horny devil in ridiculous garb of cape and armor, laughing from some far away location as I suffered for his sake and to his pleasure. I remained eerily quiet and detached throughout the procession and the ride to the graveyard, refusing to care anymore about this tribute to the man who had stolen my father.

            I was then reminded of my Grandmother’s funeral, specifically something said to me there. I was far, far younger at the time, and was not prepared mentally for the long and arduous nature of a funeral. I was a boy used to running around in the grass and actively playing, not long speeches and services by priests. What I remember distinctly is coming out of the funeral crying because of how terrible I had felt about sitting around and not being allowed to do anything, and a priest came up to me and said “I am sorry for your loss” as if he believed I was crying over my Grandmother. At the time I thought of just how appropriate the line would be at this funeral, while now I can only feel the bitter irony stinging at my heart in both instances.

After the main procession we headed with the Casket to the graveyard. I walked around the graveyard, passing by grave after grave, sometimes strafing to and thro to amuse myself, and then I saw my father standing in front of a grave. He took note of my presence immediately, and looked at me with a sincere and almost tired smile that I hadn’t seen in what felt like ages. He asked me how I was and I answered him, in the same, subtly gruff tone, that I was okay. There were sounds of birds in the air as well as flowers flying about, and the grass smelled fresh and nice. My father had finally spoken to me, but it did not feel like the victory I had craved. I honestly expected the conversation to end there, but instead my father began talking about my Uncle and what an experience this had been for him.

“Your Uncle David… he had a lot of problems, problems he was trying to deal with on his own so no one would worry. He wanted to be okay for all the people who cared about him, his family, all his fans… he was a Quaterback for the Miami Dolphins, and he was really popular. We had to make this a private funeral just so they wouldn’t all swarm around here. Oh God… I remember David and I running that paper route together as kids, and how we’d always…always get up early in the morning to do it. Then we’d practice football together at school and he’d be off to practice with his team. It was just, just a lot of good times. Your Uncle was a great person. Do you remember the first time you met him? That time he came over with Grandma to our house?”

            That specific phrase struck a chord with me. I had actually met him before? “The two of you really got along. I remember all that time you spent together watching T.V. and talking in British Accents.” I remembered a point in my history eerily similar to that, and I recalled it as one of the best and most enjoyable nights of my life, but the name of the adult I had spent it with remained a blur. My brain stopped working immediately and shifted all focus to recreating the image of that man, and as my father was left on the verge of tears, I realized in horror that the adult and my Uncle David were one in the same. It was an instance when my Uncle had visited us with my Grandmother, and he and I had spent a long time together talking, watching cartoons and speaking to each other in British accents as if we were members of the Beatles.

            My face was left agape by the revelation that two adults, one who I had loved very much as a child, and one who I had come to hate with unjustified anger, were the same men. As I continued to stare at the crying face of my father, I realized just how much of a monster I had been to people completely undeserving. My Uncle was not the villain of this story, for I had taken the role myself out of misguided spite.  I had been selfish and cruel to people I loved and a man who I had once immensely respected. It was in that instance, that very instance, that I wanted to die, to atone, to never have to see my father and feel the shame of what I’ve done or worse, risk that he’d look at me with shame.

            I was completely passive on the trip back home, and I silently crawled to my bedroom carrying a guilt unbeknownst to the rest of my family. I lay on my bed and reflected on my sins and how much the pain of that trip had been well deserved. My fathers love and attention were now like the blessings of an angel that were undeserved to a demon such as myself. I recalled my Uncle David’s face, his plain, blank face in his deep, deep sleep. How could I repent? How could I ever make up for what I’ve done?

            It was then that I came to a decision, one to atone for my actions by being a better person than I had ever been before. Never again would I let my selfish desires negatively impact another, nor would I let ignorance cause me to make a terrible mistake. I would always try to be a genuinely good person, even when it came at a disadvantage to me, and improve on my negative qualities. It was honestly the type of life-changing wish a kid could make in a second and then just give up in a week out of fatigue, and even now I’m not sure whether I’ve really accomplished anything or made up for my mistakes. But I still remember that funeral, I still remember that face, and I always remember to keep trying to make up for it. 

Fixing Nemo

I found this story to be very interesting and informative. I had never really given a second, or even really one, thought towards the subject of fish care and medicine so it was certainly an experience reading about it. The author of the article used the facts and the opinions of the people she interviewed effectively to convey how fish medicine is steadily growing and what it entails for veterinarians. The author also used the story of The Golden One as a way to creatively express both a story involving fish medicine while also conveying how and why it is a growing practice.

The journalism parts of the article are very evident in the quotes from professionals on the subject of fish medicine, and facts such as "diagnostics range from a basic exam ($40), blood work ($60) and X-rays ($55) to the advanced: ultrasound ($175), CAT scans ($250)." The author also brings her own POV into the story, such as "I stared into Sushi's tank for hours. Marsha put the ''Twin Peaks'' theme song on repeat, and I thought, Fun fish." These both work to keep the reader informed and interested in reading more.

Stationary

As I sat on that bench, waiting for my 3:47 train to arrive in all its grandeur, I reflected on what had brought me here. The sun was scorching and I was stuck wearing a torn up long sleeve checkered shirt with wrinkly khaki pants with a couple of small holes on multiple sides, an unfortunate result of a lack of funds and an inability to plan ahead. My eyes were groggy, my mouth was stuck in a frown, and my hair was a mess.

I should never have been in this city for this long.

It didn't seem like I was the only one uncomfortable though, as to my side or front there were folks with saggy eyes and composures that reeked of exhaustion. There was a kid running back and forth near the rails, obviously unconcerned with the chance he'd make one wrong step and fall, though his playfulness struck me as more of an attempt to wade off the apathetic and tired air of the adults around him more than anything else.

Actually, he's pretty darn close to the edge... is he alone? Is nobody going to calm him down so he doesn't end up falling in? Should I... and as if on cue an older gentleman steps up and puts his hand on the kids shoulder and saves me the trouble of thinking about it. He's not too rough with the kid, a little tense, and it looks like he's setting him straight. The kid doesn't seem to get a lick of what's coming out of the guys face, he almost looks like a dog. What a nice dad though, if that's what he is anyway. Better than mine at least. All my old mans ever good for is to be an excuse for when its time for me to make an exit.

Jim said it was cancer this time. Or was it still cancer? Doesn't matter, I just needed a reason to leave and using my fathers failing health as an excuse tends to end any questions about my departure. I'm not even sure if I'll bother to visit while I'm in Santa Ana. I doubt he's been asking for me anyways, since Jim  was the only son that existed to him. I could have fallen onto the tracks like that kid and be run over and my old man would be too busy talking with Jim to notice. I can see it now "Sir, we regret to inform you that your son has passed away..." says the imaginary response unit to the scene, "Yes, yes alright then, now Jim I really think you should look closer at these schools..." continues my father. I don't know if college was what they were always talking about, but it probably was at some point. The president says school is important after all.

I don't know why I act so bitter about it. Old man Ryder never gave a darn about me, so I never got the abuse. I never really got much of anything really, I was just the thing people acknowledged but showed no regard for, which I guess made me a moving piece of furniture. So I sat where I was, just as I am now,waiting for something to happen to me that never did. I went to school, got decent grades, made conversation with a few of my fellow boys and girls, and that was the most my life ever moved. When ever I came back to that cobble of an apartment on McFadden, things just stopped and I was left on some kind of hold that never progressed. That's at least one of the reasons I left.

"Why are you leaving? You're barely into high school and I'm off to college in a few weeks... whose going to take care of dad?" Asked Jim, as if he had no idea, but I think he did understand, he just couldn't accept it. We were in the apartment, and I had just finished packing the bare essentials I'd need, money I'd saved up, and whatever food I could fit in my bag. I was almost to the door when he confronted me, and when he asked I let out the truth. "There's nothing for me here. This has never been a home and it never will be. I'm nobody here." That was likely the most passionate I had ever been about something. "No... no, you know dad can't survive on his own, we're all he has left. His friends stopped coming to see him, he's... he's not well. He needs..." the sound of a gargled and monstrous cough interrupted Jim, and I knew then that old man Ryder had lit another bud.

"I don't owe him anything. I don't owe you anything. If I'm ever going to really live, I need to get out of here and be on my own for a while. If you need to reach me, you can call my cell number, it'll probably be the same for a while." I spoke with a righteous fury that scared even me. I guess I had really had enough. "I can't leave him like this. He'll whither away if there isn't anyone to still watch over him, and what are you going to do with your life without even a high school diploma? No, you have to stay here okay?" I could smell the ash coming from the room to my left, our fathers little "lounge," and that had drowned out my brothers pleading. I turned my head from my brother, to the "lounge" and then towards the old mahogany door that's faded wood spoke for this entire family in my mind.

I walked towards the door when I felt a strain on my shoulder, which was really my brothers hand grabbing me and then promptly shoving me to the side. He put his hands on both side of my head and started squeezing it, screaming out in desperation, with spit coming in full force, "You don't get to leave! You don't get to leave me here! Not now, not when I can finally leave! Not when it can all finally end... you don't have the right to leave and forget your duty!" I had never seen my brother like this, nor did I understand why he had become so frantic. Why should he care whether my father lives or dies? Shouldn't he want him dead? Why can't he leave him just as easily as I can?

My rapid succession of questions did not interfere with my desire for self-preservation, so before I knew it I had kicked Jim in the crotch and headbutted him into a wall. I ran out after that. And so there I was, alone in the world and without a true path to follow. I hopped on the first train to anywhere and traveled.

So why then, do I keep coming back? It didn't hit me until I had made my first "home" in LA. I got a nice part-time job, a place with decent rent, and I survived. I met a few people, made some friends and a living, and at first it really felt like I had made a life for myself, that I was moving forward. But part of it didn't feel real, and I didn't feel real. I exchanged greetings, pleasantries, jokes, and such but it never came from my heart. I couldn't be as genuine as the people around me, or as loving, and I eventually realized why. I had never truly moved on from my family, and that I was still stationary emotionally. Because of that household, those people whom I had to call a family, I had never truly grown as a person and I couldn't fit in with others. Nothing has really changed, and the longer I stay in a place the more I truly realize it and the more it hurts.

So I keep going to back to Santa Ana, I keep starting over, because it's all I can do. I can't truly go back to that home, but I'm unable to live anywhere else. I still feel like I'm trapped in that house with no love or care, treated as nothing by my own father, and nothing about that will change. It is at this point of reflection that I hear the chime of what is likely my train, and I promptly stand at attention to greet it with my bag of essentials in hand. My phone in my pocket then alerts me with its own chime that I'm receiving a call. It's from Jim. I start walking towards the yellow line near the tracks to enter into the train as a I listen to what he has to say "Aaron... it's me. I... God, Aaron it's... it's dad. He just died this morning... I... I don't know what to do." And thus, things change and move forward.

So Long Ago

I found "So Long Ago" by Richard Bausch to be a very engaging and pleasurable read. His diction was superb and complex, and the stories melancholic tone really helped to convey its message to the reader. I found what Mr. Bausch had to say about memory and how we treat big events in our life to be very profound, and his bringing up of how our contemporary selves look on our actions in the past was very relateable to me. His attention to detail in regard to the events in his life was also quite impressive, and gave a clear image of what he was describing.

There are numerous instances where Mr. Bausch uses pathos to appeal to the reader. Such an instance includes "At the time, I wasn’t old enough to understand the difference between the humoring of children, which is a large part of any talk with them, and truth-telling," where Bausch gets readers to feel and understand the narrator's life as a child and how naive he was. Another instance of Pathos is where the narrator questions his son about joyful events in the past, only to learn that he does not remember them, resulting in his son being unaware "Innocently, simply, without the slightest trace of perplexity or anything of what I was feeling, which was sorrow," conveying how the narrator is disappointed his son has forgotten periods of joy between the two.  Bausch also uses Pathos to convey the narrators  feelings in regards to his Grandmothers funeral and seeing her dead body, saying how h  "stood there and looked with a kind of detached, though respectful silence at this, aware of it not as death, quite, but death’s signature" in response to seeing her dead body. 

Mr. Bausch's diction and pathos make the story very powerful and moving, and conveying both innocence and maturity in different time periods. The story's similarity to my own past experiences makes it all the more meaningful to myself.