Daddy's Little Girl (Danielle Fugate, Ashley Reid, Stacey Pusey) (Group Project)

These three writers developed this poem based on the following prompt: In a similar style to Sylvia Plath's "Daddy," write a poem called "Daddy's Little Girl"; thus, the speaker of your poem is the father or estranged husband of Plath's speaker. The writers had about 25 minutes to write the poem. After working on various exercises, the entire class listened to Sylvia Plath reading her poem "Daddy."

You do not do, you do not do
You never did, you always knew
What I was, a man of
passion when love was new.

I didn't have to kill you,
you did for yourself.
Cold to the core, burdened by two,
Not strong enough. It all fell
through.

If I am a vampire, you are
my cross. The very image of
you burns and sears.

A broken soul before me,
but I gave you my sanity.
You only borrowed; didn't
you know I'd need it
back?

My darling wife, you
hollow being, I'm through.
___________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Published with writers' permission

A Pet's Love (Hank Weikel, Michelle Miller, Colleen Pisano) (A Group Project)

These three writers developed this poem based on the following prompt: In a similar style to Ted Hughes' "The Lovepet," write a poem called "A Pet's Love"; thus, the speaker of your poem is the estranged wife of Hughes' speaker. The writers had about 25 minutes to write the poem.

Is he a blessing or a curse?
it overtook my life
He watched it passed by
I nourished it
hoping for healthy growth
looking for signs of life
He paraded around with others
I waited
it overtook my emotions
He ignored it
It started to fade away
I held it tight
off again it went
I lingered a moment
waiting for return
then off I went
finding another way
to pull him in tight
I watched its sickness spread to our children
So I tried to heal it
But I felt it dying in him
It overtook my life
As it left his

___________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Published with writers' permission

So Muslims are Terrorizing Americans (Dera Nevius, Ryan King, Lauren Wollschlager) (A Group Project)

(This poem was created by students participating in an in-class writing excercise. Their assignment: to respond to Jimmy Santiago Baca's "So Mexicans are Taking Jobs from Americans" by writing their own poem. They had about 25 minutes to plan, edit, revise, and write the poem, just as it appears below.)

September 11, 2001
A plane went down,
and you're on the run.
When the plane crashed,
our guns went up.

To your land we went,
to run amok.
Your sand is now our grass.
Your back our bullets grasp;
we bury the last of the last.

Nuclear weapons won't help you now,
No mushrooms will be seen in the clouds.
Chemical gear to be worn by troops,
From plastic helmets to plastic boots.
Communism stops in all the lands.

Freedom of speech,
and religion for all.
Death to the ones,
Who try to stand tall.
Oppose the U.S. and you will fall.

No armies left
To stand against us.
We just so happen to be the power
In NATO's crutch.
So Muslims are terrorizing Americans.

__________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Posted with writers' permission

For My Husband, Leaving His Lover (Michelle Miller)

(This writer responded to Anne Sexton's "For My Lover, Returning to His Wife," by writing a poem from the wife's perspective. I titled the poem.)

I sat waiting...
supper on the table
Dirty pots flung about the room;
it's me, I'm not stable.

The phone rings, and it's you.
I sit awaiting your excuse,
Your children cry.
To you I am the one to misuse.

I clean up the table,
knowing deep in my heart
work has not kept you late
you're with her looking at art.

I hear from friends,
about your damn parades
all over town.
Not even taking cover under shades.

I am your wife;
I've given you three children
We're supposed to be your life
And will once again

For I know her kind,
just for the moment.
She'll be gone soon, and to me,
to me, you'll come for consolement.

_________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Posted with writer's permission

Whiten the Earth (Ashton Paul)

(This writer responded to Stanley Kunitz's "Touch Me," by writing a poem from a different perspective.)

Winter never comes, I fear
The chill in the air never occurs
Just last year
When I could play in the snow
and bundle up until I could barely move
then come in late at night to sip hot cocoa
of the steaming drink of heaven
to warm my heart when my body was cold
it was my favorite thing about York, PA
the seasons brought so many new feelings
The hazy sky told tales of white flakes
soon to fall upon the land
I gazed outside from the warm fire
heating my cozy living room
and for the first time I really appreciated life
The roads were closed
I was off school for the day
I long for the wonderful season
I will no longer experience in Florida
Remembering, remembering, remembering
That part of my life that's now gone
One season each year
*

but now, never again.

*

So let the white pieces of heaven

fall from the sky in York

and bring happiness to the children who

may truly appreciate the beauty of winter

Fall upon me, don't you remember how

we used to play?

Whiten the earth! Remind me of my youth.

___________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006

Posted with permission of writer

Gun Crazy (Casey Rose)

(This writer responded to Dorothy Allison's "Gun Crazy” (non-fiction) by Dorothy Allison by writing a poem with the same title.)

My uncle, Bo, was the shootin’ kind
He’d sit and clean his guns, with nothin’ else on his mind
“You gotta sit still, perfectly still,” he’d say of the great outdoors,
Still sittin’ cleanin’, tippin’ back a Coors

Come to find out, Bo ain’t never shot nothin’ in his whole life
We heard it all from Nessa, his dear wife
“Let me help you,” I begged Bo to help me help one night
He laughed in my face, and maybe he was right

I just wanted to learn to shoot a gun
I don’t know why, maybe just for fun
Maybe I should ask Uncle Jack, maybe he’ll teach me
Just you wait, Uncle Bo, just you wait and see

High school came along, Anne was my best friends
Best friends, I say, friends ‘till the end
One Sunday we were bored and she invited me to go plinking
“Plinking?” I said, what’s plinking, I was thinking

“You know, shootin’ bottles and cans,” Anne said
And over to the woods behind the mental hospital we went, Anne led
“You got a gun,” I asked Anne wonderin’ where she got a gun
“Mama got me a rifle for my birthday,” and then it was done

Anne’s mama was somethin’ special, I believe
A nurse with a dead husband, and when mentioned would leave
She’d drink cocktails everynight sittin’ in her Lazy-Boy
She was a lot of things, and one of them was certaintly not coy

So Anne shot at a couple bottles, and I watched her carefully
I was so envious, so excited, so simply filled with glee
I wanted to be taught, and Anne wanted to teach me
So I shot and shot again, “Goddamn!”, I shot a gun, ME!

_____________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Posted with writer's permission

I Want a Wife (Stacey Pusey)

(Note: This poignant poem is a literary journal response to Judy Brady's feminist essay "I Want a Wife.")

I am a wife
I want a wife

I am a feeder
I want someone to cook for me

I am a worker
I want someone to work hard to help support the family

I am a lover
I want someone to care for me always and take care of my needs

I am a maid
I want someone to clean after me

I am a gardener
I want someone to help make my home appealing

I am a shopper
I want someone to drive out for last moment items

I am a mom
I want someone to take care of my kids

I am a doctor
I want someone to care for my family, as well as me, when we are sick

I am a shuttle
I want someone to rush around to make sure everything gets done

I am a motivator
I want someone to push harder to ensure success of my loved ones

I am a receptionist
I want someone to be organized and make sure all tasks get completed

I am a dictator
I want someone else to take the blame for punishments

I am an emergency call
I want someone to be there for me when I need help

I am a wife
I am alone
I want a wife

_______________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Printed with poet's permission

Beautiful Martyr Mother (Danielle Fugate)

(Note: the author wrote this poem as a response to Amiri Baraka’s “Beautiful Black Women.” Baraka’s poem brings to mind her personal remembrances.)

Beautiful martyr mother, fight, never break. Love them, win.

They’re of your blood, bring them back. Love them, win.

Innocence, dry tears, fight back. Fight for them for family is

the basis of love, basic need. Win. Love them. Unfair

prosecution. Find the meaning of family values, win, don’t lose sight of

love, family is the bonding of blood, bring them back

to their rightfully deserved home. Beautiful martyr mother, roll with

the punches and keep on movin’. They need you. They cry for

family, they cry for their true home, they need you. Win.

They need you, fighting, unfair prosecution. These horrible judgments of

innocent, family values reign, the jury, win, they cry, and their tears

soon shall dry in justified justice. The tensions are high hanging in limbo, their

innocence and purity, the unfair prosecution, the fight for values, the loss of meaning

and absence of family. Family. Mothers. They need you. Closer to values

closer to justice, never give up fighting for your constitutionally justified values.

Mothers.

Keep on fighting. Bring them back to where they should belong. Win them. Mothers.

Never

stop fighting, never, win them, dry tears, build values, keep fighting and

win

them, keep pressing for family values, their tears will be gone soon, justification is

nearly worth the wait, siblings, family values, never break

__________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Printed with permission of author

The Empty Space On The Paper (Lauri Kubuitsile)

I remember how I sat huddled, my arm around my brother, on the corner of the sofa. The man who brought the news wore a black coat that held the cold from outside. His hat hung in his hands in front of him and dripped rain water onto the wooden floor. As the water collected in a little pool at his feet, he told my father that it was over. My father listened in silence because he had been told that was how grown up men accepted such news. He nodded his head until the man stopped speaking and turned to go.

“Thank you for coming in person, that was very thoughtful of you,” my father said at the door.

The man stopped. “I nearly forgot.” Then he came back into the house and stood next to me and my brother. He reached into the pocket of his cold coat and pulled out a folded paper and he said, “She told me to give you two this.”

We looked at each other, Thomas reached out his small hand and took the paper from the man. Then the man in black left.

I was twelve and Thomas was eight. We were old enough to know what was going on. We’d been waiting for the day for some time, everyone was. It wasn’t everyday that they hung your mother, especially in our small town.

A handful of reporters had been milling around our street for days. Most had gone up to Austin where the execution was taking place but a few, maybe the second string, the ones who might finally get their byline on page eighteen if only they could get a few good quotes from the family, milled around our neighborhood. When they first arrived, my father warned, “Don’t say a single word to any of them.” So with them outside and us holed up inside, we had waited.

When the man in black left, Daddy sat down on one of the straight back chairs at the oak dining room table. He sat silently with his hands hanging at his sides, staring straight ahead at the blank wall. I took Thomas’s hand and we went upstairs to my bedroom.

We sat on the edge of the bed and Thomas started crying quietly. “If Daddy hears you crying he’ll be angry, “ I said dry eyed. Daddy’s strict rules about girls and boys didn’t allow for crying from Thomas. I looked at the note still clutched in his hand. I was scared of it. What did she want to say to us? We were only children. I wondered if she had remembered that.

With shaking hands I reached out for the paper. I tried to think of Mama. It had been a long time since we’d seen her. Once her appeals were finished, she begged Daddy to stop taking us to the prison on visiting day. He’d go alone and we’d stay out at Aunt Carmen’s. He’d come home the next day, his face pale, his clothes smelling of beer. Aunt Carmen, Daddy’s older sister, always said the same thing.

“The trip go okay?”

“Sure did,” Daddy’d say. Then we’d come back home and it would be two or three days before Daddy’s skin would go back to its right color and he’d talk normal, not as if somebody had handed him the lines.

Sitting on my bed, with Thomas crying next to me, I tried to conjure up Mama’s face. I wanted a picture of her face in my mind before I read the letter, but it wouldn’t come. The only thing I saw picture clear were her hands. No matter how much I tried, only her hands were there. The short fingers with thick wrinkly knuckles. She always said they were the ugliest part of her. I never thought they were ugly, though, to me they looked friendly and used. Later, after the execution, I used to wish Thomas or I had gotten her hands so that I could see them once in awhile, but we had my father’s hands with long fingers and small, tidy knuckles.

It’s funny how little, irrelevant details remain. Things like the color of the paper. It was off white, almost yellow, with blue lines drawn on it, like a sheet torn from an old exercise book. The writing was slanted to the left and all of the letters were tall and thin, as if space were a problem, even though it wasn’t because most of the page was empty, only the one line across the top. I often hoped she meant to write more. Maybe someone stopped her, or she couldn’t find the right words and then it was too late to fill the page as she had intended. I think that when I’m being charitable.

I was thinking of Mama’s friendly hands when I opened the yellowed paper torn from the exercise book. I saw her picking up the pen and writing in the funny way she had. I read the words out loud so Thomas could hear them through his tears.

“Forget me and all of the sadness I brought to you.”

That was it. No “to my wonderful children” at the beginning or “I love you” at the end. I turned the paper over to check the other side. Nothing. I sat for a minute. I thought maybe it had not been intended for us. Maybe the man in black got it wrong. Maybe this note was for someone else and our note was somewhere out in the rain in the pocket of his cold coat.

As Thomas’s crying grew louder, I accepted that the man in black wouldn’t have gotten such an important thing wrong. I took the yellowed paper in both of my hands and I tore it in two. Then I tore it again and tore and tore and tore until it was nothing more than pieces. No more words. Just yellowed pieces with a few drops of ink, a spot here, a spot there; incoherent and harmless. Then I held the pieces above my head and let them rain onto the floor where they fell like confetti at a party.

The End

___________________________

Lauri Kubuitsile is an award winning freelance writer and author living in Botswana. Her articles can be found on four continents if you search hard enough and her most recently published book is the novella The Fatal Payout (Macmillan 2005).

This story was an entry in Writer's Weekly Winter 2006 24-hour contest.

She can be reached at:

centraladvert(at)botsnet(dot)bw.

Greenhorn (Matthew Knaub)

In a time aching for remembrance,
Ancient creatures lived, far beyond our grasp,
In a land enchanted by God’s old past,
Outside of man’s domain and repentance,
These beings with a holy innocence,
Could not know how man is always corrupt,
So when one man came, he interrupted,
Life looked above for divine transcendence,
To find only that he traveled too far,
A man, not evil, only oblivious,
Without warning, prediction to forlorn,
He came, a quest, a goal he was after,
Who knew the end would come out of his kiss,
He brought the demise, his name was Greenhorn.

Just as he determined, spoke a sparkle,
Seven feet forward, through a briar patch,
A glimmer of light made quite an eye catch,
He crawled, hands and knees, to the miracle,
With his hand he clasped the bushes’ barbed branch,
A jolt of pain as he began to bleed,
The thorn had pierced his flesh, a bloody bead,
Fell to the dirt, silent he took his chance,
With his arms he spread the bushes to see,
His blood now stained the thicket crimson red,
No matter as the vision came to sight,
In front of him rested the proof, his key,
Not the unicorn, something else instead,
Magic was proven, this sight was his light.

"You are right, brownie, but what do I do?
I don’t want my presence to alarm them,
Humans are forbidden in these parts," then,
Greenhorn waited for instructions how to.
The brownie came closer towards his ear,
"They will be kind to accept your presence,
Long as they believe that you are pleasant.
Look at me, big man," stood and proved no fear,
"I, Nudnik, have no fear of human souls,"
Standing two inches from his left eyeball,
"The rejuvenating water does good,
I doubt any of them would think to oppose,
Get naked and swim. There’s no need to call,"
Nudnik hopped off and back on the wood.

To eyes that have never seen a human,
Man sure appears interesting in ways,
And to lips that yearned to see how man tastes,
Never before known the bite of his sin,
Man circled now by seven blue beauties,
Toe touched his back, spiraled under water,
The sprite submerged deep as Greenhorn watched her,
In water they must be able to breathe,
Their aquatic blue figures were perfect,
One sprite came face to face with destiny,
She gave her hand to the man openly,
Her flesh felt as good as he could predict,
"Heavenly angel," he was stunned to meet,
"What shall I say?" he must remain friendly.

His vicious prosecutor was a beast,
It stood tall with seven heads and ten horns,
Each head and horn had a body of thorns,
To scorn the wicked with hell full of teeth,
To grind the sinners that turned 666.
The blessed and the cursed number of the Beast,
To guard the number, on sinners they feast,
The seventeen members made quite a mix,
A noble race created by the gods,
To protect the actions of the Goddess,
The number is the Goddess and his sin,
Ample recipe for creating Gods,
That are without sin and truly modest,
Now here to place blame onto Greenhorn’s sin.

_________________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

Forever in our Heaven (Geneva Doll)

Above a life of vanity
Balanced in a starry sea, a world of love,
Clearly placed for all to see, though
Darling William, this world calls only to you and me.

Envious any man would be
For what I’m going to say is true.
Golden and bright as each star shines,
Hardly compares to you.

Indeed men may cry, the heavens were never made for
"Just one guy," although a
Knowledgeable men can not deny,
Lucky is the man, who is the universe in her eye.

Miles above the shallow hearts,
Neatly tucked into the evening sky,
Our world sits high, made of memories
Pieced together never to be torn apart, despite who may try.

Quite rapidly we soar into the unknown,
Reaching and collecting stars as we pass by.
Somehow I’m sure in this love we have both grown,
Taller and taller, together, until the day we die.

Under the stars we snuggle and gaze
Vast heavens above our heads, we only need to wait,
Wait until we rise to our heaven and happily live out our days.
Xanthippe I promise to never be, you’ll only receive all of my praise.

You and I have a love pure and true
Zealously I await my forever, in our heaven, with you

_____________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

Continental Tapestry (Rasharria Emery)

How beautiful were your diamond minds.
How beautiful was your soul.
I spoke of you with brazen beauty,
when your heart was solid gold.
I laid within your land,
listening to echoing cries of pain and sorrow.
I watched as you reigned Queen, Africa.
The promise land.

You gave me the cold shoulder,
Still I longed for you.
Trapped in your glaciers,
I hold onto you.
Looking into your sky,
I am still head over heels;
Antarctica oh! How I want to return to you.

Piled high,
Across a sea.
No desert.
No dream.
No ice,
and no streams;
Asia! Asia! Depart from me peacefully.

Return with your lustrous greens,
your foreign accent,
your wildlife serene.
I equate you to peace found within.
I married you into my soul.
I promised myself the day I say I do,
Australia, my love, I shall never let you go.

But I did let go.
I failed in my attempt.
I crossed another sea,
and was swept off my feet.
Standing slanted.
My heart has forsaken my future.
Not comprehending your language,
yet in love with your ways.
Europe will love me ‘til my dying day.

That day has come.
My love has cast me aside.
Abandoned me at the stake.
Carried me out to sea.
Laid me by my flag.
Pledged my foolish pride.
North America picked up where my love had slacked.

Here is where I belong.
The land of my ancestors.
The place my father called home.
Where the sky meets the sea,
where wishes are turned into streams of endless dreams.
South America my true love has rescued me.

________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

The Rock Wall (Christine Deluca)

(Final Exam Essay)

Always keep going, keep looking forward for your next step. Don’t look down, don’t look back, and remember--there’s always something to grab hold of. I remember the first time I tried rock climbing, it was amazing. It felt like I was facing my fears--no--more like facing myself. Keep going--keep climbing--remember that there’s always something to grab a hold of. If you repeat those words to yourself to yourself you can make it to the top. Your team is always there with you, no matter what, and they will never fail you.

Times were tough in my house during my last two years of high school. I had finally come out to my mother and father and they were none too happy, my sister had changed and I couldn’t really talk to her anymore, and my mother was looking into--of all things--conversion therapy. Coming out was one of the hardest things for me to do, and the fact that my mother was not handling it well didn’t make things easier. I tried telling them the "best" way possible, I tried to sit them down and explain that I was still their daughter and nothing would change that, but they wouldn’t have it. After many years of feeling like a freak I had finally come to terms with myself only to have that torn down by my parents. I felt like I had nowhere to go, but I tried to look on the bright side.

Then it came time to face the rest of my world, a.k.a. my friends. I hadn’t told a single one of them yet. We were all at the diner one night--as we always are--and the moment just felt right. I took a deep breath and dove in. "Guys, I have something to tell you." I was met with laughter of all things. I couldn’t understand why they were laughing! "Is this the part where you FINALLY tell us you’re gay?" my one friend asked. I was in shock. After agonizing over when to tell them, after nights of worrying if they would accept me or leave me, they knew! They explained to me that they had known since the day they met me and they were just waiting for the day I was comfortable enough with myself to tell them. I don’t think there has been any other moment in my life so far when I felt more loved and more safe than that night with my boys--my team.

I explained to them about the situation with my parents and how I was torn over what to do about it. I didn’t know whether to go along with my mother’s conversion therapy to make me happy, or stand my ground and be proud of who I was. My best friend, Radeeb, told me to meet him at his house the next morning fully packed for the weekend. He didn’t tell me where we were going.

I asked my mother if I could go and she reluctantly agreed. The next morning I met Radeeb and we got into his car. I was kind of worried to say the least. Radeeb and I have always been the more adventurous of the group, so I didn’t know what he had planned. After a few hours of driving we wound up in Fawn Lake Forest, Pennsylvania. We checked into the cabin we had for the weekend and he told me to get dressed in some warmer clothes and go outside for my beginner’s training. That’s when I saw the rock wall. It was HUGE with sharp edges and steep drops. It didn’t look fun. It didn’t look like beginner’s training. I decided I was not for dying any time soon so I went back to the cabin and sat on the comfy HORIZONTAL bed. Radeeb was furious. He came in the cabin and yelled at me. He told me to go on with "conversion," that I wouldn’t be able to stand my ground anyway so I might as well back down. I cried, he yelled more, and he finally got me up.

Beginner’s training was on the ground thankfully. They explained to us the dynamics of the harness and how to grab on to rocks properly (not that I ever thought there was a right or wrong way to grab a rock). Before we began the climb our professional Mr. Mallia hit us with the infamous pep talk. He began with a quote--"Courage consists of being able to hold on one second longer." He told us we had nothing to fear but ourselves and that as long as we put our faith in our team and our team’s ability to help us through the rough spots we would be okay--there would be no reason to turn back. That speech hit me harder than if I had fallen off the rock wall. I couldn’t not climb after that. It meant so much, and I knew I had to try this. It was hard. There were times we had to stop because the rocks were difficult, but we worked as a team and got through to the top. When we got up there I realized it wasn’t so high--well, it was high, but not as bad as I thought it was going to be. It was just high enough for an amazing view. It felt wonderful. To know that we had earned that view was one of the coolest feelings ever.

While I was climbing I made up a mantra to keep myself going. "Keep going. Don’t look down, don’t look back, and remember there’s always something to grab on to. You can always rely on your team." Today those words are still with me. I decided to stand my ground with my mother--to keep going. I realized that even if it was rough with her there was always something to grab on to, my team--my friends. I don’t look back on the bad times anymore and I know no matter how rough it gets I’ll always have my team.

"Courage consists of being able to hold on one second longer," and I held on, I hold on. I learned that day that the only way is up and if you put your faith in your team and yourself it’s not always as high as it looks but it’s high enough for an amazing view.

____________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Fall 2005

[Posted with permission of writer]
____________________

The following instructions were part of the final exam; students had 75 minutes to complete the writing task:

Alan Sillitoe’s novella "The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner" incorporates the sport of long-distance running as an extended metaphor.

Write a short story, or personal narrative essay (500-750 words) in which you incorporate an extended metaphor involving a sport (not long-distance running--Sillitoe has already done this, and you would be just echoing his story), such as baseball, basketball, swimming, football, etc., or other hard physical activity.

The Funeral (Shannon Arnold)

It hardly did justice for the man;
the absurdity of his folded hands,
and the stillness of the room.
The deep remorse of silence,
marred by coughs and tears,
the occasional quip of a child-like voice.

Attention soon turned to the sound of a soft voice,
the pastor stood rigid, a meek pallid man.
His presence stifled the torrent of tears,
soon to be wiped by moistened hands.
"Please, a moment of silence,
for the dead," he directed the room.

The people in the room
obeyed the doting voice;
bowing their heads they commenced into silence.
Each remembering the man
with absurd folded hands,
the rain outside poured down like tears.

"Dry your sadness and your tears,"
he said unto the room.
A weathered Bible was cradled in his hands.
"This is a celebration of life," announced the voice,
"for a father, husband, and God-fearing man,
whose soul has found eternal peace and silence."

"Eternal peace and silence,
safe from pain and fear and tears.
The body of this man
resides in this room,
but his soul was called by the Lord’s voice,
and carried away in God’s loving hands."

Upon reflection, I sat with folded hands,
a prisoner to the fleeting silence.
Suddenly a voice
full of pained tears
cuts through the room
screaming at the undisturbed man.

A gray-haired woman, with shaking hands,
dashes across the room, breaking the silence.
Her face is full of tears: "You left me," screamed her voice.

__________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005