Trying something new can be challenging but is almost always rewarding in the end. In English, writing the poems was certainly challenging, but I learned a lot about myself in the end. In the beginning, I had writers block. I didn't know what I was going to write about, and I had no idea where to start. Then it hit me. In class, Fitz told me that the subject of the poem didn't matter; he said the content was what mattered. With this advice in mind, I chose to write a poem about not knowing what to write a poem about. The poem was about my experience writing the poem, and I added a lot of detail and images on top of actions to make the content good. I quickly realized that once you come up with a topic that is relevant to you, the words just flow. On top of that, I discovered that I enjoy writing poetry. I am glad that we were given this assignment, and for me, it has been a positive learning experience.
Chains:
Chugging like a freight train,
He flies around the net.
Head up, he is heading for the far goal.
Bump,
The blade twists into the ice,
Violently throwing him down onto the slippery surface
And sending him crashing into the boards.
Pain, pain is all he can feel in his body.
Yelling, eyes closed, he clutches the ankle in agony.
He sees a lady come onto the ice,
She talks to him, tries to calm him down.
Fifteen minutes later, the building rings.
The men in blue come in,
Putting him on the bed,
He sees the red and blue lights of the car.
They put him in and drive away.
Flash forward four hours.
On the coach, he lies.
Eyes closed, he rests.
Still, he feels the pain.
He wants to get up and walk,
But the pain tells him no.
He wants to get up and run,
But the pain tells him no.
He wants to get up and break free,
But the pain tells him no;
It holds his body down like chains.
The Pirate:
Unperturbed,
He sits alone.
Mind in deep thought.
He is as quiet as a windless air.
Hand trembling with a pencil,
A blank white page lays,
Resting on the old, brown, dusty table.
With only dots and scrapes,
The paper lays motionless,
Waiting to catch wind.
He thinks and thinks,
And thinks some more,
But his mind is blank,
Hollow as a cave,
His sail is still;
There is no wind.
With persistence he may find,
The right gust of wind.
For now there is nothing,
All is quiet but the tapping of the worn
down
yellow pencil.
The boys mind is cold and dusk,
waiting for a spark or lightbulb to go off.
He can write about anything,
But can think of nothing,
and so he sits alone.
He is a pirate on his boat,
lacking wind,
On a quest for the golden treasure chest.
Alas the wind comes to him,
what is it,
it does not matter,
for the ocean is his and he is the sailor.
The tide is weak,
But at he is off to the races.
As the ocean gets deeper,
The winds get windier.
The pirate finds the path,
And he goes on his quest.
Chains:
Chugging like a freight train,
He flies around the net.
Head up, he is heading for the far goal.
Bump,
The blade twists into the ice,
Violently throwing him down onto the slippery surface
And sending him crashing into the boards.
Pain, pain is all he can feel in his body.
Yelling, eyes closed, he clutches the ankle in agony.
He sees a lady come onto the ice,
She talks to him, tries to calm him down.
Fifteen minutes later, the building rings.
The men in blue come in,
Putting him on the bed,
He sees the red and blue lights of the car.
They put him in and drive away.
Flash forward four hours.
On the coach, he lies.
Eyes closed, he rests.
Still, he feels the pain.
He wants to get up and walk,
But the pain tells him no.
He wants to get up and run,
But the pain tells him no.
He wants to get up and break free,
But the pain tells him no;
It holds his body down like chains.
The Pirate:
Unperturbed,
He sits alone.
Mind in deep thought.
He is as quiet as a windless air.
Hand trembling with a pencil,
A blank white page lays,
Resting on the old, brown, dusty table.
With only dots and scrapes,
The paper lays motionless,
Waiting to catch wind.
He thinks and thinks,
And thinks some more,
But his mind is blank,
Hollow as a cave,
His sail is still;
There is no wind.
With persistence he may find,
The right gust of wind.
For now there is nothing,
All is quiet but the tapping of the worn
down
yellow pencil.
The boys mind is cold and dusk,
waiting for a spark or lightbulb to go off.
He can write about anything,
But can think of nothing,
and so he sits alone.
He is a pirate on his boat,
lacking wind,
On a quest for the golden treasure chest.
Alas the wind comes to him,
what is it,
it does not matter,
for the ocean is his and he is the sailor.
The tide is weak,
But at he is off to the races.
As the ocean gets deeper,
The winds get windier.
The pirate finds the path,
And he goes on his quest.
