The rain // Concrete Poem

Moist     drops     falling     to      the    ground.
   E            f             d         h         p          t
   l                            o         e         r           h
   a                           w                   o           e
   s                            n         l          s
   t              l              ,         a                      d
   i              i                        n         p           e
                  q                       d         e            p
                  u                                  r            r
                  i              r         t          i             i
   c              d            e         h         t             v
   i                             t         e          y            e
   t                             u        y                        d
   y                            r
   ,              p                       o          t              s
                  l                        r           h             o
                  u              n       i            e             i
                  m             i        g           y             l
   d             m             n       i                           s
   r              e              g       n           s            
   i              t                        a           t              d
   p                                      t            o             a
                                           e            l              m
                  t                        d            e             p
   p             i                         ,                           e
   i              n                                     f            
   n             g                        r            r              n
   g             ,                         e            o             i
                                            t             m            n
                                            u                           g
                                            r             t
                                                          h
                                            n             e
                                            i      
                                            n            y
                                            g            e
                                                          a
                                                          r
                                                       
                                                         n
                                                          i
                                                          n
                                                           g
                                                         

Dramatic Monologue

Never once have I wondered
About the things I have done. Never once have I considered

The consequences of my actions.

Could it be that I joined the wrong faction,

That I subscribed to incorrect virtue?

Upon my ponderings I’ve come to see what is true.

My wrong doings have learnt to control me,

To control all that I could possibly see.

It was due to a liquid,

A liquid potent enough to turn ones judgement frigid

To the world before them.

‘Sip after sip’ became the anthem

Of my days. I became unstoppable, nobody could help.

As the crater surrounding me grew, I continued to whelp.

Those caught within its radius

Were all lost as though it were a spontaneous

Event. My own blood isolated 

Me. It tore its way through my intoxicated

Veins, fleeing my system as though I were a parasite.

The only comfort I sought was that of my flask,

The only family a real man could ever ask

For. It remained my protector

When my sister passed at the age of twenty-four.

It made me forget the guilt. It comforted 

Me, when I learnt I was to her left when her soul departed,

When I learnt I was the cause of such a collision.

Such a liquid made my vision

Impervious to any pain of such magnitude.

I was invincible, I could conclude.

Upon my ponderings I’ve come to see what is true,

Pour me a glass sir, I require yet another sip of strength to add to my queue.

Personal Essay

The era of one’s childhood is a fleeting affair, time is too quick. It is the lingering taste of sweet orange juice, best served on the sunniest of days. If only another sip could settle the nostalgia. If only those pedestaled moments could be relived, for returning to their context presents no satisfaction. Trying to recreate the sensations, the sentiments, the warm wind that once caressed your pure skin is impossible. It has passed.

Closing the car door, the creak affirming its rusted presence, I looked up at a structure. It was a brick, surrounded by towering cedars. It was made of mortar and brick. It’s scattered green shingles shimmered in the suns rays. The cedars swayed, chanting in the breeze. As I inhaled the atmosphere before me, the soothing grass released its fresh cut fragrance deep into my nose. It was still I followed my mother, as would any timid primate being thrown into a new jungle. Hand in hand, she lead me across the gravel car lot, into that brick.

Beside me, she was standing. I could hear her words and the words of another I had yet to make eye contact with. Those noises were however, so distant, smothered by the white noise of a child’s perception. I was observing the other things. I supposed they were children. They did not behave as children did, they were loud, and rampant. They chased each other and screamed while constant liquid streamed from their nostrils. They could not have been children, they must have been spawn from some feral creature. I later learnt that they were children of the human domain, they became beings I associated with, boys I saw and spoke with everyday. 

Closing the car door, the door continued to creak. I looked up at a brick structure. It was my school. The early morning air was as soft and tender as always, the trees greener as their pigment was coated with the aqueous product of rain. I ran to my tribe, a culture I had become assimilated into. I ran with my tribe, chasing each other, back and forth, our petit feet was cradled by the open sands of our kingdom, our playground. Holes would be dug, castles built, wooden structures scaled and conquered. We were wild chimpanzees exploring the depths of juvenile capacities. Fights would be lost, fights would be won, rules were broken, friendships lost, games were always played. We evolved together, we learned together. United we conquered the shining vinyl halls of our elementary school and it’s mildew perfume. It was a moist fragrance that nobody spoke of, an odour developed over a half century of abuse and dodgy inspections. That was our universe, that was the universe.

Closing the car door, I look up at what was once my school. It was five years since the closing of the 50 year old school, but it had aged two hundred. Green shingles had littered the ground before the roof. The triangular roof’s pointy form had been dulled and caved in, at the corners. Even the sturdy walls trusted to once sheltered young children, had crumbled at the slightest movement of earth. Overgrowth was laying siege to it’s brick walls, trying to penetrate through the broken glass. The cracked bricks were tattered with greenery. Not a single soul could be seen within its perimeter, it was a carcass lost in the woods. Once a prosperous kingdom, now a scene from post apocalyptic Cormac Mccarthy’s ‘The Road.’ The playground we once played in was no more. Only dust and fern remained, the once open sands were gone. The magic we could once experience had disappeared. The trees no longer chanted their joy in the wind, the smell of sweet cedar had turned sour.

After returning to my elementary school for one final time, disappointed in what I had found, I swore I would never return. All that once was, was lost, it was no more. I had come to the realization that one could never return to the great eras of the past. It may feel real, it may seem as though it was experienced just yesterday, but it hasn’t. Perhaps, the past is best left in memory.

Light Analysis // Are There Any Questions?

Light being reflected by the shard of mirror that Dr. Papaderos had collected, can mean many things. The light can take on literal as well as figurative, metaphorical meanings. The mirror itself can reflect a message. Dr. Papaderos' intrigue with light and the mirror while using it to explain is answer to the 'meaning of life,' demonstrates that there is in fact symbolism in the light.

The Oxford Dictionary definition of light is: "the natural agent that stimulates sight and makes things visible." During Dr. Papaderos' childhood, he would reflect light into "deep holes and crevices and dark closets." In that instance he is literally illuminating dark places. He is seeing into dark places, or rather getting rid of darkness, which would surely comfort him as a child during the war. The definition of light has commonly connoted that the phenomenon of light is only the electromagnetic radiation that allow us to see the physical world. However, perhaps one should interpret the definition a little differently. 'A natural agent stimulating sight,' could mean a lot of things. Light could be something that allows one to see into the emotional or spiritual world. Dr. Papaderos mentioned that 'light' allowed him to see into the hearts of mean, "With what I have I can reflect light into the dark places of this world - in the hearts of men." In this case it would be a way for him to see aspects of the world for what it truly is.

The light can also be a representation of good. That representation has been used throughout history, countless religions use it ceremoniously. In Hinduism it is divine represents the goddess of prosperity. The Parsi people viewed fire, a form of light, as a representation of righteousness. There is also the internal principle of light which speaks of the constant battle between light and darkness. Dr. Papaderos' reflection of light would thus symbolize the spreading of goodness, purity, hope, etc, or rather what the good doctor said, "truth, understanding, knowledge," which emulates 'the good.' The spreading of light would mean that darkness, ignorance, hatred, etc are gone. The last sentence of Robert Fulghum's account, " And then he took his small mirror and, holding it carefully, caught the bright rays of daylight streaming through the window and reflected them onto my face and onto my hands folded on the desk," implies that the Dr. is illuminating him, making Robert open to a new perspective and making him more knowledgeable. Perhaps it is also giving him hope that he could actually find a serious answer to his quest for the meaning of life.

Moreover, the concept of good, the content of light, is extremely subjective. If Dr. Papaderos said he wasn't the source of light but rather a medium for it's reflection, wouldn't that mean he is taking light from someone else and redirecting it? When a beam of light shines down onto something, illuminating it, and you place a mirror in the beam's line to redirect it, the original object becomes shrouded in darkness. As a boy, Dr. Papaderos would be so consumed with illuminating the dark places that he would have never noticed the fact he was making already bright places somewhat darker. That translates into the fact that the Dr. maybe be one too concerned with the fact that he should spread light, or rather his perception of what's good, that he can overlook the fact that others may have have their own values. Also, that while he is trying to incite good among the bad, he may be forgetting to continue shedding light on the already illuminated. In this case this case the light symbolizes ones values.

The Lamp at Noon // Atmosphere Created by Wind

The Lamp at Noon's personification of the wind is extremely effective at creating an atmosphere. The wind in the story accentuates the sense of conflict between husband and wife, Paul and Ellen. "There were two winds: the wind in flight, and the wind that pursued." such a description of the wind alludes to the dynamic of the couples relationship. This builds an atmosphere of tension, and pursuit.  While the severity of the wind proliferates, the sense of tension in the story increases. Furthermore, describing the wind as 'moaning wind' gives the impression that pain or some form of difficulty is surely present. Finally, as the story's atmosphere lightened and was reaching a resolve, the wind's gravity was reduced.

Myself as a Poem

The stubborn stare emanating from within his soul,

Gazing forward, great intent burning the world’s stores of coal

Wondering wonder, 

Searching, defeat’s aroma remains lurking,

Fearing the empowering scent of loss,

The olfactory sense poisoned by the spores of mold,

Nights, tossing, turning, have become cold

As rigid as stones from the peaks of stonehenge,

Lost within a perilous cycle,

He releases all but a cringe.

Literary Terms

• alliteration: Repetition of the same sound of words at the beginning of the word

• allusion: an expression designed to call something to mind without mentioning it explicitly; an indirect or passing reference.

• assonance: repetition of vowel sounds to create internal rhyming within phrases or sentences

• blank verse: poetry written in regular metrical but unrhymed lines

• couplet: two lines that rhyme and have the same meter.

• diction: the choice and use of words and phrases in speech or writing

• end rhyme: a rhyme that occurs in the end syllable of a verse

• enjambment: is incomplete syntax at the end of a line

• epic: is a lengthy narrative poem, ordinarily concerning a serious subject containing details of heroic deeds and events significant to a culture or nation.

• foot: a unit of metre, consisting of a combination of stressed and unstressed syllables

• meter: a unit of rhythm in poetry and is also called a foot

• ode: a lyric poem typically of elaborate or irregular metrical form and expressive of exalted or enthusiastic emotion.

• onomatopoeia: Words that similar to the sound they describe

• simile: a figure of speech involving the comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind, used to make a description more emphatic or vivid

• stanza: any division or grouping of words in a poetic composition, with groupings traditionally having been referred to as stanzas.