Her Last Experience

Finally. Mel thought to herself as she raised her head towards the sun and closed her eyes. All her life, she had dreamed of travel. The movement and collision of people and places made her feel alive and connected to a world full of opportunity. And finally, she could experience Sicily in real life. She could taste the tomato sauce with her tongue, feel the sunshine on her skin and climb mountains with her un-tested hiking boots. Though she was here with her family, she was determined to break away from them at some point and experience this place without looking over her shoulder to make sure her younger sisters and parents could keep up with her pace.

“Mom, can I skip out on the children’s museum today?” Mel asked with her “I’m more mature for this family vacation” voice.

Her mom sighed and said, “When did you grow up so fast?” She was counting receipts, and looking over their budget for the rest of the trip at the kitchen table of the house they rented out for the week. Moving from the table, she sat down next to Mel on the couch and held both of her hands together. “You are old enough to spend the afternoon on your own. But, darling please be safe. And please don’t miss anymore of our family activities. The girls look up to you, you know?”

“I know. Especially Sarah, she looks at me for approval of everything she does. But I think it is good for them to have an independent role model. I shouldn’t still be going to children’s museums at nineteen. At this point, that’s just unnatural.” Mel meant what she said. She understood her responsibility as an older sibling but even as she sat talking to her mom, she saw the breeze blowing outside and the vast, new world called out to her.

“Okay, so the deal is, you can skip this museum but for the rest of this vacation, you are going to help me rally the troops and foster your love of adventure in your sisters, but in a safe and educational environment.”

Every instinct in Mel’s body told her to roll her eyes at her mother’s insistence that everything was “educational.” But she resisted and stared right back at her mother’s deep brown eyes. “Thanks a ton, mom!” She said as she jumped off the couch, grabbed her backpack and shouted goodbye to the rest of her family.

On her own, she made her way downtown. Earlier in the week, she had decided that if she could escape her family’s schedule, she would catch a bus to the closest mountain and hike all the way to the top. No need for stupid hiking trips that cost you an arm and a leg, she would do this alone. Henry Thoreau spoke straight to her heart and she believed the best way to experience beauty in nature was alone and without distraction.

The climb to the top took several hours, buckets of sweat and many “just turn around” thoughts. But she made it. She sat down at the top, hugged her knees to her chest and concluded she was not content with her life. This was living, on top of a mountain, not going to University of Maryland in the fall. That school, that town would just continue to trap her. She would climb down this mountain and tell her parents she wanted to take at least one gap year, and experience the world on her own. Resolutely she stood up and began the descent. Darkness had fallen and her footing was shaky. A few rocks fell from her current foothold and she slipped down a few feet. Her heart was pounding inside her shirt as she gripped the rocks with desperate fingers. This was not the kind of adventure she had sought. Her legs hung, unable to find a new foothold and she looked frantically around, there was no one and nothing but the earth, far, far below her. It was only a matter of time before her fingers would lose strength and there was nothing else she could do. Slowly, cautiously she released her grip.

Addicted to Donuts.

“I was downing two a day for a while!” she screamed as her hands forced her curly blond bangs back behind her ear. “Are you serious?” I asked with a face of bewilderment because there was no way this skinny girl before me could eat two donuts a day. “Yes,” she said, exasperated. “I’m serious. I get one on the way to chem class and one on the way back from physics; every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to add up the calories per donut and do the math. Her metabolism must be faster than the speed of sound. “So, that’s why you gave them up for lent?” I asked. She rolled her eyes, twirled her wiry hair around her finger and said, “yes. I need to stop eating them before I gain four hundred pounds.” Typical Leigh, always exaggerating, I thought. This was just like the time she swore she would not buy another pair of sparkly sandals, because she already had six and any more seemed ridiculous.

A few days past since our conversation and we were in the dining hall. Our trays overflowed with pasta, salad, French fries, cookies and all other collegiate dining hall staples. I left the table to get more water and saw two of my friends from calculus class. We chatted for a few minutes in the middle of the chaos of the dining hall and then I returned to our table. “Apparently I had homework in my calculus class I didn’t know about,” I said and waited for Leigh’s usual snort and remark about how if I remember anything, it’s a miracle. But she was staring off into space until I said, “Leigh. What are you thinking about?” Before she could give me an answer, I turned towards her and saw traces of cinnamon sugar on her lips. Then I looked down at her hands, propped up on her tray because they were covered in glaze and she was preventing it from getting on her clothes. Finally, I see rainbow sprinkles littering her tray. “Leigh!” I yell, “did you eat three donuts while I was gone??” She wiped off her lips and fingers with several napkins and shrugged, “it’s Sunday, let’s just pretend today is a mini-Easter, ok?”

Mark Doty Reflection

I really enjoyed the Mark Doty poetry reading; I can see why the English Department made such a big deal of his visit. He seemed like a very down to earth person who had a lot to share about his personal life and his life as a poet, though he was hesitant to call himself one. One thing that really stuck out to me was what he said about artists. He mentioned that the way artists live, write and compose is by finding the peculiarity in the world. They don't let the grass just be grass; they question everything and refuse to settle for simple conclusions. I thought this questioning was a very true and unique observation about the life of an artist.

He said how he loves to write about animals and tries something different from other "animal poets" because he feels they are such an important part of life and offer so many different view points. For the little mammoth poem, he found the only way he could communicate his message was to have the mammoth speak for itself. I love that conclusion; that he would have to give something speechless, words.

In high school he used words because they were all he could control; he found he could express himself and it became a necessity for him. I think there is something beautiful in the idea of writing because we need to. It is such a healthy way to express and understand our feelings and thoughts.

The "House of Beauty" poem was my favorite one that he read. The really vivid imagery created strong visuals and I like that he transformed the old form of a children song/story. That made it very interesting to follow the structure of the stanzas in that specific pattern. I also really enjoyed "Heaven for Paul," I felt like I could really sense his character, perceptive but still cynical.

Coyotes

This is why I need new friends, I think as I run down the stairs, two at a time. They are stupid to already be drunk at 5pm, but I haven’t seen them all break and they are always entertaining when they are drunk. I am especially looking forward to Bridget’s Bill Cosby impressions and Kristen’s one woman rendition of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. As I hop into the car and drive away, I wonder what counts as “terribly wrong”…I laugh as I imagine that Bridget tied Kristen’s shoes together and they can’t figure out why she keeps falling over.

Even as kids, Bridget always picked on Kristen. From taking her Barbie’s clothes to making her be the dog when we played house, Bridget always gave Kristen the short end of the stick. I have always been the peacekeeper in our trio, and I guess tonight will be no exception.

Damn red lights, I think tapping my foot anxiously on the gas pedal. I still can’t believe they want me to go to Richie Park Elementary. I haven’t been there since our last day of high school. The playground was our place to make up stories about our future husbands, slay imaginary dragons and vow that college would not change our friendships. Ha, nothing has changed at all, I think as drive straight through the stop sign without a thought, even the cops do it. I drive up the treacherously steep hill that we biked up millions of times, pull into the abandoned lot and put the car in park.

It’s unusually dark out for 5pm in March and windy too. I head across the overgrown soccer field towards the forgotten, old, wooden playground, displaced by the newer, shinier, plastic one. I listen for their drunken voices, no doubt screaming about something as stupid as their favorite American Idols or who bought their converses first. But there is only silence. I try to ignore the goosebumps that begin to overtake my body. It had to be a joke, I reassure myself. They never get into real trouble; they just like beer a little too much and forget where they live every once in a while. That, I am used to. But this eerie silence on the playground, I am not used to.

No voices. No squeaky swings. No empty beer cans. No Bridget or Kristen. Until…

A blood-curdling scream comes from the trees across the field. I whip my head around and see Bridget come tearing across field, with Kristen right on her heels. They catch up to me in seconds, scream “RUN, ALISON” and I sprint alongside them, straight to the playground and up on the monkey bars. It is not till now that I look back to the trees. A pack of coyotes is tearing across the field towards us. Finally, one of the imaginary games we played as children has come true. We are stranded on top of the monkey bars and the coyotes our local park ranger warned us about so many years ago have finally decided to prove themselves to be real.

Black Watch Plaid

Up and down, fat and lumbering black lines chase after nimble navy ones.
Side to side, rich forest green lines pursue sadder, paler ones.
Duct tape haphazardly holds together the shambles some would call a skirt.
A bold and rebellious teal button is sewn with ambition on the front of the kilt.
The imprisoned length will never dare to exceed the girl’s bitten-nail fingertips.

The kilt intently wraps around the skinny young girl, binding her to a history of nuns.
The defiant duct tape and tenacious teal button cry out for diversity, for creativity.
Hems fall loose and sag as do dreams in this decrepit, dying building gasping for air.
Plaid permeates the impressionable and eager school girls, uniting them in their strife.
The ancient waistline does not budge; no room for alterations in this school.

Ours for the Taking

Ours for the Taking

My face can no longer feel my hands,
I tuck my shirt back into my pants.
Everyone is smiling and happy,
A good song gets us clapping.
Tonight is for us and

No one can destroy these plans,
They get us through homework and exams.
The scene is truly entrapping
This place, this time, ours for the taking.

We are young, wild and live to dance.
Our spirits are free, our minds don’t know “can’t.”
The world opens for us; we are mapping
Out our lives with people and places we’ve lapped.
We try our best, we do what we can
This place, this time, ours for the taking.

I chose the formalist style of rondeau to write my poem. I decided to use this one because I like the simplicity of it; three stanzas and one repeating refrain. But I also like how each stanza is a different length, to add some variation. I tried to describe a simple scene, with low level diction and not much imagery in order to let the point of the poem stand out. I think the simplicity yet repetition of the form I chose also enables the main idea to be prominent. The subject of the poem is being young and partying, so it is kind of ironic that the poem is written in a structured form. We looked at a few poems in class that did something similar to this and I thought it would be interesting to experiment with a subject and form that contradict each other in a subtle way.

Rhyming is hard for me, because I feel like it constrains my ideas; having to use a certain word over another one just because it rhymes. However, I enjoyed this exercise and this form because it forced me to try it. I definitely used a slant rhyme on several lines, such as “dance” and “can’t” or “happy” and “clapping.” Besides using a few rhymes that don’t quite rhyme, I mostly stuck to the form’s rules because I don’t usually write with a structure in mind, so it was a challenge that I wanted to take. In some ways it was harder to write this poem than if I had written in free verse, but it was also nice to have some direction and rules to follow.