for those of you who have ever wanted to see my writing, today is your lucky day
Okay, I need an opinion on these two poems I wrote for my creative writing class. I need something to submit to a poetry contest, because we are supposed to submit at least one piece, and these are my two best. They both got A's, but my teacher seems to like the second one better, while I am partial to the first. So let me know what you think. (They also both kind of need revision, so keep that in mind.)
(This one needs a good title)
My office glows throughout the night.
Drops throw themselves against the windowpanes
and shine beneath fluorescent lights,
which flicker off of the graphite
pencil that seems so arcane.
My office glows throughout the night,
sometimes flickering as though firelight
keeps it lit, no the vain
shine of the fluorescent lights,
whose hum seems a brutal oversight
of their design, though I know it maintains
the glow throughout my office. The night
is too long sometimes. I fight
sleep with a cup of coffee’s plain
shine. Beneath fluorescent lights,
my skin grows thin and lily-white,
as though it’s trying to retain
the glow of my office throughout the night.
It shines beneath fluorescent lights.
Esoteric Sestina (On The Stranger)(This also needs a better title)
Meursault enjoys the feeling of the sun
warming his shoulders and face,
still a bit salty from the sea. He’d like nothing
better than coffee, hot and black,
from Chez Celeste. He does the same
thing almost every day.
Celeste’s isn’t very busy today,
full of empty chairs and sun.
Meursault chats with Celeste, tells him, "Same
old." Celeste turns to face
the window, where his name is written in black.
While the coffee drips, they say nothing.
Meursault drinks until there is nothing
left in the pot and says, "See you later today."
He signs his name, and the black
ink bleeds on his hands, gleaming in the sun.
He can almost see his face
in it. He thinks, I look the same
as I always do. I am the same.
Except for the fact that maman is dead, nothing
is really different. He scratches his face
thoughtfully. It’s a gorgeous day;
maybe he’ll lie on his porch, in the sun,
until his body is burned and black.
He closes his eyes, the insides black
and cool, beautiful in their sameness,
until shapes start to dance from the sun
soaking through. He is motionless, feels nothing.
Is it night or is it day?
He can’t tell, except for the heat on his face.
He wakes up to find his face
pressed against the pillow. The black
bars segment the light. It’s already day
and they haven’t come for him, so he breathes the same
sigh of relief. He lies back, nothing
on his mind but the burning sun.
There will be sun on his face the day of his execution,
and nothing but noise and the identical black
mouths of the people who cry for him to die that day.
(Bonus points if you can figure out where I got the first line for the villanelle.)
Edit: no longer friends-only
(This one needs a good title)
My office glows throughout the night.
Drops throw themselves against the windowpanes
and shine beneath fluorescent lights,
which flicker off of the graphite
pencil that seems so arcane.
My office glows throughout the night,
sometimes flickering as though firelight
keeps it lit, no the vain
shine of the fluorescent lights,
whose hum seems a brutal oversight
of their design, though I know it maintains
the glow throughout my office. The night
is too long sometimes. I fight
sleep with a cup of coffee’s plain
shine. Beneath fluorescent lights,
my skin grows thin and lily-white,
as though it’s trying to retain
the glow of my office throughout the night.
It shines beneath fluorescent lights.
Esoteric Sestina (On The Stranger)(This also needs a better title)
Meursault enjoys the feeling of the sun
warming his shoulders and face,
still a bit salty from the sea. He’d like nothing
better than coffee, hot and black,
from Chez Celeste. He does the same
thing almost every day.
Celeste’s isn’t very busy today,
full of empty chairs and sun.
Meursault chats with Celeste, tells him, "Same
old." Celeste turns to face
the window, where his name is written in black.
While the coffee drips, they say nothing.
Meursault drinks until there is nothing
left in the pot and says, "See you later today."
He signs his name, and the black
ink bleeds on his hands, gleaming in the sun.
He can almost see his face
in it. He thinks, I look the same
as I always do. I am the same.
Except for the fact that maman is dead, nothing
is really different. He scratches his face
thoughtfully. It’s a gorgeous day;
maybe he’ll lie on his porch, in the sun,
until his body is burned and black.
He closes his eyes, the insides black
and cool, beautiful in their sameness,
until shapes start to dance from the sun
soaking through. He is motionless, feels nothing.
Is it night or is it day?
He can’t tell, except for the heat on his face.
He wakes up to find his face
pressed against the pillow. The black
bars segment the light. It’s already day
and they haven’t come for him, so he breathes the same
sigh of relief. He lies back, nothing
on his mind but the burning sun.
There will be sun on his face the day of his execution,
and nothing but noise and the identical black
mouths of the people who cry for him to die that day.
(Bonus points if you can figure out where I got the first line for the villanelle.)
Edit: no longer friends-only