Final Poetry Portfolio - Arizona State University



FINAL POETRY PORTFOLIO

BY

MICHAEL DEL TORO

ENG310

DR. PATRICIA MURHPY

12/09/06

Dream Warrior

If this house could speak

Would it speak English?

Maybe German, like the previous tenants.

I can’t understand German so its

Secrets are safe.

I’ll take the time

Teach it English

And learn to listen

As if it were a woman

Actually listen.

Its voice, like whispers

At church on Christmas.

I want to know what

This house hides.

Did someone make love in this room?

Passionately they pressed their nude

Bodies against this wall

Now protected by crimson paint

To cover up the sweat stain that her

Tender back left while he ravaged her?

As I press my ear to her backside

I can hear its moans.

Hang a painting there

A Dali, Van Gogh, Parkes maybe

The one with the dream warrior, muscular wings

Wrapped around her nude body. They dissolve

Into each other like reds and blues

And she is feels out of harm's way,

The memory of that affection trapped,

In a painting on the wall that love was made

I understand this house as secrets.

(revision from Dream Warrior)

The German House

If I offered this house language

Would it address me in English?

Or maybe German, like its previous inhabitants.

I cannot understand German so its

Secrets might remain safe.

No, I will take the time

Sit with it at a large oak desk

Teach it English

I lay a hand on its cold, rough mahogany floors

It will learn through my patient touch.

Then, listen

As if it were a woman

Actually listen

It bellows in broken English

To be salvaged from persecution

From a unstable & foolish leader

Who burned babies without blinking.

Besides its horrors, was there ever romance?

This room. Did someone consummate love here?

Passionately pulsating nude bodies

Pressed against this crimson painted wall

Discolored here, no doubt by the sweat of a woman

Deeply touched inside by her warrior.

Let us, the new tenants, hang a painting there

A Dali, Van Gogh, Parkes maybe.

The one with her dream warrior, muscular wings

Wrapped around her now pregnant body

The three dissolve into each other like reds & blues

This family out of harm’s way

The memory of that undying love

Trapped in a painting on the wall

That love was cherished.

I respect the secrets of this German house.

I got some good comments with this poem, mainly that it was a good and fresh idea. That is what I try to do with every poem. It is sometimes hard to apply techniques such as imagery, figurative language, and musical devices to pieces that are stretching what current poets write. However, when I look at all the underlying themes in every piece that I write, I find love. From that point, I find the loss of love and the inevitability that it will soon be lost no matter what we do. I was sitting in my room debating on my last poem to write when my house started making sounds. Then I thought of all the things I have done here that maybe my mom isn’t aware of. Let’s just say I’ve experimented in every room but it was with someone I loved and not dirty. This idea brought to my mind that there were definitely people that lived here before and probably engaged in the same act. With that, I thought of my German heritage. Of course, the obvious embarrassing event in that history is Hitler and the persecution of Jews. This is important, so I turned my house into a living German that dealt with the romance of the period before and the persecution that Hitler brought. These were all new ideas from the first draft. I kept the structure the same and fixed some punctuation. I never realized the importance of certain punctuation and its usage. It is a powerful tool. I tried to use better words than before as well. The title didn’t fit well either and the comment from Bret about envisioning Japaniamation was not what I was shooting for. I wanted a concrete image and you cannot get more concrete than a house.

In the end, I looked to my wall to a painting that I have. Entitled, “Dream Warrior,” by Michael Parkes it depicts a nude female embraced by a warrior with muscular wings. I felt the security that she felt and thought that was important. This painting captured the romantic memories of this humanized house and helped filter out the bad ones it might have encountered.

750 mL

Laughing out loud,

What, what are you talking ‘bout?

How much? I did what…

750 mL, to some it’s not much

Mathematicians want to convert it

Chemists want to merge it

Drug dealers need to cut it

Dieticians yearn to absolve it

Bartenders learn to distribute it

I have learned to consume it

Not sealed, return it

Most likely spoiled by wino’s or youngster’s

A late night secret chug denies the innocence of my spirits

I move on and forget it

Twist the cover

Separate the protective embrace

Release its addictive odors

Savor its sweetness

My nose twitches

Juniper berries take me away

Russian potatoes help me forget

Molasses aged in oak, add Coke

And its heaven to my taste buds.

The agave plant fills my glass bottle.

I consume to conform

To cry when I can’t

To be brave when I’m not able

Creating a liquid scrapbook that

Effortlessly washes away forgettable events

Help me forget, please…

This horrible week, inhabited by unfortunate death

And to hold on to memories not willing to die as easily.

(Revision of 750 mL)

750 mL

My nose tweaks.

Glands replenish saliva

As it seeps out my mouth

Like the downpour of tears

On such an ill-fated day.

750 mL, to some it is not much

Today, not enough

Mathematicians want to convert it

Chemists thrive to merge it

Dieticians yearn to eradicate it

Bartenders train to distribute it

I must absorb it.

Help me! Please...

To forget--

Forget the haunting, burning screams

A plane crash finale

To a friend’s life not lived fully.

Where was I?

Why not me?

Condemn these thoughts

In a liquid scrapbook created by

Foolish over consumption;

Juniper berries, take me away

Russian potatoes, cloud my memories

Molasses aged in oak, add Coke

Agave plant, fill my bottle

I consume to conform

To cry when I cannot

To be brave when I am unable

And to forget days when the

Inferno of life melts innocent skin.

This poem was a drunken rant. It turned out okay but you brought up some good points again about my punctuation and structure. I got rid of a lot of things in this poem but added much needed motive and imagery. I’m starting to understand that poetry is showing and not telling. This was another technique that we learned in our fiction writing, but I think poetry is more challenging. So I liked the idea of a liquid scrapbook that was full of just memories. One of the main affects of over consumption is forgetting about what you did before. Ultimately, the theme of this piece is what you would do if you just found out horrible news as I did. I choose to drink the night, the week away.

So, I hinted at my reasoning in the first stanza and solidified it in the middle of the poem. I found the importance of the list in the first stanza of the first draft and agreed that it was powerful enough to stand alone. I gave it its own stanza.

I applied some personification to the liquor begging for it to help me get through this event until I could forget. I thought this was a good use of figurative language.

I wanted to end with an image that keeps haunting me and I want it to haunt others. I could not help but leave the reader with a picture of my friend’s burning in that plane crash. Sorry, but I did not think there was any other way.

Is it the mailman?

Here every day except holidays and weekends, our family days

A dark cloud of suspicion enters my heart

Did he ask for this route, this one reason.

To be rewarded by my wife for his menial task

Have I lost trust?

Is it her boss?

The meetings constantly running late

Extraordinary pay raises that cannot be result from her mere skills

Invites to lavish events that I reject like her morning rotten kisses.

She minds him more than me.

Is it this Abercrombie Model?

His white smile even makes my heart weak

The Hollywood chiseled cheekbones and pecks

That makes me look like I have become a woman

Is the attraction lost?

Is it the telephone operator?

With his high-speed fingertip database.

Does he think he knows everything?

A vat overflowing with fatty information.

When was the last time she asked me about anything?

Is it her tennis coach?

that taught her that tight grip around the dick of her racket

who told her the shorter the skirt the better her movement

who educated her to serve when love is the score.

What happened to us?

Is it her shrink?

With his longing to know what makes her tick

His curiousness into problems she cannot fix alone

With his grubby leather couch, home to people too weak to think alone

Am I now alone?

Is it me?

That never tells her of my love, how compared to a million fallen snowflakes

That descend in the cold months of winter, I would pick her out to melt on my lips

And taste the sweetness of that first encounter and learn to long for that sensation when it fades. I wish for the winter to never end and to kiss you every time the snow falls, but when the sun awakes and you do not appear anymore, I live every day knowing that I will feel this again. So do not tell me who it is and apologies deem unnecessary because every morning when work was your calling seemed to be my summer and the evening, when you reappeared, my winters.

And I loved you again and again. And among a million snowflakes to choose, knowing I choose to love you is concrete and while you chose to melt on the lips of

another.

(Revision of Is it the Mailman?)

Was it the Mailman?

Was it her tennis coach?

that taught her that taut grip around the dick of her racket

who told her the shorter the skirt the better her movement

and educated her to serve solid when love is the score.

Could it have been the matured Abercrombie Model?

His warm, bright smile still able to revive Marilynn Monroe

Hollywood chiseled cheekbones slice through paper

If I did not have a washing machine, even I’d wait in a mile-long

line to cleanse my dirty laundry on his stomach.

Her boss perhaps?

Constant eleventh-hour meetings

Behind secretive double oak doors or

Happy hour gatherings among co-workers only;

Doubting spouses not allowed.

Was it the mailman?

Around everyday except holidays and Sundays, family days

Dark clouds of suspicion will not impede his duty

Rain or shine delivering his subliminal sexual messages--

Only in my absence.

Not the telephone operator?

With his high-speed fingertip database

Does he thinks he knows everything?

A vat brimming with fatty information

I knew those answers to her questions.

My uncertainties blinded me, obsessed with churning emotions

watching as he delivered the mail, his jokes paths to smiles not seen lately

our neighbor, the model, I saw him brush against her bosom

and the coach, his hands gripping her hips

and I sat in the shadowy corner at happy hour, unhappy;

Or is it...was it me?

That never told her of my love,

Those first encounters still powerful

Like fallen snowflakes in summer, she hastily melted on my warm lips

An oddity in this season but I cherished her

Without question or hesitation, inevitably becoming one.

And after countless summer years trying to trap those first emotions

My lack of trust created winters

My lips became icy, breathing life into something once stunning

And she floated away amongst the others.

My self-esteem prison became a loveless investigation.

I think I have a tendency to create poems with in poems. I sort of did that here in the first draft. I went from questioning love to making everything okay just by a realization of one not showing love. Cheating is never okay and questioning that someone is cheating is not healthy towards relationships. I stuck with the main character’s obsession to find out who this mystery man was but changed it dramatically by placing it in the past tense. This gave it such a sad feel that his constant questioning that inevitably made his significant other leave him is still continuing in the aftermath. I was glad to make him realize that it was him all along and the subtleties that he was witnessing or spying on were just that. Nothing to be serious about. I think that a lot of men become jealous and questioning just due to a lack of self-esteem. I kept the structure the same to represent striking thoughts in this guy’s mind that were just everywhere and all over the page. I cut the shrink stanza but kept the telephone operator because I liked what someone said, that he was reaching for straws now. So I put that as the last person he could question about. I made the model a former model and older to help relate with the different ages that the others imply to be. Again, I utilized my new knowledge of punctuation to keep it flowing and to stop it when I wanted to. I deleted the questions after every stanza because I felt like it was telling what I just showed and created little poems within the big picture. I love finding fresher words and I think I did that here. Also, the last stanza is quite shorter and divided into two stanzas now. The seasons theme is still there but I thought this said what I wanted to say better. I’m not sure that an investigation was a great image to end with but when I thought of what this guy was lacking and made him this way. I thought the last line turned out perfect. But is it needed? Am I telling what I just showed again?

THE EXIT DOOR

The look burns my blood

Scared, should I tell you more

Is my life ending or beginning

at the delivery of this news.

Did it hurt you?

Your stomach fall to your feet

Only beaten by the heavy tears

That splashed on your toenails.

Toenail polish is fresh and sprinkles harsh

Sniffs into my smelling tool.

Did you do this for me?

The homemade card with stencil letters

Confess the love you thought we shared.

The shortened hair, the French manicure,

The candlelight dinner.

All paid for by my credit, my hard work

As you sit on your ass, watch my tv!

Eat my food, use the water that I pay for.

Your tears continue to flow, did you practice for this?

Did you take lessons and secretly use my money to pay for it?

Expect this when love is gone

But remember love is always around

It captured me in the form of another

So graceful that she makes the doves gather

To watch as she cuts through her own sky.

Unlike the attention you bring

The city pigeons that shit everywhere

The stray cats that eat the food that you waste,

That I pay for!

The mosquitoes that pierce my skin, and

Suck my blood

Swat it away and get rid of the nuisance.

That blood is mine, the sweat is real

And the idea of us is through.

Pack the clothes I bought you,

Keep the wasted jewelry and the

vacant pictures with fake smiles.

Make room for someone else.

Wipe your tears on your own shoulder

The forged pleas won’t work.

That exit door has had your name

Etched into it for months.

Revision of THE EXIT DOOR

THE EXIT DOOR

That stare sears my blood

Nervous, should I tell you more

Is my life ending or beginning

at the liberation of this news?

Does it hurt you?

Jaw dropping, stomach at your feet

Only outdone by heavy tears

Splashing onto painted toenails

Polish so fresh it assaults my smelling tool

With its harsh odors

Did you do this for me?

The homemade card with stencil letters

Confessing the love you thought we shared

The shortened hair, French manicure

Candlelight dinner

All paid for by my credit! My hard work!

As you sit on your ass

Watch my TV

Eat my food

Use the water that I pay for!

The tears continue no doubt you practiced for this.

Did you take crying lessons and secretly exploit my money to pay for it?

Expect this when love is gone

But remember love is always around

It captured me in the form of another

So graceful that she makes the doves gather

To watch as she cuts through her own sky.

Unlike the interest you bring

City pigeons shitting everywhere

Stray cats eating your squandered food

That I pay for!

Mosquitoes you attract pierce my skin

Suck my blood.

Swat it away get rid of this nuisance

That blood is mine

The sweat is real

And the idea of us finished.

Pack the clothes I bought you

Keep the wasted jewelry and the

Vacant pictures with bogus smiles.

Wipe your tears on your own shoulder

Those forged pleas won’t work.

I’ll make room for another love because

That front door has had your name

Etched into it for months.

I did not get one bad comment about this poem. I thought it ironic that it was also reviewed by two females, but they seemed to relate well to the anger that the theme conveyed. This just instills that anger is such a universal feeling that no matter how it is read or interpreted, it can be felt. I was hoping you were going to review this one because I know you could have found something. That was my challenge in revision in this one. I hope that I was able to fix the things that were wrong before you read it. Again, I focused on line breaks and punctuation in spots where I needed control over the reader. I thought about the SHOW and TELL problems I’ve had and fixed some of those. I used a different word for delivery in the fourth line. I believe this poem to be a liberation of a hindering love that bogs the one constantly trying to rock bottom. So, in essence, to find another that is as graceful as a dove is liberation. Perfect word in the first stanza. I also divided the poem up in stanzas as before it was one long poem. I think this makes you feel like you are rising and falling with the anger of the voice in this poem. The exclamation points and short pauses with commas bring you to a climax and then the line break calms you down. Then another rise in anger and climax. I want the reader to feel empowered to fix comfortable situations on the outside that are obviously tearing away at them on the inside.

I Want To...

I want to

Mix Pop Rocks candy

And Pespi-Cola on my tongue

Shake my head and

Choke on the new life form

Borne in my opening

to plagiarize

And use the words of

Others to get through

Life without an original thought

to tear the tag

on the mattress

in a mattress store

and see if I get

bombarded by law enforcement

arrest me and throw away my

files before I hurt someone.

to touch a frying pan

at its highest degree

and listen as my skin bubbles

like the scolding waters in a whirlpool spa

in its prime.

to stick a fork

into a live socket

while standing in a pool of water

to see if I can cook Mexican.

to play in traffic

dodging on-coming two door coupes

till the semi-rig arrives

and splatters my cells onto pedestrians.

to slowly dig a dull knife

into the spine of a new ex-friend

watching the warm blood stain

the expensive rug he fucked my

girlfriend on.

to take all the hurt in my bones

roll it into a ball

and chuck it at the person

Who hurt me

And made me oblivious

To the consequences of wanting.

Revision of I Want To...

The Consequences of Wanting

I want to...

Swallow anxiety

Approach possible love

Across this marble-made bar

Regurgitate confidence

Plant rose roots

Witness it emerge from nothing

And blossom from our care.

Squeeze your hand red

As this constant rollercoaster

Discovers to calm my stomach butterflies

Eyes closed, we will miss everything.

Learn to spy like a P. I.

In my absence

Is our love gone?

Why are you here?

I know this place.

Become your shadow

Find distrust in the dark

Focus before you fade

Our affections fall through each other

Like ghostly embraces.

I cannot feel your soft petals.

Can he?

Heed his voice

As he spouts intellect and falsities

To hinder our growth

Realize the manhood I ingested

Made me less

And your love was a festering plague,

My drive

To slowly dig a dull shovel

Into the stemless spine of an ex-friend

And twist

Watching the warm purple blood

Stain the shaggy, eggshell rug

He fucked my girlfriend on.

I want to cover my eyes

With Earth’s brown skin

Only to have dreams

That we will cultivate together

Into a lovely red rose.

I thought that out of all the poems I wrote besides the tribute to my father, that this was the one with the most potential. Again, another different concept for a poem and I hope I am learning to push the envelope. Although it is about love it isn’t about the candy-coated bright area. I changed it to the evolution of what some people might describe as a puppy love but to the people involved it is a serious feeling. So instead of the tiny poems within the poems leading up to an event that summarizes why the voice was sticking a fork in a light socket, we get the evolution of this puppy love relationship from the point of view of this obsessed person. I thought it worked much better than that. There was hardly any ideas I kept from the first one. I loved the last line in the first draft and wanted to keep it. I could not find a more fitting place than to change the name of the title to “Consequences of Wanting.” It feels darker and almost like a foreshadowing to where this person might end up. I installed a metaphor of this blossoming love with that of the growth of a rose. It might be an overused metaphor but I think I did it with a fresh language trying to use adjectives and nouns that coincided with gardening and this plant growth. In the middle of the poem, I suggested that he become a spy to spy on her. His doubts fill his head. I separated the next two lines in hope that the reader understand that she has started to wander from this fellow. Of course, I kept the powerful stanza about digging a knife into the back of this guy but switched it to a shovel. A knife in the back seemed cliché but a shovel fit due to the content of the metaphor. I hope you liked the revisions here.

With the end of this portfolio, I have one more task and the semester is at an end. Thanks again Dr. Murphy, for the feedback and analysis. You continue to be helpful and a wonderful tool in my writing process. I look forward to working with you in ENG411. My goals of this course were to expand my knowledge of different types of styles. I have learned what it takes to be a poet. It is not an easy process as this might be the only type of writing that can be completely original. Of course, we all write what we know and experienced but my interpretations of feelings such as love, anger, sadness, and embarrassment might be completely different from that of my neighbor. That is the great thing about poetry, creating a new voice. I could write a poem about the processes of a person diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder from the point of view of his coffee table, turn around, and give you a different point of view from someone that loves that person. One event, idea, place, thing can be presented from so many types of views and in different voice. I tried doing that semester with a poem in the voice of my dead father and another in the voice of my ex-girlfriend. I also did a poem in the voice of a cheated husband, an obsessed first love, and a criminal with secrets. It was fun to put myself in their shoes.

I learned a lot about punctuation and the use of the devices that constitute a poem. I don’t understand what took me so long but I finally read the file poemapoem.doc and really got a good understanding of what truly makes a poem. I think I still have a ways to go. One of my goals was to try and get published and after this semester I am compiling a writing portfolio of everything I’ve wrote from essays to screenplays to the poetry in this class. I am going to attempt to get one thing published just because why not. I have all these important things to say and the only ones that get to read them go to ASU. It doesn’t really seem poetic, now does it.

I believe that I am strong with dialogue and scene, no doubt from my experience with screenwriting. There are aspects that I need to grasp better like the SHOW and TELL method and my wordiness. My ability to produce images is good but I would like to be better at creating metaphor that is more abstract. I started collecting unfamiliar words to me at the beginning of last semester and I continue to add words. The notebook is getting full of vocabulary that I am learning to comprehend and eventually use in my work. I think I am slowly developing that aspect of my writing.

Theme is important and love seems to run rampant in my work. I also noticed my obsession with writing about drinking. I have developed deeper themes with those subjects and plan to continue my examination into the affects of love and alcoholism.

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