Bethany+Carter

Bethany Carter "Poetry is the most direct and simple means of expressing oneself in world" Northrup Frye Sonnet One day I found a small but nice mirror I looked into it's deeps and what I saw Surprised me because it was a tiger I looked behind me and there was a tall And dark tower that stretched up to the sky No mater what I did I could not move The top is where my heart wanted to fly To but my feet stayed on the ground and brused Was my soul for it was trapped on the earth Without the chance to fly I was so sad Then from the ground a set of stairs gave birth Because of this my heart lifted a tad for there is always hope to get and give And the happiness in this life that you live Raised By     I was raised by      a toughen up      stop being scared "You can do it" Type of attitude Some humble felling better when they put themselves down "People lift themselves to high" type of confidence Some funny wise known unheard of     types of quotes Some hard working do it your self useful skills "There is not enough work around the house" type of worker I was raised by my dad Ode to Food A hole so empty gnawing from the inside Only one thing can fill it     needed for life some take it for granite others rarely see it     others have but to much they use or they don't consume Its the greatest thing I carry with it's variety fill our need Behind a Perfect Life You stand tall and strong To show the world A perfect life As you hide away The everyday pain Try to calm your fears Dry your waterless tears No glue or tape could fix the wounds So you take your broken peaces Throw them away Cover up the scars Hiding the knowledge That they are here to stay Statement I find the inspiration for most of my poems is someone’s/something’s flaws. I feel that in life we only try to look at what we want to see. If we ignore are flaws then we cannot improve ourselves. I also get my inspiration from my own life. An example of this is when I talk about hiding because I have trouble showing my feelings to others. I usually write in short lines and fragments. For example “Throw them away, Cover up the scars, Hiding the knowledge” I do this because it reminds me of a thought process because even though there is a theme it jumps from thought to thought. I also show opposites. “some take it for graniteothers rarely see it.” I do this because there is always more then one side of the story and I don’t want to show only one. I also show things instead of saying them. “A hole so empty, gnawing from the inside.” Here I describe the feeling of hunger instead of saying that without food we get hungry. I do this because it helps show what is already known in a different way sot that people will look at every day differently. Even though I write about mostly deep topics I try not to make them seem hopeless. “for there is always hope to get and give, And the happiness in this life that you live.” The reason I do this is because even though I like writing about flaws I don’t want to say that there is nothing good. David Baker Patriotics Yesterday a little girl got slapped to death by her daddy, out of work, alcoholic, and estranged two towns down river. America, it's hard to get your attention politely. America, the beautiful night is about to blow up     and the cop who brought the man down with a shot to the chops is shaking hands, dribbling chaw across his sweaty shirt, and pointing cars across the courthouse grass to park. It's the Big One one more time, July the 4th, our country's perfect holiday, so direct a metaphor for war, we shoot off bombs, launch rockets from Drano cans, spray the streets and neighbors' yards with the machine-gun crack of fireworks, with rebel yells and beer. In short, we celebrate. It's hard to believe. But so help the soul of Thomas Paine, the entire county must be here--the acned faces of neglect, the halter-tops and ties, the bellies, badges, beehives, jacked-up cowboy boots, yes, the back-up singers of democracy all gathered to brighten in unambiguous delight when we attack the calm and pointless sky. With terrifying vigor the whistle-stop across the river will lob its smaller arsenal halfway back again. Some may be moved to tears. We'll clean up fast, drive home slow, and tomorrow get back to work, those of us with jobs, convicting the others in the back rooms of our courts and malls--yet what will be left of that one poor child, veteran of no war but her family's own? The comfort of a welfare plot, a stalk of wilting prayers? Our fathers' dreams come true as     nightmare. So the first bomb blasts and echoes through the streets and shrubs: red, white, and blue sparks shower down, a plague of patriotic bugs. Our thousand eyeballs burn aglow like punks. America, I'd swear I don't believe in you, but here I am, and here you are, and here we stand again, agape. The poem shows the violence of America and that there is little hope for change. The poem starts violently with the image “Yesterday a little girl got slapped to death by her daddy.” This shows how violence can be found in peoples house and not just on the street. This makes it seem like there is no shelter from it. Also it uses a lot of imagery describing the 4th of July as war. “Spray the streets and neighbors' yards with the machine-gun crack of fireworks.” By saying we celebrate with weapons makes violence seem socially acceptable. It also stops abruptly at the end because instead of 4 lines there is only three. This makes it seem like the problem can’t be solved. The Blue heron is gray, not blue, but great enough against brown-tipped bowed cattails to be     well-named, is known for its stealth, shier than a cloud, but won't fly or float away when it's scared, stands there thinking maybe it's invisible though it's not—tall, gray, straight as a pole among the cloudy reeds. Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time. And sets it down just beyond the other, no splash, breath of a ripple, goes on     slowly across the silt, mud, algae- throttled surface, through sedge grass, to stand to its knees in water turning grayer now that afternoon is evening. Now that afternoon is evening the gray heron turns blue, bluer than sky, bluer than the mercury blue-black still pond. So when did it snag the bullfrog hanging, kicking, in its scissor beak? To look so long means to miss the sudden. It strides around like a sleek cat from pond to bank and back, blue tall bird, washing the frog, banging it against stones, pecking almost as if it doesn't know what to do now that it's caught such a thing. How fast its beak must be to shoot out like an arrow or that certain—as it's called— slant of light. Blue light. Where did it go? Over all the poem gives the reader the image of the bird hunting. The poet talks about the herons color at different times throughout the poem as though trying to show how the bird changes. “Now that afternoon is evening, the gray heron turns blue” It also describes how it walks on the riverbank that gives a calming image of a silent hunter looking for prey. Then the poem describes how it gets its prey. Through the poem the lines are long and in enjambments making the reader read slowly to grasp the mental pitcher. The Feast The moon tonight is     the cup of a      scar. I hate the moon. I hate—more—that scar. My love waited one day, then half the next. One cyst drained of fluid that looked, she said, like icing for a cake. //Red- laced, she said, gold, tan, thick, rich. Kind of     beautiful.// One cyst was not a cyst. One —small one, hard, its edges jagged— like a snow ball. This one scared the house on- cologist into lab work: stat. Once the snow melts the birds will be back. Once\ many men were masked in front of their families. Were gunned down to shallow graves, together, there. Basra. Kaechon. East St. Louis, Illinois. Nowhere we don’t know about and nothing yet is done. This is what we watch while we wait. Twelve little cysts of snow in the red- bud. I watched each one, having counted, once more, and then one more time, as     the news reports reported and the cold early northern wind shook out there the bare, still-budded small bush. Balls of crust shuddered in the bush. Birds will be     back as      though nothing has happened. I am here to report that nothing happened. Except the oncologist said, then, benign. But now I hate the moon. Hate the scar, though it shines on her breast like the moon at my lips. The poem is about recovering after lost. It is made out of short lines with a lot of pauses. This makes it seem that the poet is thinking and these are their thoughts coming slowly to them. The poet talks about cyst in the poem a lot and also talks about birds will come back. This seems to say that the aria is suffering from sickness but it will recover. At one point the poet talks about “My love” and “cyst drained of fluid that looked” which makes it seem like the poet lost his lover to the sickness.