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Poetry Project

English 1302, March 22, 2011
by

Rayne Holm

on 22 March 2011

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Transcript of Poetry Project

by Rayne Holm Honesty Deception vs. Poems: truthfulness, sincerity, or frankness “When in the Throes of Suicide” by Anna Akhmatova When in the throes of suicide
our people awaited the German guests,
and the stern Byzantine spirit
abandoned our Russian Church,
I heard a voice- oh it was soothing!-
that cried: “Come here,
leave your wild and sinful country,
leave Russia forever.
I will wash the blood from your hands,
I will pluck the shame from your heart,
I will hide, with a different name,
your insults and your hurts.”

But indifferently and calmly
I blocked my ears, like a child,
not to be tempted by dirty talk,
not, in my mourning, to be defiled. “I Like a Look of Agony” by Emily Dickinson I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it's true
Men do not sham Convulsion,
Nor simulate, a Throe

The Eyes glaze onceand that is Death
Impossible to feign
The Beads upon the Forehead
By homely Anguish strung.
Haven't I been true to you?
That won't ever change
If it's all the same
I'll always be what you want me to
Haven't I been true to you?

Haven't I been true to you?
I hide my eye
I read between the line
I see what you want me to
Haven't I been true to you?

Haven't I been true to you?
I hold back what I say
No emotions get in the way
I control what you want me to
Haven't I been true to you?
Haven't I been true to you? “Been True”
by Tom Brosseau
Face powder, gunpowder, talcum of anthrax,
shavings of steel, crematoria ash, chips
of crumbling poetry paperall these in my lockbox,
and dust, tanks, tempests, temples of dust.

Saw-, silk-, chalk-dust and chaff,
the dust the drool of a bull swinging its head
as it dreams its death
slobs out on; dust even from the scoured,

scraped littoral of the Aegean,
troops streaming screaming across it
at those who that day, that age or forever
would be foe, worthy of being dust for.

Last, hovering dust of the harvest, brief
as the half-instant hitch in the flight
of the hawk, as the poplets of light
through the leaves of the bronzing maples.

Animal dust, mineral, mental, all hoarded
not in the jar of sexy Pandora, not
in the ark where the dust of the holy aspiring
to congeal as glorious mud-thing still writhes

just this leathery, crackled, obsolete box,
heart-sized or brain, rusted lock shattered,
hinge howling with glee to be lifted again . . .
Face powder, gunpowder, dust, darling dust. "Dust”
by C.K. Williams The words come out easy and rich,
tinted with a tingling laugh, pure.
I smile, so big my teeth show and
my face wrinkles, eyes light up.

Your mirth disappears, falls away
suddenly as a crumbling cliff.
There is no more smile or deep
chuckle. My own fades slowly.

“No, I didn't mean it that way!
I didn't mean you, it was...”
It was meant to share a private
thought, meant to deepen love.

You shake your head and stand.
The moments are over, shattered
suddenly and sharply by serene
honesty. I am left sitting alone.

I stare at my hands, tears welling
up. I could chase you. I could
talk and plead and explain until my
voice cracks and no words are left.

It would change nothing. Each
believes his own truth, only honesty
can speak for itself. I stand, brush
off my skirt, and I fade away. “Misunderstood” by Rayne Holm Bike down
Down to the downtown
Down to the lock, down
Boards, nails lie around

I crouch like a crow
Contrasting the snow
For the agony, I'd rather know
'Cause blinded I am blindsided

Peek in
Into the peer in
I'm not really like this
I'm probably plightless

I cup the window
I'm crippled and slow
For the agony, I'd rather know
'Cause blinded I am blindsided

Would you really rush out for me now?
Would you really rush out for me now?
Would you really rush out for me now?

Taught line
Down to the shoreline
The end of a blood line
The moon is a cold light

There's a pull to the flow
My feet melt the snow
For the irony, I'd rather know

'Cause blinded I was blindsided
'Cause blinded I was blindsided
'Cause blinded I was blindsided “Blindsided” by Bon Iver Poems: When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:

Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be. From his Pulitzer Prize winning collection, Repair. "Sonnet 138”
by William Shakespeare The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster. “One Art”
by Elizabeth Bishop "The Nail”
by C.K. Williams From his Pulitzer Prize winning collection, Repair. Some dictator or other had gone into exile, and now reports were coming about his regime,
the usual crimes, torture, false imprisonment, cruelty and corruption, but then a detail:
that the way his henchmen had disposed of enemies was by hammering nails into their skulls.
Horror, then, what mind does after horror, after that first feeling that you’ll never catch your breath,
mind imagineshow not be annihilated by it?the preliminary tap, feels it in the tendons of the hand,
feels the way you do with your nail when you’re fixing something, making something, shelves, a bed;
the first light tap to set the slant, and then the slightly harder tap, to em-bed the tip a little more ...

No, no more: this should be happening in myth, in stone, or paint, not in reality, not here;
it should be an emblem of itself, not itself, something that would mean, not really have to happen,
something to go out, expand in implication from that unmoved mass of matter in the breast;
as in the image of an anguished face, in grief for us, not us as us, us as in a myth, a moral tale,
a way to tell the truth that grief is limitless, a way to tell us we must always understand
it’s we who do such things, we who set the slant, embed the tip, lift the sledge and drive the nail,
drive the nail which is the axis upon which turns the brutal human world upon the world. Stop.
The words are heavy on my tongue, their meaning forced.
They fall out and hit the ground like thick droplets of tar,
poisonous and smothering.

Pause.
Increasing heart-rate, pupils dilate, waiting to be called out.
A cocked head, a curious look, and then a nod, agreement.
I am safe.

Wait.
This is wrong, intestines are knotted, paths are complicated.
Can we go back, back two minutes- Forget I said it!
Why did I say it?

Now.
It is too late, we cannot go back any longer, cannot turn away.
A wall has already been built, a straightforward path, unalterable
stemming from this lie.

I have failed. “Moment of Truth”
by Rayne Holm an act to propegate false beliefs Works Cited

Akhmatova, Anna. “When in the Throes of Suicide.” Plaintain. Leningrad: Anno Domini,1942. 15. Print.
Bishop, Elizabeth. “One Art.” The Complete Poems. New York: Harper Collins, 1979. 28. Print.
Brosseau, Tom. “Been True.” Posthumous Success. Nashville: Fat Cat Records, 2009. Audio Recording.
Dickenson, Emily. “I Like a Look of Agony.” Complete Poems. Boston: Newalk, 1924. 241. Print.
Iver, Bon. “Blindsided.” For Emma, Forever Ago. Wisconsin: Jagjaguwar, 2008. Audio Recording.
Plath, Sylvia. “Mirror.” Crossing the Water: Transitional Poems. New York: Harper & Row, 1971. 34. Print.
Shakespeare, William. “Sonnet 138.” Shakespeare's Sonnets. Ed. A.L. Rowse. London: Macmillan, 1964. 145. Print.
Williams, C. K. “Nail..” Repair. New York: Farrar, 2000. 18. Print.
Williams, C. K. “Dust.” Repair. New York: Farrar, 2000. 29. Print.
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