Willie+Willson

__** Introduction: **__ Poetry is a very flexible form of art. There is no one-way to create a poem, poem's can rhyme, but they don’t have to. Poems may appear completely random, but under closer scrutiny it is revealed that they have hidden depths. My poetry is usually relatively short, and I like use wordplay as one of my favorite poetic tools. For example, the line from my imagist poem about windows, “Insight to outside.” Really struck me as the right thing to say. In my mind, it captures the essence of windows, how you look through them to see what’s beyond it.

When I was writing this poetry, I wasn’t thinking about getting it done fast, I was thinking of doing it well, and thinking everything I said over and over to make sure it was right. I can honestly say that these poems are the best work that I can put out, poetry wise, and that they are all true to me in some way.

The main poetic techniques that I use are keeping the poems short so that the reader can digest them, using metaphors and similes to get my meaning across, and using abstract and kind of strange ways to connect two topics to each other. I prefer to write like this because whenever I want to write something, I try and do it in the most creative way possible. For example in my Ode to Pants I say, “ The sharp thorns grab at the pants/ like an army of fairy hands.” That’s a pretty creative way to think about pants, if I may say so myself.

__** Poetry Quote **__ " I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything." Steven Wright

__** A Poem From Memory **__ LEECHES! 50 leeches Latched onto my legs Writhing, slimy, blood filled Panic ensued Do we have salt? Leeches kryptonite Forgotten at the peach house Scraping A big old stick Forcefully extracting Little teeth from my skin Looking back Imagining writhing water Like a whirlpool of bloodsucking nothingness Leeches, copious amounts of leeches Waiting beneath the surface Ready to pounce I didn’t go back in

__**An Ode To Pants**__
 * Pants are essential**

How every explorer, longs for his favorite pair of pants. Whether on the deep, frothing blue-white sea, Or in the dark, lush green jungle. Whether they are needed to fight the unforgiving, unmerciful cold, like a shield to protect comfort, even the relentless abuse received breaking through brush, cannot stand up to good pants. Pants are essential.

Walking through rose bushes, The sharp thorns grabbing at the pants Like an army of sharp fairy hands. The pants protect, the pants never fail. Pants are essential.

When all else fails, Life seems to have no meaning, The activities of the past no longer provide satisfaction. Pants will still provide the same sense, Of security and comfort, as a crib once did, warm and enveloping. Pants are essential.

While working under the hard-bright sun, And the heat beats down on your frame, Like a flock of asphyxiating fish, flapping over you. Pants will shade you. Pants are essential.

Pants warm when you’re cold, Cool when you’re warm, The shift between being clothing, To being something more, Like a second skin, Whether denim, cotton, wool, or other materials, Pants are essential.

__** Found Poem **__ Waiting for the right to fall. Looking at the milky skylight. All you need is love, love. I'm ready now, I'm not waiting for the afterlife. Take me down to the paradise city. I will show you, how great I am.
 * I will show you, how great I am.**

Our greatest fear is not that we are weak, it is that we are powerful beyond measure. It's not about how hard you can hit, it's about how hard you can get hit and keep on going. Only last week I murdered a rock. Hospitalized a stone. I'm so mean I make medicine sick. I will show you, how great I am.

__** I Was Raised By: **__

I was raised by boots with knives sticks with crescent moons hats of plastic and metal pants with padding

I was raised by gliding effortlessly fighting vigorously muscle fatigue soreness

I was raised by teachers and mentors rivals and teammates friends and enemies

I was raised by broken sticks breathtaking collisions helmets rolling

I was raised by pristine flat ice chopped up ice soft ice hard ice


 * __Summer__**

Shall I compare thee to a summers day, warm and inviting in the morning, like a haven from frantic activity.

Hot and bright during the day, like the whole world needs shade to hide from your scorching prescence.

Cool and dark at night, so that the world may recover from your harsh brilliancy.

Then, the cycle starts anew, until summer has ended, and the world becomes dark and desolate, devoid of summer.

__**Windows**__

Clear, red, blue, yellow, every color of the rainbow. Wood framed, metal framed, plastic framed. Clean, dirty, scratched, untouched, decorative, functional. Open, or close. In every house, in every room, in every car, in every plane. Insight to outside.
 * Window**

__**WIlliam Wallace Detailed Study:**__ William Wallace is a exquisite poet. His work revolves around the human experience, such as how humans destroy the environment, and the different emotions we feel and how we interpret them. William Wallace makes sure that his poems are thought about, by writing them in such a way that everyone has to pause and just think for a few moments to contemplate what he just said. In the poem //Anecdote of the Jar//, Wallace talks about how humanity is the only thing stopping nature from living and thriving. “It did not give of bird or bush” is a great line; it points out how barren the jar makes the earth that it is on.

William Wallace’s work is filled with quotes just as interesting as that one, such as in the poem //The Grey Room,// Wallace shows how perspective can turn everything colorful gray, or make everything fun boring. He does this by using lots of imagery to make the poem seem as though it were coming alive and taking over. When you read it almost seems as though Wallace has peered into your mind and extracted the essence of depression, how everything becomes monotonous and boring.

In the poem //The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm// Wallace displays his brilliance yet again. He shows that he can describe the indescribable; the feeling you get while you read a book. Everyone knows that state that you get into were nothing matters except the next page, and were the book uses you mind as a canvas to paint its masterpiece onto. Everything loud becomes quiet, until all you will hear is the swish of a flipping page. The line, “ The words were spoken as if there was no book.” Describes this sensation perfectly, how the letters cease to exist and the words suddenly jump off the page and into your brain, on some type of special highway that surpasses reason.

William Wallace also shows that he is a prominent believer in the fact that humans are the earth’s destroyers. In his poem //Anecdote of the Jar,// Wallace states his opinion in a very interesting way. He doesn’t say his opinion; he just lets the reader come to the same conclusion that he did himself, he controls the thought process of everyone who reads it. “The jar was grey and bare/ it did not give of bird or bush.” Is an example of this unique skill to implant ideas into others heads. Wallace lets the reader think about the statement, and dramatize it. When I first read this I thought of a hill with a huge bare spot, covered with a jar were nothing could ever grow.

William Wallace is one of the best poets I have ever read. The ideas that he comes up with and puts forward blow me away, and most importantly, his work makes me have to think. I can’t just skim through it, I have to pause and read it carefully. That is William Wallace’s best poetic quality, he makes you think.

__** Link To Artwork **__
file:///Users/wwillson/Pictures/Photo%20Booth%20Library/Pictures/Photo%20on%205-17-12%20at%209.20%20PM.jpg

__**Link To Video Recording Of Me Reading Windows**__
file:///Users/wwillson/Dropbox/English%202/Reading%20copperpoetry%20aloud.mov