Sam

[|these poems]

by Samantha King Something that no one can hear, One thing that no one can see, My mind running rapidly, Easy is not what I would call it, One that is still missing, None have forgotten, only missed placed, Existence means nothing. compresses conflict - this acrostic poem is titled no one, but on the side it says someone, and through out the poem it hints that there is someone. But they are missed placed or left out. "None have forgotten, only missed placed" this line of the poem is a good example of how there is someone, but it might not be noticeable, which is kind of what the poem is about. alliteration - and alliteration in this sense creates an image in the readers mind of confusion and as if someone is trying to figure something out, and fast


 * I AM …a plate **
 * I WONDER … why they don’t clean me more **
 * I HEAR … soft mummers at the dinner table **
 * I SEE … soap, food **
 * I WORRY … about being dropped, shattering on the floor like so many others before **
 * I WANT … something more than to sit in the sink **


 * I PRETEND … that I am the most important part of this home **
 * I FEEL … small and useless **
 * I TOUCH … the bottom of their food, holding it for their consumption **
 * I WORRY … I will be unwanted some day **
 * I CRY … out for attention **
 * I AM … used **


 * I UNDERSTAND … I will never have a conversation **
 * I SAY … to you, use me **
 * I DREAM … that one day I will be as free as you **
 * I HOPE … to be appreciated **
 * I AM … a plate **


 * line breaks - having the line breaks before every "I" makes the poem more personal and really gives the reader incite into what the subject is thinking and feeling. **


 * speaker - Having the speaker be the plate and not a human talking about plate adds more depth to the poem and allows for more unusual content to be added into the poem. **

Inside Out
POEM VIEWS: 39653

By Diane Wakoski

I walk the purple carpet into your eye carrying the silver butter server but a truck rumbles by, leaving its black tire prints on my foot and old images the sound of banging screen doors on hot afternoons and a fly buzzing over the Kool-Aid spilled on the sink flicker, as reflections on the metal surface. Come in, you said, inside your paintings, inside the blood factory, inside the old songs that line your hands, inside eyes that change like a snowflake every second, inside spinach leaves holding that one piece of gravel, inside the whiskers of a cat, inside your old hat, and most of all inside your mouth where you grind the pigments with your teeth, painting with a broken bottle on the floor, and painting with an ostrich feather on the moon that rolls out of my mouth. You cannot let me walk inside you too long inside the veins where my small feet touch bottom. You must reach inside and pull me like a silver bullet from your arm.

These Poems, She Said
By Robert Bringhurst

These poems, these poems, these poems, she said, are poems with no love in them. These are the poems of a man who would leave his wife and child because they made noise in his study. These are the poems of a man who would murder his mother to claim the inheritance. These are the poems of a man like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not comprehend but which nevertheless offended me. These are the poems of a man who would rather sleep with himself than with women, she said. These are the poems of a man with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s hands, woven of water and logic and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant as elm leaves, which if they love love only the wide blue sky and the air and the idea of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said, and not a beginning. Love means love of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing. These poems, she said.... You are, he said, beautiful. That is not love, she said rightly.