Foreign Language

We are all made from dust and to dust we shall return, the only secret is landing on the part of the desk that doesn't get cleaned often. Forgotten dust isn’t enough I want my name etched in that desk no one will forget me I write poetry in pen because it’s a more permanent form of temporary. each word spoken floating off to a mystery mister please, listen to me See : In 10th grade I discovered no really discovered poetry. Mrs. Pomerantz forced me to memorize Molly Peacock and the lines jumped off the page to change me rearrange me I was lucky to escape school yard convictions that poetry is agony. Formulaically, like a language, passionless poetry taught emotionlessly but she taught differently feeding my addiction to diction I learned that poetry is full of motion. Now Linguistic fluency moves me to movement and when a poet finishes spitting I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding... I have this dream I’ll write something that reaches someone and when they read it I’ll be the rose, the sunrise, the smile, the beauty that makes people stop When times restarts its will be with that breath exhale poetic rhythm and consider ourselves blessed. I write poetry in pen because it’s a more permanent form of temporary. each word spoken floating off to a mystery mister please, listen to me See : poetry for me is a foreign language I never really know the right word I just go with what feels right hoping native speakers will understand because I’m a stranger in a strange land and the harsh conditions with which to contend aren’t the climate, heat, cold or wind, but mixed metaphors, lack of clarity, and imprecise imagery. learning my ABC’s but I can’t roll my R’s quite right. I’m seeking to alliterate all my lines building blank verse coupling couplet rhymes figuring out phrases Repeating, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.” “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.” “Tyger Tyger burning bright.” “Tyger Tyger burning bright.” counting syllables diagramming sentences conjugating, and conjugating and conjugating. We’re all visitors to life, I’m done being a spectator to poetry. I don’t tour slams like visitor centers I’m an immigrant to the land of words and rhymes Poets have been an inspiration but I can’t resist the temptation Its time to stumble and mumble on the mic learning through immersion hoping to attain fluency because language is beautiful and poetry is beautiful. and I want to be beautiful. talk of masterful pieces I want a masterpiece. so I can master peace. searching for my voice to be heard, if only I could learn to speak… poetically. One day with effortless, articulate grace, my woven words will speak globally, universal communication transcending translation one day my notebooks will be heirlooms one day my notebook will be artifacts displayed in glass cases no exploding off pages so in 20 years some 10th grader can memorize my emotions to recite for an assignment and think “Woah, Wendy Low.”