mine prettiful drawing

I Love Poetry. . . Or Do I?

I love poetry. I love reading it; I love writing it. But when I say poetry, I don't necessarily mean poetry. Huh. You see, when I say that I love poetry, I 'm actually saying that I love only one specific type of poetry in particular. I love poetry with rhythm and rhyme.

A lot poetry out there has neither of these factors-- or at least none of the poetry we're forced to study in school. In fact, English teachers even encourage students to read the poetry as fluently as a book, as if the line breaks weren't even there at all. Why do people bother putting in line breaks when they don't want the reader to pause at them. Most of the poetry out there is just nicely written paragraphs rearranged into stanzas to make them prettier to look at. Yes, I enjoy reading them sometimes because, yes, they can be written very eloquently and can sound quite nice. But when I say poetry, that just isn't the sort of thing I'm referring to.

So when I say that I love poetry, I suppose I'm lying. A more accurate statement would be that I love verse. Verse-- defined as having a metrical rhythm, and typically rhyming. As long as it's rhythmical, I can even deal with the lack of a rhyming scheme. Ah, how I love verse. 

. . . And I like most poetry too.

As for Amanda Jernigan's poems, the last two were completely weird, but I did like the first one, "Bats". I liked the line where she said that the bats were "a serpent muscling air apart". Also, I just like bats so that probably helps...

Nature Walk

Katie’s shoes crunched crisply in the newly fallen leaves as she walked down the narrow forest path. A few lone crickets, not tired from the long night’s symphony, sung duets with the birds in their gleeful wakeup call. A cool morning breeze tickled Katie’s face, bringing with it the fresh autumn scents of pine needles and dew. She stopped and took a deep, refreshing breath, lost for a moment in the magic of the woods, untainted by the hands of man, and pure after the long, cleansing rain. She was brought back to reality by the soft scurrying and chittering of a squirrel as it crossed the path. The birds were quiet now, but the rest of the forest was just waking up.  The trees and bushes were alive with the sounds of furry creatures, hurrying to stock up for the winter.

Katie heard voices ahead.  The trail was coming to an end. She would miss the beauty of the forest—the rustling of the trees in the wind and the pattering of tiny feet in the bushes; but her class would be waiting for her. The teacher was taking attendance when she arrived; she was the last one back.  As the students headed back to the bus, Katie could hear the girl in front of her chatting with a friend.

“I love walking in the woods! There’s just so much to see--” She cut off, stopping for a moment, then hurried forward, whispering guiltily to her neighbour. Katie smiled to herself. She would never be able to experience sight the way that girl could.

Katie was blind.

But when she was in the forest, she could see the world in a magical way that girl could never imagine.

Purple Prose Opening Sentence

Elizabeth Montgomery Rose Katelyn Smith stood upon the beautifully brown bowsprit of the xebec, hanging onto the closest rope for dear life to prevent herself from falling despairingly into the waves which crashed ruthlessly on the sides of the xebec like medieval army men ramming a castle with a tree trunk ruthlessly in order to knock it down, rather, though, that the waves were like those people running back and forth and body-slamming against the castle gates because that's more akin to the fluid, blue, liquid tumult of the sea, a very unconventional building practice since xebecs uphold no bowsprits of a normal tendency, only that Captain Von Barffle-Belch of the pirate company was happy to touch up fake ship parts to baffle the military cruisers, who thought that was very strange indeed, all things considered.

My Worst Nightmare

Torches lined the walls of an ancient Egyptian tunnel. Their flickering orange glow cast shadows across the faces of Elliot Moose and his friends. They were all dressed in saffari costumes, and each held a torch of their own in their hands. They had discovered this place and were searching for the anchient relics within it.

At the end of the tunnel they found a wall covered with hyroglifs. In the centre of it was a gold-plated lever. What else could it be but the switch that opened a secret door to treasures unknown?

Elliot leaned forward and pulled the switch, then everthing fell apart. It had been a trap! The entire tunnel burst into flames, enveloping Elliot and his friends in a blazing inferno from which there was no escape. One by one they fell to the ground, dead, until Elliot was the only one left breathing, writhing painfully on the floor.

Just then a group of gruff miners appeared at the enterance of the cave, just out of reach of the flames. With his dying breath Elliot reached out to them and rasped, "No. Leave. Save yourselves. Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah."

And then I woke up.

I had this dream when I was about eight years old, and to this day it remains the scariest dream I ever had. Relatively speaking. At the time I was terrified, but I think if I had it again I might just be amused. That's right Elliot, burn! BURN!

Yeah . . . I don't have very scary dreams.

My Cube

Say hello to me-- companion cube. If the cube game we all played has any truth behind it, then apparently that's what I am. I suppose it's my destiny to be roughly thrown through nauseatingly confusing portal sequences, used as a shield, jumped on, then incinerated by my only friend. I have a lot to look forward to. All kidding aside though, it was kind of freaky how accurate the cube game was for me.

First there was the plants. In my picture, healthy, strong, flowered vines are clinging to the entire surface of the cube. No plants grow anywhere else-- the cube is the only place where they are able to survive in the hot, dry desert. I love children, which the plants symbolize. I want to be an elementary school teacher, and a stay-at-home mom when I have my own kids. My image of the plants perfectly displays both my love for kids, and how good I am at working with them. Hmm.

Then there's the latter. It leans against my cube, which is as big as a shed, not normal companion cub sized, and leads to the top of it. However, it is made of metal, which has been heating up a lot in the sun, so it is very hard to climb. This shows how hard it is to become a close, valued friend of mine. I stick to the quality over quantity philosophy on friends, so I'm friendly to everyone, but choose my closest friends carefully.

Lastly, there's the storm, floating intense but condensed right above the cube, but not affecting it-- signifying just how I see my troubles.

Maybe the only reason this works is because when people try interpreting their picture, they twist it dry for the most ridiculous, obscure significations. I don't know. Whether it's a big, deep, inner meaning or not though, I sure had fun playing the cube game.

Why It's Good to Speak Well

The one thing that I absolutely cannot stand-- my greatest pet peeve-- is when I hear someone say "good" when they mean "well". I blame my mom-- she home schooled me for grades 3, 4, and, 5. She taught me GOOD grammar. She taught me grammar WELL. She did not teach me grammar good!

I hear people confusing these terms almost every day, and I physically cringe every time it grates against my ear drums. I just want to shout "WELL!" at them, but I know that if I did that every time it happened, I would soon be the most hated person in this school.

Good is an adjective people.

Well is the adverb.

You can't play sports good, or write an essay good, or see good with glasses on.

It pains me just to type these horrifying phrases.

My mom started going to college this year to become an interpreter (ASL), and one of the required courses for the program is English. So she goes to the class and what are they learning?

"This is a verb. This is a noun. This is an adjective. This is an adverb. etcn a. etc."

Seriously? These people are high school graduates, at the least. You'd think they knew this stuff. That's exactly what my mom was thinking to herself, until the woman next to her turned as said, "I shouldn't have to take this course. I did really good in English."

Well, obviously you didn't do WELL enough, if you're speaking like that. This basic level grammar course is exactly the level you're at.

It terrifies me to think how illeriterate our generation has become. And it's not just good vs. well that people have trouble with. Half the people in my moms COLLEGE level english class couldn't even wrap their heads aroun the subject of a command.

"What is the subject of "Sit in that chair."
"Chair?"
"No, it's 'You'."
"But you didn't say 'you'."
"It's implied. (You) Sit in that chair."
"But you didn't say 'you' the first time."
"That's because it's implied."
"... I don't get it."

Seriously? Do these people even know what "implied" means? Apparently not.

So basically, every time someone says something like, "I did really good on that last test!" it makes me want to rip my ears out. It takes every bit of control I have not to jump out of my seat, run up to them, and shout thorugh clenched teath: "You did WELL!"

I'd say my self control is nothing short of amazing.