I sit in class aloof, in back, and draw
those funny little doodles in my notes
and laugh at something dumb and immature
that greatly hinders me from paying mind
to writing down the lengthy notes about
that bloody organ called the human heart.
Because today we will dissect the heart
of seven fetal pigs and try to draw
in detail all the parts then write about
a page describing things we saw of note.
I hope, but doubt, the teacher will not mind
My bold cartoons, drawn so cutely immature.
The task at hand confirms I’m not mature.
I don’t want to dissect an actual heart.
It puts a damper on my state of mind,
these little baby pigs’ unlucky draw.
I can’t believe no one around me notes
that stink, formaldehyde that wafts about.
And now I cannot stop my thoughts about
these harmless pigs who died, so premature
and merely for a seventh grader’s notes.
I’m a kid who knows that deep within her heart
she only wants to innocently draw
imaginary creatures from her mind.
But no, it’s not the heart that tells the mind
important things it ought to think about;
this stark conclusion I have come to draw,
a one so grim it has to be mature.
With that I take the scalpel to the heart
and write about the mess inside my notes.
Across the room I think my teacher notes
unruly students too uncouth to mind
their neighbors since they’re stabbing at their hearts
whose spurting blood prompts me into a bout
of tears, although I want to be mature.
I hide behind my desk and soon withdraw
to happy things I draw inside my notes
I know I’m not mature but I don’t mind
today I’ve learned enough about the heart.
| Nothing immature about your poem at all. You show a metacognitive awareness of your presumed immaturity or maturity. In other words, you rise above yourself to write about yourself. Dealing with the death of animals is never nice. Pigs are delightful creatures when alive, full of intelligence and humour. But we raise pigs to eat and comes the day you have to slaughter them. The death is oddly quick and painless. The pain is the guilt we feel at killing an animal that trusted us. The cure to my guilt has always been to give my animals quality of life while they are alive and to think that their end is less traumatic than being eaten slowly by a tiger.|
However, back to your poem. You have an accomplished use of language and write in a cool, controlled style. This poem certainly passes muster with me. It might even prompt me to write about the sad death of two pigs I knew personally!
|| Posted on 2009-05-11 00:00:00 | by hanuman | [ Reply to This ] || gosh, [and gosh seems to be my go to word this week]|
this in is ip and I'll let you in on a secret, you could do a poem on all the reasons i suck, but if you did it this well in ip i'd love it.
Kind of rude of me i know but i didn't even read the whole thing because I was itching to write you a response, and i guess i was in suh a hurry because i was so pleased with what you wrote.
I think the rhythm is pretty [censored] hot and the rhyme or seeming absence of it was great, there's a part where you rhyme two words have no place being paired but it works so well and hides the rhyme but carries the sound.
Enjambment, specifically finishing a sentence mid line and or in varying places would be the only thing to work on.
And so maybe i'll read the actual content on another day when i'm not so enchanted by technique.
|| Posted on 2009-05-08 00:00:00 | by Daniel Barlow | [ Reply to This ] || I'm a bio student at university and I feel like I can totally relate to what you're talking about. I can definitely see myself in that classroom. |
Your imagery and choice of words was excellent. You can definitely understand where the writer is coming from and what's going through the writer's head as they sit there in the class.
Its definitely a well written piece and I enjoyed it a lot.
|| Posted on 2009-05-08 00:00:00 | by jaramae | [ Reply to This ] || Very ambitious!|
take a look at this one, you may like it:
|| Posted on 2009-05-08 00:00:00 | by Raphael | [ Reply to This ] |