Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Dont' Regret Anything That Once Made You Smile
My heart beats too fast
yet it still beats so slow.
And what hurts it the most
is that you'll never know.
I think about nothing,
just to get rid of your face.
Yet you pop out of that nothing
to be set in your place.
Whenever I see you
I try hard to smile.
But what I really want to do is cry
and just run for miles.
It's hard when your heart
keeps hold of one that you need.
The one that you love,
who makes you feel free.
Why can't you just see
you're hurting me so?
I need you near,
but you want to go.
You say you want me back,
you want to be my man.
You want to start this all over,
go back to where we began.
Should I let you in,
give you a second chance?
Let my heart be yours again,
and let us have the final dance.
These words haunt me everyday
in my mind and in my dreams.
My mouth will never tell you,
even though my heart screams.
I need an explanation,
I need to know why.
Was our relationship nothing to you?
Was it just a lie?
Or how about those nights we spent
looking at the stars.
I thought I'd be yours forever
but now my heart has scars.
What we had was special
in a fantasy sort of way.
The definition of true love...
Or at least that's what I used to say.
But now I just don't know
if my feelings are what they used to be.
You really need to work, to learn all over again,
to get to know me.
No matter what we do,
no matter what we say,
it's all up to you now,
okay?
You are the one,
that will decide our fate.
So please bring me good news
before it's too late.
I've tried to move on,
but every time it fails.
Every time I think about you,
my thoughts and my heart soars and sails.
It is not fair,
simply unjust.
That I am still attached to you,
yet you are the one that turned us into rust.
As I talk to your related,
I can feel what I've been missing.
The fun times, the young growing old,
the simple feeling of being a part of something.
Of being appreciated,
a part of the family.
Yours was amazing to me,
as they still are, and always will be.
You are the exception,
to this loving rule.
Why did you have to break my heart
and act as though you were too cruel
To care about my feelings.
To care about us.
Am I the one that has to
salvage what was once
The perfect relationship?
No arguments or fights,
staying up half past five,
and then saying goodnight.
All those memorable times we had,
from Calaveras and "would you rather" to 31.
I still remember them,
but you act as though they're all done.
As though we are no more,
and never will be.
Why do you have to be so enigmatic?
Why are you doing this to me?
Choose what you want.
Make a decision.
Is it me that you want
or simply a complication
Of your heart and mind.
What you want, and what you need.
Please let me know,
so then I can feed
My empty and cold soul.
Those thoughts of you and I
are seeming very distant now
while thinking in bed I lie.
If only you could read this,
to finally see what I've been feeling.
These past three months have been terrible;
you saw my heart plummet and my thoughts reeling.
Into that great desparation
you sent me into.
Make up your mind
before my heart splits again in two.
It was mended before,
it can be fixed once again.
But please don't hurt it,
because it is on a mission.
A journey to your thoughts,
to see what you are thinking.
An odyssey to your dreams
to alter your dreaming.
To make you want me,
to make up your mind.
I used to think men are all alike,
but you are one of a kind
In both good ways and bad.
You were considerate and kind
up until the end.
When you did not mind
Killing my dreams for us.
So I ask of you,
to make a decision is a must.
For this is inhumane for me and you too.
Any day now,
I can't wait forever.
Think I've waited long enough,
for us to get back together?
It's now or never,
I'm not turning back.
Although I can't move on,
I can always replace what you lack;
A heart of compassion,
ever since that day,
when you lost what made you unique.
and if I may,
Say so myself,
every day was hell;
Not knowing if you cared,
or were even sure
If your decision was right,
but were too afraid to have it changed.
For chance that I had moved on,
and my heartbreak would be avenged.
To turn back the time
would simply be a miracle.
We could go back to when everything was
sweet and simple.
I love you more than I can express in words
even more than this poem can say.
The only thing that I can hope for,
is that you realize that you still feel the same way.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Chelsea Taylor
Mrs. Bosch
4 April 2007
English 10 Honors
The Biography of a Prodigy
When, a dozen years ago, Congress authorized the appointment of the nation's first poet laureate, Robert
Mrs. Bosch
4 April 2007
English 10 Honors
The Biography of a Prodigy
When, a dozen years ago, Congress authorized the appointment of the nation's first poet laureate, Robert
Penn Warren was named. Though nearly 80 at the time and “cancer-stricken, with all his work behind him, he
had long been considered the dean of American letters -- indeed, the very embodiment of the restless, ravening
American imagination” (The Fugitive). Robert Penn Warren was “an American poet, novelist, and literary
critic,” (Robert Penn Warren) and one of the greatest minds of his time. Not only did he live a very fulfilling life,
but was also well known throughout his time as a very distinguished person, and consequently received “much
recognition for his works;” (Life of Robert Penn Warren) many of which won him esteemed awards. Robert
Penn Warren, a brilliant American poet, contained such a variety of depth in his literary works, that that it is no
enigma how a mere being could receive so much praise and approval.
Warren was “born in Guthrie, Todd County, Kentucky on April 24, 1905,” (Robert Penn Warren) was
a prodigy from the start, and was deceased September 15, 1989. He entered Vanderbilt University in 1921 at
age 16, “where he became the youngest member of the group of Southern poets called the Fugitives, which
included John Crowe Ransom, Allen Tate, Donald Davidson, and Merrill Moore” (Life of Robert Penn
Warren). Another aspect of his awe-inspiring life was his range in talents. Warren's “range in his works was
extraordinary” (The Fugitive). He is the only writer “to have won a Pulitzer Prize both for fiction and (twice) for
poetry” (The Fugitive). He was also a passionate advocate “of the rural Southern agrarian tradition” (Robert
Penn Warren). His life could nearly be considered a fable of literary success. His 18 volumes of poetry “early on
displayed an eloquence later supplanted by a rugged sublimity that rightly earned him comparisons with Hardy
and Yeats” (The Fugitive).
One of his most heartfelt pieces of poetry is titled True Love. In it are insightful examples of imagery,
literary devices, sound devices, and a flow that creates a visually moving image, from one scene to the next. An
excerpt that proves this point beautifully is as follows:
In silence the heart raves. It utters words
Meaningless, that never had
A meaning. I was ten, skinny, red-headed,
Freckled. In a big black Buick,
Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat
In front of the drugstore, sipping something
Through a straw. There is nothing like
Beauty. It stops your heart. It
Thickens your blood. It stops your breath. It
Makes you feel dirty. You need a hot bath.
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.
How could I exist in the same world with that brightness?
Two years later she smiled at me. She
Named my name. I thought I would wake up dead.
But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives
In a beautiful house, far away.
She called my name once. I didn't even know she knew.
As the imagery flows through the chosen words and one begins to consider why he used those particular
words, one realizes that this is the work of a true genius; it is a real masterpiece. To evoke such deep thought
from a few stanzas of a poem is purely magical. To contain such depth and broad range of talent, all condensed
into one simple piece of literary work, is what a true master of literature is capable of achieving. It is what Robert
Penn Warren was capable of achieving, and was very apt at consistently achieving throughout his literary career.
What is most striking about this famed poet and novelist however, is the knowledge that he had rather not
attended Vanderbilt at all. Astonishingly, he desired to attend Annapolis and “become commander of the Pacific
fleet. In fact, he was accepted by the Naval Academy, but that summer his younger brother aimlessly tossed a
stone over a hedge. It landed in Warren's eye, and so damaged his sight that he couldn't enroll at Annapolis.
(The eye was later removed)” (The Fugitive). To realize that this remarkable American prodigy had not desired
to become a poet or novelist at all, and then to compare his works of art to those who had built their whole lives
around becoming an esteemed poet, it was purely fate that he could have turned out as so, so that these amazing
works of art could flow from his mind, with such broad depth as was included, that he received many precious
awards that some would regard as the highest level of recognition achievable.
Another eloquent example of the included depth in Warren’s literature is from one of his more thought-evoking
works, Tell Me A Story:
Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood
By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard
The great geese hoot northward.
I could not see them, there being no moon
And the stars sparse. I heard them.
I did not know what was happening in my heart.
It was the season before the elderberry blooms,
Therefore they were going north.
The sound was passing northward.
Tell me a story.
In this century, and moment, of mania,
Tell me a story.
Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.
The name of the story will be Time,
But you must not pronounce its name.
Tell me a story of deep delight.
Just the arrangement of the words included in this poem is enough to rouse such deep and meaningful
thoughts as those of the ones he included into his work. Throughout Robert Warren’s amazing life, he created a
legacy that is very hard to live up to. Not only did he compose beautifully crafted works of art, through his
poetry, prose, and letters, but he also received much recognition for them, and was also compared with the likes
of Hardy and Yeats; a huge accomplishment on it’s own. Without his perseverance, determination, and sheer
depth inserted into his works, one could never have experienced such enlightenment when examining a work of
literature as one can while reviewing Robert Penn Warren’s amazingly gifted talents inserted into his works of art.
Work Cited
The Fugitive. 9 March 1997. The New York Times. 10 April 2007.
<http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/03/09/reviews/970309.09mcclact.html>.
Tell Me A Story. 8 October 1995. Poetry Critics. 10 April 2007.
<http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15315>.
Robert Penn Warren. 12 February 2006. Wikipedia. 10 April 2007.
<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Penn_Warren>.
Life of Robert Penn Warren. 6 June 1999. Poetry Critics. 10 April 2007.
<http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/17>.
Labels: The Biography of a Prodigy