Image taken from http://www.ourcatholicprayers.com/images/Morningsuncrop.jpg, courtesy of The Internet. The picture depicts morning sunlight, the kind that I wish I could wake up to every day.It's time for a poetry post!
Here are two poems, both written in eighth grade, both results of school assignments, both about creating art, specifically writing, and both autobiographical. Or at least semi-autobiographical. Oddly enough, both of them also have connections to The Hunger Games (a book series which, as you can probably tell by now, I adore): the title of the first, "Mockingjay," references the third book of the series and the fictional creature that book is named after; the second, a work known only as "A pad of yellow paper," has a poetic style similar to an excellent poem, "Brokens," that is a fanfiction of The Hunger Games. I mimicked the style intentionally, and if that offends the author of the fanfiction in any way, then I humbly apologize.
"A pad of yellow paper" was published in the June issue of my middle school's school newspaper.
"Mockingjay" & "A pad of yellow paper"
It's 8:36 A. M. of life.
Well into the day, but not quite mid-morning.
A few short hours ago, the sun rose
And childhood began.
Childhood hasn't stopped, of course,
But this is a time
When dawn has settled down.
See her on the rise
The small girl—still just a girl—
Standing on the edge of the morning,
Balancing on her toes.
She's tested out her wings, but isn't quite ready
To fly off into the unknown.
She extends her arms to catch her balance, breathing lightly.
You don't see much difference in her
Except for the new setting—
7:43 in a nest, 8:36 in a new world.
But look closer and see the laughter in her eyes.
Whatever adolescent turmoil was there has settled
As she sings out with joy
And her words dance across a page.
No longer waiting for morning to begin.
She was never just waiting, not really,
Always starting something; perhaps too early, but always at the right time.
She's mastered her craft and herself,
And the world waits,
She's alive at last,
Full of joy.
"A pad of yellow paper"
A pad of yellow paper
And a little purple pen--
Soon the words come flowing onto the page,
And the light dawns in her eyes again.
She sees things in a different way
Than you or even I.
Since the beginning, there's been the word,
And the words enable her to fly.
She knows life has a purpose
And she's ready to find it out.
And she knows that creating brings her joy.
Her triumphs she will shout—
Across the word processor keys
And dancing across the page,
Sung from the highest rooftops,
Or played upon a stage.
She has a voice—she knows that now—
And a story here to sing.
Wherever her heart leads, she will follow;
She's ready to do anything.
And she knows full well that it's hard to create
Or even think of joy
When the muse has departed and she's left alone
And everything appears to be destroyed.
But, like Sisyphus and his hopeless cause,
Forever pushing a rock,
She knows that the tears will be worth it someday.
She's stronger than this Writer's Block.
It's what she loves, it's what she's for,
And she's never giving in.
She'll gather up the broken pieces
And the artist in her will always win.
As the words fly with color across the canvas,
And reality escapes,
She laughs as her characters speak through her,
And the world is hers to shape.
She's sitting at a computer now,
Writing a poem—it's hard to do—
Praising her gifts in third-person,
Because her teacher asked her to.
It's June, the month of flowers and weddings,
And graduations from middle school,
She's learned a lot in these past few years,
Including that her mind's eye is a jewel.
You have to learn to love what you do,
And learn to mean what you say,
Because then you'll know who you truly are,
And you'll always find a way.
Praise to the artist in everyone,
And the spirit of the mind,
Let us sing of the heroes of pens, not swords,
For now it is their time to shine.