Aidan+Jamison-Frank

"Poetry is the most direct and simple means of expressing oneself in word" -Northrup Frye


 * ODE TO PHILLY**

There are more deaths than days. I forgive you. You have streets one needs to train for just to walk down. I forgive you. The life you live is progressive. but you still don't care about us little people

Your veins are unforgiving, and your arteries and congested. You have everything I could ever want in these streets. These streets I am careful to walk. You house the rich in poor alike. And those who without a roof over their heads, you give them a heat vent on the streets to keep warm

You're unpredictable like march. a march in philly.

The history you contain built this country there are blood on your streets, but we take it in stride. With pride.

We have full prisons, and empty one. Full of ghosts and ghouls, played by people. Do you know what I mean.

The people you birth are the proudest in the world. Thank you.


 * Sonnet To my shoes**

Step after step I take, I keep going There is no no way that you hold me back You are dirty, not right for the showing. Lets the haters say what they say, its wack. I’ll get my crew, dawg best not hold me back. Not while I’m knowing my dunks are going Not while I’m knowing my dunks hit the track.

I feel for you, shoe, have my hardest job. Of keeping me afloat, no easy task. I’ll walk all day, all night right with the mob I want nothing more, stay alive I ask.

I am nice, for your rest when its snowing When I am not nice, your for my attack But soon you’ll be gone, for I’m still growing

**Artists Statement** In regards to my own poetry, I feel as though what I write is not much more than a high schooler doing his work. I by no means am saying that I don’t enjoy poetry, but rather that it’s not my forte. Additionally, I cannot deny that I have written poetry on my own time, nor can I deny the fact that I enjoy doing so, or at least I used to. Poetry with a strict format such as a Ghazal or a sonnet is, to me, very limiting to what one can say. Its difficult to express oneself wholly and completely when limited by syllables or a rhyme scheme. Again, I mean no disrespect to strict poetry forms, but just don’t think they are for me. As a whole, I respect poetry as a form of writing and art, and feel as though it can evolve, excel, and exceptionally inspire others, with out me.

Poet I chose from Poet.org - Gwendolyn Brooks

**Poet analysis essay** Poet Gwendolyn Brooks writes in a very unique way. Although this can be said for most poets, a need for reiteration seems appropriate. Her poems have a natural tendency to rhyme (ex: "They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. / Dinner is a casual affair." [The Bean Eaters]) which compliment her natural flow. Additionally Brooks' ability to produce vivid imagery with seemingly little effort is impressive. For example the short poem "We Real Cool" (shown here), code THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We Left school. We

Lurk late. We Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We Die soon.

code || Alt: [] ) leaves with a clear image of kids skipping school ("...We/ Left School”) to go watch "THE POOL PLAYERS", listen to jazz music, and drink. This example is just one of dozen and dozens of poems she’s been writing and publishing since her early teens.

3 Poems by Gwendolyn Brooks


 * The Bean Eaters**

code They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good. Two who have lived their day, But keep on putting on their clothes And putting things away.

And remembering. . . Remembering, with twinklings and twinges, As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

code

code THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.
 * We Real Cool**

We real cool. We Left school. We

Lurk late. We Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We Die soon.

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code Oh mother, mother, where is happiness? They took my lover's tallness off to war, Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess What I can use an empty heart-cup for. He won't be coming back here any more. Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew When he went walking grandly out that door That my sweet love would have to be untrue. Would have to be untrue. Would have to court Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort) Can make a hard man hesitate--and change. And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes." Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
 * the sonnet-ballad**

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