Alexis+Ukaha

 "How can you hear my words, if you can't read my silence" - unknown  //The reason I like this quote is because it gives you something to think about. Many people interpret it in different ways, and I think that is the beauty of not being right/wrong. It's just one of those things.//

 Ode to 2008
 Absent-minded moments spent in life, moving forward without motion. Time. The enemy. Our friend. Scarlet slices of soft talk lost in a memory Seems just like yesterday you offered me that thick taste of a dream Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing It was nature’s gold drawn with a calm smile Breathing in a mortal breath, there to exhale eternity Medicine to the brain became old dust Scanned photos became memory madness Time closed in a bottle not to be preserved Seasons blinking through my head oh so vividly. My winter baby, snuggle bunny, bundle you in my mind Autumn’s morning elegance. Wore with the sound of water With a daydream in a cup Summer. Came. Gone. And forgotten. And now it’s missed. Why I don’t know. But my fascination is content And my admiration kept quiet I sit at my desk and inquire my patience Starting at one Ending at two thousand and eight I begin to count back. . .

=Sonnet =

 Pop Pop Pop corn from your Popsicle toes To your delectable gum ball eye lids No beauty thick enough to pounder though There you stood so unique yet typical Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing I am held servitude to your allure Rational instinct tells me to just look But my intentions go beyond my eyes See you have a way of swaying your looks A fading elegance you do enjoy Bringing stillness in my heart and some joy Not a rose but the petal of a rose The rain said to the wind you push I’ll pelt My pop pop popcorn this is how I felt

=Ghazal =

= =  Like the dew in the morning gently rest upon my heart I’m yearning for that silence like the kind after morning

Place it there and make it content For that moment it’ll be typical yet defined after morning

Good day, bad day, any day, and tomorrow A daydream in a cup, a preserved piece of mind after morning

But when the dream is at dismay, where do you turn You can’t see beyond the wreck designed after morning

No choice left but to clean up the fearful trill An upheaval of complication aligned after morning

Lost between the center and a point faded from existence Embed on the inside of the issue: starting over you rewind after morning

So night falls and darkens creeps your windowpane Life closes and your thoughts are refined after morning

The moon light dances on your cheeks It shades your eyelids and now your blind after morning

Destination free fall while your mood is at etcetera The clouds hold you up yet you’re confined after morning

You see these things take time so they require patience Time; a friendship declined after morning

When life expires and you seen yet another sunset Peace, happiness, and stillness intertwined after morning

Alexis had a vision that out shown through the light Awaken by a cloud of steam aligned after morning.

//Poetry Statement: Ukaha// My poetry is unique in undefined ways. It’s not the traditional cliché style of poetry, rather a more modern style to how I see different aspects of the world. I believe that poetry should not be required to make sense. It shouldn’t be required to make sense because if poetry had a format, I think it would take away the significance of emoting your feelings. That’s the same thing as telling someone how to be angry, or how to love, or for that matter, how to be themselves. Therefore when an individual encounters my work, and cannot comprehend, I think that is awesome. However, I take a different approach to the style of writing. I like metaphors, and expressive content. When writing I try to keep the audience in mind. Creative something light, nothing too deep, so that if someone (if anyone) were to understand it, it wouldn’t be so much to take in, all at one time. = **__ROBERT FROST__** =  The poet I am analyzing is Robert Frost. I selected three of his poems, which I thought served some sort of purpose to being placed on the website provided in class. The following names, "Out and Out", "After Apple-Picking", and "Bond and Free", are the titles of his work. While examining different particular features of his writing, I notice he approaches all his poems in a different way. He does not have just one form of writing, but several. The only thing that is systematic when he writes his poetry would be the use of metaphors. However they aren't repetitive or cliché, so I still think that isn't his style of writing.

In his form of poetry and a constant theme in the rest of his work, you will find them all to summarize nature in his through his literacy views, or life. In the poem, Out and Out, the moral is to enjoy life while you have it and not spend to much time working through it. In the following quote:

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.

There is great usage of metaphors. The “snarled” buzz is suggested to be the work, and the “the sweet scented stuff” a sort of opportunity to enjoy life. His poem, After Apple picking, as if the title doesn’t imply enough. The readers thoughts on this, could interpret it to be about different stages of a persons life, and of course, the death that occurs after that. Through out the poem he examines a closer look “apple picking”, which is depicted to be life in its golden age. Following this quote:

One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep

Can only be described as death. Robert Frost has a great sense of bringing out the best of things, even when they are not traditionally mood starters. His work his enjoyed and not the least to say, token very personal. =Out and Out =

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all— Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man's work, though a child at heart— He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off— The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!" So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

=**After Apple Picking** =

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep =Bond and Free =

Love has earth to which she clings With hills and circling arms about— Wall within wall to shut fear out. But Thought has need of no such things, For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.

On snow and sand and turf, I see Where Love has left a printed trace With straining in the world’s embrace. And such is Love and glad to be. But Thought has shaken his ankles free.

Thought cleaves the interstellar gloom And sits in Sirius’ disc all night, Till day makes him retrace his flight, With smell of burning on every plume, Back past the sun to an earthly room.

His gains in heaven are what they are. Yet some say Love by being thrall And simply staying possesses all In several beauty that Thought fares far To find fused in another star.

The end
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