Cheyenne+Pagan


 * //"Words written in verse may speak volumes when those spoken do not."[[image:Screen_shot_2011-03-21_at_1.12.17_PM.png]]//**

//**"The Darkness surrounded more than just the room that night,"**//

3.1.11
 * Confession**

The Darkness surrounded more than just the room that night, Acid drenched cloth smelling like the sea and salt melting from ducts and some place humans should never buy a ticket to explore One way, Please Mother your unforgiving song caresses my ears like grains and tiny unscathed pebbles lingering in the mist of my presence They are so abusive.

Screeching Deep breaths are all I am willing to hear and accept To be real,

I'm sorry feathers do not do not cover the place where I lay my head and Gold does not spill from my mirrored eyes like you had prayed for to your unlawful god and who is it to judge my excavated skin shaking with risky discovery. They have told me, to be trapped within yourself is frightful Where have I been to be left in the dark.

3.4.11
 * Ode to One**

The One who’s gotten me through the night Every night For a year of eyes crusted blindly shut nights Your soft caressing warm embrace comforts the achiest lumps glued to my flesh I fight with leeches, frugal with each pucker that steals me from myself And with every fight your stitches fell beneath themselves to the point of demolition And with my sliver of heart braded thread did I see to you were under the surgeon’s Careful Eye, Whistling a comforting tune to reassure your heart will be reattached at the hands once more and with your own my security, With the hair that was scorched by a earthquake claw Scorched itself by a vicious path Destruction was always forgiving in your black moons They shine like the speckle of glitter on a little one’s face Dancing to the beat of childhood and refuse to be removed or find another face of a home But it’s only the appearance that seems lifeless In truth you have a soul Thousands Each hand that gripped you by the arm, the throat , Blood and tears cover this One But does not swim from pores It weaves In an out they sway Like destiny unraveling Once dawn turns to dusk we return to our resting place to dream of less treacherous places We cuddle like lovers But affair would be our game I’ll never forget the moment we met ,One A Valentine’s teddy bear You were my love’s greatest gift. 3.10.11
 * I Was Never Raised**

I was warmed by caressing wishful whispers unknowing the dangers within each syllable that she pushed through dry dehydrated sand withered lips Means well but never does well Mother

Broken like the angel sculpted statue stricken by the floor, Couldn't fight a fair battle if the life of hearts depended on it, and it did Lifted a finger only to batter, belittle and de-breath "I hate you but I need you." Kind of half assed fathers.

I was forced to construct by the hands that grasped my silence with a raping force and pulled the childhood from my eyes and I was grown by those callouses

Pulled from the brink of extinction, I am a dying race I was built by Tripp pants and skateboards and saved by fighters I was taught to fight.

But I was never raised.

The title grabbed my attention from the beginning. I like the choice of words you used, because it expresses your emotion in wanting your father in your life. - Khalil

3.15.11
 * We Are the Bubble Child**

She says to I ,me, we, us "You are my bubble child" I smile, we cry and step ourselves off the edge into metallic clanging cuffs Take me away good sir, Yes I'm ready, to inject rebellion into shallow waters Breath in the pulse of danger and blow bubbles We do not fear redemption in the sweet form of sugar canes Sharp to the tip glaring me down like prey wishing to pierce these taste buds with youth Obese with suppression Take me away good sir, Yes We're ready to staple eyes shut and bury lips in concrete walls. We are the bubble child. media type="file" key="We are the bubble child 2.mp3" width="240" height="20"

3.16.11
 * Shakespeare Never Met Y****ou**
 * Sonnet**

Having spheres implanted within your head Hazel diamonds compliment them nicely Poets know nothing of passion and death So, What do they know of truly icy Thou must compare thee to a shallow grave Make pretty with roses, bonnets of hurt The loss of woman's touch cause bones concave Mounded with solitude, feeding on dirt Visited your resting place, I know you Tribute to founded torches in your pulse, I'll bring you to life with witchcraft of truth Fairytale tale story lines kiss then convulse Shakespeare knows not about the loving lies And for arguments sake neither do I.

.(scroll below for cited poems)
 * Artist Statement**: As for my poetry, I have many different factors that affect my style of writing. Some deal with personal experiences, real life scenarios, and just the mentalities of living life (love, relationships, life). I feel a need to incorporate the things that I see and do in my daily life into my poetry because it makes me feel content in describing my feelings and emotions in writing. I write about how I feel about a situation, or in another scenario, I just like to write poetry. It sort of puts me in my own zone, which is why my poetry is mostly free verse and doesn’t have an exact format to it. I’d like to think of my self as an artist with words and a paintbrush and to be completely honest I hate having restrictions when it comes to my creative, expressive canvas. When I compare my work to other poetry and authors I see similarities and differences in technique but I also acknowledge how styles can change with people over periods of time, they sort of develop themselves. I really see this when it comes to my old and current poetry my taste in writing has drastically changed and noticeably in the technique that I prefer. In the past, I wrote rhyming poetry, AB formatting, and when I take notice to current poems that I have written the language is descriptive, the wording is more advanced, and even the poems I write that rhyme have a mysterious twist to them. Once I tested the waters, I enjoyed almost confusing the reader or tricking them in believing the poem was written for something else. This technique gives a new light to something, shows similarities, and tells an interesting story full of twists. A good example of this style is my poem “Ode to One” where I go into great detail about this bear that I had gotten for Valentine’s day but all the while it sounds like a significant other. I tell the history in “like” and “as” terms and sneaking in a simile here and there. I write on conflict and just like a story it has it’s own climax, even though the climax might be different parts for different people, and then a resolution where I finally reveal the true receiver of the poem was a simple teddy bear who’s name happened to be One. After someone actually reads this poem they’ll understand the capitalization of the “o” in One. It’s like learning something new to a suspenseful mystery and hopefully gives amusement to the reader. If I accomplished that then I accomplished my purpose as a writer and an artist. []

Walt Whitman continuously wrote poems about love and lust. I would assume from this that his life contained much heartache or a special woman, maybe even women. From the poems that I have examined most of them are short, descriptive, and give a basic idea of the portrait Whitman wanted to portray, although everyone’s point of view is different. Also, from the longer poems I have read of his they seem to be very naturally descriptive. He liked to paint an in the moment picture of his surroundings about casual simple events, like “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”, were obviously more important to him then most people for him to feel so passionately about them to write a long meaningful poem as if the simple ferry ride had been a experience he’d never forget, he made sure the reader understood that. I noticed a type of style he had was repetition within poems and with his overall poetry collection. He repeated a certain type of titling that appears in “O Me! O Life!” and his poem “ O Captain! My Captain!”. He showed exclamation as if these were very important or even joyous times but after reading thoroughly and “marking up” his poem “O Captain! My Captain!” it was a Peter Pan poem, it seemed tragic. I think he was trying to say how something almost went fool proof and it seemed as if everything was going to be alright and then someone very close seems to be dying or even dead, his “captain”, which I assumed to be a role model in his life even his father or father like figure. With each assumption I have and each poem I read from him it was like he was telling me his life story in little glimpses but all the while being sure not to give it all away at once or to share to much of himself. Even with his poems, he seemed very uptight like he had been hurt a lot in his lifetime as was afraid to give himself away to anyone. I’m sure this is the case with every poet, they tell their life story or glimpses with each rift or sonnet they write. I can relate to Walt Whitman and every poet with that fact but I find differences in the fear of opening up with poems. I view it as an opportunity, a chance to say things that I couldn’t or wouldn’t say in person. With every stranger that reads my poems I’m vulnerable and I accept that and it makes me stronger to not care and express no matter what. Knowing what I know, I pity Whitman. He must not have felt the same as I when it came to sharing who he was and I can’t help but feel he wanted it that way. He wanted to be left mysterious it was his unique theme and style and I respect that as well. On the other hand the more I read the more I notice how he also asked questions from others and it gives me the feeling that he is admitting that he does not know everything about life and sometimes he is confused as well. For example, He wrote in his poem "O Me! O Life!" he wrote the first sentence " O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;". Although mysterious, his poems are relatable in questioning the meaning of life.

  **O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman **  1 O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

2 O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.

3 My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. **O Me! O Life! by Walt Whitman **  O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d; Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me; Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined; The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer. That you are here—that life exists, and identity; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse. 