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late luminescence


For so many years, through elementary school, middle school, and even high school, we've been taught poetry as haikus and Dr. Seuss, as sonnets and Shakespeare. We are taught syllables and rhymes, metaphors and alliteration, iambic pentameter and line breaks. We have masterful poetry shoved down our throats, glimpse genius and are given a pencil, a notebook, and a packet of poetic torture devices to recreate it.

But how can we, when we've never learned what poetry is? Instead, we are only taught to hate it.

The issue stems from the fact that there isn't a concrete definition for poetry. Poetry is forgiving, and poetry is accepting. If the poet calls a piece poetry, it is poetry. Poetry in itself has no rules, but the poet has the ability to create new challenges for themself.

Thus, teachers cannot contain poetry, nor can they convey the power and possibility of poetry without becoming vague and contradictory. After all, poetry, at its core, is completely subjective.

Being lover of books, I have naturally wheedled my friends to read more in an attempt to share my overflowing adoration for novels. From these experiences, I have found that the main reason people don’t like reading isn't because they don’t like reading. It's because they are reading the wrong books.

The same goes for poetry. I've only just fallen in love with poetry, and already I've diagnosed the same problem in all of my friends. They weren't reading the poems that enraptured them, that made them look up with wide eyes, stab the page with their fingers, and say “Yes, that’s me!”.

We've been reading the wrong poems. Or perhaps we've just been reading poems.

Having been caught up in the paradox of how to teach poetry, many teachers seem to have given up, expressing that poetry is “too indefinable, and too abstract to teach”. Instead, many teachers, like Margaret B. Ackerman of the University of Tulsa, believe in “teaching poems”.

You know the like. The Road Not Taken (Robert Frost), Mother to Son (Langston Hughes), Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? (Shakespeare). As one of my best friends put it, we are taught poetry as if it is “a dead art”. As a junior in high school, I can attest that I've never been given a poem by a 21st century poet. Up until last year, I didn’t know people still wrote poetry as a legitimate occupation.

The classics are beautiful; I cannot deny them that. But having only changed my opinion on poetry recently, I have to admit that I hated them before having actually tried to write a poem for the sake of writing a poem. We can be taught poems, but it cannot be all that we are taught. We need to be taught why -- not for culture, not for history. How can an elementary school student grasp that? Instead, it can be as simple as what aspiring writer Rebecca Roach proposes: “we invented language, [so] we invented something fun [and] awesome to do with it”.

That’s not to say we can’t learn from poems. As writers, we have to read them to improve. But there's simply no way to learn from or appreciate the classics if we don’t even know what we’re looking for. We need to learn to read like writers.

Lately, I've been enthusiastic to help my peers with all of their dreaded poetry assignments. However, in trying to help them through the process of writing a poem, the most common and frustrating part is that they refuse to even begin writing.

There is so much emphasis, especially in high school, on what’s right, and what’s wrong. What’s good, and what’s bad. There is so much pressure to succeed, so much shame in perceived failure. We are taught in our essays to remove every "I", every trace of our own voices. So, even when we’re older, we already have had this disgusting perception of our own ideas ingrained into us, and the idea that poetry could be subjective is too foreign, irreconcilable with our competitive worldviews.

We can’t continue on like this. By continuing to teach poetry this way, the current education system prevents the millions of students that go through it the chance to experience poetry. To gain it as a coping skill, a form of expression, and a different perspective.

So how are teachers supposed to teach poetry?

Tell us that poetry can be anything. It can be beautiful, it can be funny, it can be utterly disgusting. Tell us that poetry is the power to play with words.

Give us the chance to write. Let us pen a poem about whatever we want: how we feel about anyone, anywhere, and anything. No prompt, no rhyme, no punctuation or grammar. No rules, just emotions and opinions. Most importantly, tell us it's going to be bad.

Only afterwards can the teachers pull out the dusty classics. But, you can’t just stick to Silverstein, to Shakespeare, to rhyme and rhythm and “thou art” ‘s. Bring out some Billy Collins, Margaret Atwood, and Amanda Gorman. Embolden and inspire us with student examples. Tell us with more than words that poetry is not dead, and that it doesn’t have to rhyme. Show us that it is very much alive.

This also means that teachers have to accept that there is more than one way to interpret a poem. It's okay if a student doesn’t understand a piece. There is no right or wrong on either side. There is no shame. We all write differently, and if we read like writers, this is inevitable. Embrace your students' genius, and share with us your own.

Then, let us write again. And again. And again, and again, and again.

Teach us to learn poetry. Let us love it. We, as students and as people, cannot be deprived of it any longer.


March 16, 2021 No comments

Night spills the ink of a day
ground to our bones

rooted in place under our eyelids.

the smell of ink addictive,
and laughing gusts, the best type of cancer?

Love braids peach blossoms into figments of want,
and into mother of pearl arm rests on chairs as old as me.

She weaves sunbeams and morning dew and makes
sugared zodiac animals that dance in her blood.

Gives them flower language,
but all they see is a tree--

spindly tree branches cynical, leafless
for another 三千年, 你知道嗎?

三生,三世,十里桃花
One with our names etched, the trunk where we spilled wine

and then flung our arms around the goddess' legs
as the children, the wailing, do.

I cut myself on the swiss army knife the other day,
and I have finally learned how to mourn with her.

If I squint hard enough in the evening,
I can nearly see the pink glow of your cheeks again.

Some day I'll learn how to play flower centers on zithers,
but tonight writing our skeletal silhouettes on the page is enough.

I run a hand down her wrinkled bark and sink into the divots
& grooves, falling asleep to see you again.

酒, me and her, your name.

It's morning, and her boughs are finally heavy with immortality,
so why you are not here to eat the peaches?

___

三千年, 你知道嗎 (san qian nian, ni zhi dao ma?): Three thousand years, do you know?

酒 (jiu): wine

三生,三世,十里桃花 (san sheng, san shi, shi li tao hua): Three lives, three worlds, and ten miles of peach blossoms [a popular chinese drama (that I loved)]


posted on: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/39186


February 25, 2021 No comments


Her mouth is on my cheek
and I smile hello at her cherubic face, roaming eyes
completely unaware of what kisses mean

but she does it anyway,
maybe because it reduces me to a grinning fool.

He hugs my legs, and says “hi” without looking up,
A world of giants and toy trucks and eyes that light up
with childish glee and chocolate.

Perhaps I am not so old after all,
in my sweatshirt sixteen years.

Honesty, honestly, I marvel at how emotions
flicker on their faces without hesitation or second thought.

Goodbyes are more or less the same, but bittersweet;
I can’t tell if I feel older or younger, now.

An endless repeat-after-me of bye and I love you’s
Well trained to be cute and loving, I’ve always thought

But as her face lights up when we laugh, and he screams
I LOVE YOU’s by the door, into the chill night

It occurs to me that maybe their little hearts are simply open enough
to carry us all.



posted on: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/38955 & Daily Read
February 14, 2021 No comments


A collaboration with Yellow Sweater (Zinnia!) and my brother :)
~~~

“LET THEM EAT CAKE!”

curse the sweet toothed aristocrats
with the ebb and flow of revolutions,

butterflies on one final sugar high.

.

but surfers don’t watch waves, they breathe them.

I wonder if frequency is measured in Hertz because
of the gongs that are smashed when the
universe collapses to the decimal point

we connect the dots,
undulating by a trigonometric pendulum:
steel, and steam, and stars.

in a sterile classroom brimming with
corpses, kids who are dead before they’ve known
how to live.

we dance in painful convection currents--
Cain is avenged sevenfold, then Lamech seventy-seven

oh Abel,
the blood of martyrs is sickly sweet.
like roses, and rosaries, and roadside memorials.

I wonder how the heat burns out,
thick breaths, empty lungs,
the terrible sadness of meaningless passion.

all our matches, snuffed out.

our windows closed,
suffocating in domesticated darkness.
slip on the wheel that just keeps running,
a careless genesis with each new pot.

our world is thrumming under the restless fingers of a hobbyist;
scraps of clay made into something ugly.

.

I would like to wash my veins with kryptonite,
a naked goddess
who desires nothing but freedom.

the ivy on her brow pulses with seablood
and the damsel in distress wrings her hair
till she is nothing but lustrous.

the rain falls into the river.

Sunday morning--
doilies line my mouth and I choke
on rose petals in my vodka.

I have evolved to grab handfuls
of breath mints, not to eat
but to relive that first gluttonous moment of glee

I keep my orange peels,
and my wrapping paper,
and my little moments that smell like soap.

in the shower,
I will sing drunken hymns to Macy's gift registers.
I will wed my own fancy, and there will be cake.



posted on: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/38643 & Daily Read 1/27/21



January 26, 2021 No comments


fun fact: I love drowning,

in metaphor. A metamorphosis of breath, and the air swims in water until I have none left to give. They go up, to bed, to dinner, to Sundays roasted in hellfire and Mondays saturated in sin.

because I am 70% water and if I stay I will be filled

and popped from the inside out. How to wrap myself into a sphere, tiny globes of rainbows that will make me ephemerally Earth-like? Greedy fingers always seek the heart for riches, and at last, my empty innards will be missed, desired.

like tubs of shampoo bubbles

and aluminized plastic on trees, a poetic death for the one who was afraid of leaving quietly in the night. The water refracts light into kinds of itself, bending streams into golden ribbons that weave through salt and hair and weeds who reign free.

collapsing

against the surf, and divided kernels of sand don't stand a chance. United, I am powerfully mute in the face of the moon's decree and wind's war cry. Seabreeze, I sink and sink and build shipwrecks by cramming fireworks in my mouth and wrapping my bloated body in curtains of bubble wrap, seafoam frothing as I wait for the inevitable explosion.

into a contented rage.

that is recycled. Eons and the same ions remain, remolded time after time. Evidence of a death obsessed over.



posted on: https://writetheworld.org/?code=3bd44680-09e0-40be-81e4-a18235598cc0#/viewing-a-piece/757596

January 24, 2021 No comments


"but Esau have I hated." (Romans 9:13)



I'll admit that, kneeling by the bookshelf to skim the dilapidated spines of well-loved books for compulsory SSR, I thought that "Jacob Have I Loved" was the beginning of a light-hearted, standard, YA romance. But, if the biblical reference above wasn't a good enough indicator, it's not. It is a thousand times better than one.

The voice that first pulls you in is that of Sara Louise-- or Wheeze, as she is called by the majority of the other characters. Her voice immediately bleeds through the paper, her melancholy tone inviting as she describes her plans to pick up her mother, the last of their family from her childhood home island, Rass. It quickly devolves-- or evolves, I would argue-- into a few pages worth of rich yet honest descriptions of the island as she sees it in her mind's eye.

Then, in the next page, we properly meet Sara Louise as I will always envision her: crabbing on a boat with Call (her only friend), matter-of-fact and a bit rough around the edges, the only contented glimpse of her we see before her life begins to spiral.


"Life begins to turn upside down at thirteen"


And for her, the first inkling of change begins with the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The war is referred to here and there, but for the most part, it only fuels the despair she falls into at times. Her voice grows up as the book progresses, from that of a hopeless romantic to that of an angsty and stubborn teenager. This is one of the main reasons I love this book though-- the characters. Their father, their mother, their grandmother, Call, the Captain, and Caroline are all nuanced in different ways. They have their kind moments, and they have some moments where you wish Sara Louise would slap some sense into them. I could go on for days about how I simply know their dad has the kindest, crinkliest eyes, and how Caroline has the fairest skin with thin stands of golden hair like the straw Rumplestiltskin spun in that fairytale.

Onto the main character. Sara Louise is the type of person who is so far from perfect, it's hard to see her as a main character. However, she is good enough to make you passionately root for her will pom poms and glitter as you watch her life play out. She deals with these imperfections as many of us prefer to do-- to just not deal with it. She loves, she hates, she is impulsive, she is thoughtful, and she is the embodiment of a beautifully flawed character.


"Shouldn't I have been a minute's worry? Wasn't it all the months of worry that had made Caroline's life so dear to them all?"


The main source of her insecurities, though, surrounds the fact that she is the older twin to the delicate, beautiful, and musically gifted, Caroline. The depiction of this sibling relationship is the most accurate one I've found to date-- you love them, you hate them, you're proud of them, and sometimes you just really need to explode on them.

I wouldn't say this book is about how Sara Louise overcomes all of this; rather, it is how she comes to terms with it. With such a flawed character though, I understand why some people on Goodreads have given this low stars. Some of the content this book covers, while not not quite taboo, are relatively unsavory topics to discuss and admit to in public. Some of these include embarrassing crushes, shameful thoughts of pure hate, dysfunctional family dynamics, and how Christianity can be wielded to be cruel. But at the end of the day, I would say that they made the book better, because we are truly being able to see all of Sara Louise's thoughts, rather than just a censored version.

In addition, this book makes me cry every. single. time. I have waited for it's emotional hold on me to loosen up, but it never does. In that one particular scene, the climax of the novel, I am there, scrubbing already clean windows and screaming at my mother because I am so mad at the world and I don't know why.


"'I turned so that I would not see either of their faces, a sob rising from deep inside me. I pounded on the side of the house to stop the tears, smashing out each syllable. 'God in Heaven, what a stupid waste.'"


Perhaps it is because I am an oldest child. Perhaps it is because I have thoughts I'd never want anyone to see. But mostly, I think it's because I am human. A mediocre human, a normal teenager, an everyday kind of girl. Which is all Sara Louise is, really. In the end, she doesn't become Cinderella and become a princess who smiles prettily at her sisters from the castle. She doesn't turn into a frog or single-handedly kill the Huns (or in the remake, the Rourans) and save all of China.

So, if I really were to have to boil it down to a genre, "Jacob Have I Loved" is a coming of age story in realistic historical fiction. But it is a "story" in the truest sense possible-- real place, real people, real lives, even if Rass and Sara Louise and this story are but collages of islands, teenagers, and lives.


"But there were only two of us, my sister Caroline, and me, and neither of us could stay."



posted on: https://writetheworld.org/?code=3bd44680-09e0-40be-81e4-a18235598cc0#/viewing-a-piece/913275
January 19, 2021 No comments

(Written on 11/16/20, but for whatever reason, not posted)

Your breath refracts off
wrinkles on their browsperfect arches, more defined
with every ache of your spine at midnight
bone by bone, throw them into the fire
cast your marrow into the pyre
vials of poison,
to each their own
a, mansion, a lover, perfection
alone
guzzle blue flames,
sand slip down your throat
air seeping out the hull from
inside
the
boat.
A fate of ballrooms and grandeur
of pretend i love you's
and fake gold decor
they love you
love you
you

but is it just me,
or is the sky not quite blue?

December 22, 2020 No comments
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Message from Yours Truly

Hey, this is amaryllis :) So, if you're on here, I probably finally allowed you to read my work or this was a totally accident (happy one I hope). Either way, welcome! Also, as a reminder to those who know me-- remember that although much of it may seem like it's based off irl, some of it is fiction. Enjoy, and if you feel compelled to, I would love to see what you think in the comments!

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