Cecelia+Baez

==="Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar." - Percy Bysshe Shelley ===



** **Voice recording. I Was Raised By.. Poem

__**My Poetry Analysis **__ It’s quite hard to try and write about something I view different then everyone else. The way I see my writing, is almost in a completely altered way then what my friends or peers may see. The way I talk, is exactly the way I write in poetry and in any form. I speak poetic, and I always write poetic. When it comes down to my content of speech, it’s always a slow paced and rhythmically flowed piece of work. I have a lot of line breaks within my poetry, so that I know to stop and make it flow within the next few sentences. I use no commas or periods unless I REALLY needs to stop. But even without a comma or period, I still pause when finishing a line. Normally all my words are average small words that are not exotic or too large and too hard to fit into a simple poem. Almost every poem I write starts with allowing. Allow me to do this, or let me do this. It’s always an open. And I always end with either a statement or question that relates to the first couple lines of my poem. When it comes down to emphasize, I would always bold or cap lock some words that I really need to pop out and stand the most. I normally don’t rhyme in poems. I find it way to cheesy. The most current form of trying to write poetry, is by talking my past memories or feelings, and making it so confusing... That only I know the true meaning to what I wrote. Final comments on my writing, I know that I tend to use a lot of repetition. I like to repeat the starts of lines and have them end differently. I feel as if it is very powerful to use.

__**Memory **__

 Such a vile child i was.  Such a … brainless child i was.  let me sit.  let me breath.  let me no attack at the panic,  and let me be free.

Burn no more. For my smeller speak sore. Heat flash of a rage, in which burns thy skull, to my dead skin cells turn me into a tomato of a, Speed dash in which, nervous is now scared. Can't trip over the words i speak through my tingling mouth of unrecognizable pain.

I did not know.. why things would not blow. or why my fingers did not flow through the open whole. IN which smelling was a no.. go. fo sho.

Strap me down, and see thy face turned upside… reverse from happy

Reverse from sanity, for i was ignorant to what was happening. and now i can't see… i can smell…

that the blue crayon.. was not intend from nostril.. connection

If i shall say. Such a vile child i stay.

__** Ode to thy Mirror **__ I spy with my little eye… Some, thing, in which men would fly wings. To embrace her beauty. Dusted dirt lays across your path, and yet I don't flash, or lay fingers of founded marks.. because then you'll, and me… will be, ugly. You show me youth, age. You show me style, hate. You show me, a reflection of who I am, and what thing.. i am becoming. For every damn day of my life. I see you, myself, and everything around me. For every glance. Into reflected eternity.

__**I don't know anything... At all. **__ //"Who am I to say... " - Hope//

Let us... Let me stand. Place my figure of a conscious misunderstand...ing... breath. Confusion has struck thy dry.

When does sanity ever make sense? Especially through the eyes of an unworthy.

When can I say I am worth any form of respect ... towards you of course.

&Standing there in front of the reflection i have grown to hate ever so much, I speak to myself, Wise words of the unforgiven. Of the unforgotten.

Who am I to say that you care for me? Who am I to say that life needs me? Who am I to say, that I'm something created for reason. Who am I to say my heart actually spreads love across names. Who am I to say I have the strength to... keep on? Who am I to ever say.. That I am what is in my heart?

That I am the person I wish to see bloom. God knows I havn't even started this... horrifying journey. God knows I am not to say I am anything you see.

But color me blue, for nothing is real without truth. I know what is meant for me, and it's okay to be.

Who am I to say That I know anything... at all?

__** I was raised by... **__ Allow birth to become my lifeless, reality. So I am not alone in this world after all? And I'm not stuck being raised by a bunch a life lows, there i do not go.

My mother spoke wise words to me once. Told me never let a man change who you are.

My father showed my wise ways once, In which to never take shit from the drugs who lie secrets in your body. You will die.

My Nana gave me wise ideas of personality once, You're never to young or too old to have fun. Your mother, grew you put fast baby. But child I be here to show you life.

My Chris, my dear uncle, Died with memory. and spoke his words of forgiveness. No matter how much i drink away the idea of what is not really there, God always forgave me.

Just think, that the words I speak, come from countries a far.

My Anthony blasted off the walls music to my ears. Who ever knew such a man could share such instrumental love, to his dear niece.

My Josselynn, taught me and brought me, back to the world of God. Years of ignorance, could not take away those summers and days.. when we got… close.

And the movies that… blinded my eyes with love… wisdom.. and fake fairytale happy endings, are what give me life to breath… in.. out… the hope that one day, a nice man.. shall come, riding upon a white horse, with arms wide… and his eyes blinded by what beauty i fail to see.

So I'm not alone in this world after all?

__**Sonnet **__ Let me move my non bodacious body, wit the open legs that form, outwards the. Such a beautiful, posture that may swarm, you're heart with every beat swing. I dance for it brings thuds of waves, and connects the mind.. trapped i be for in which i sways, my body into positions of varies practices times. I am not professional. But I do, repeat. I am not very successful. How can you tell me? I have no passion towards.. dance.. ing.

**__ Elizabeth Bishop __**

Poetry. What does it mean to be a poet? The word poetry comes from the Greek, meaning “a making”. A making of words in which, share and flow in any way or form you as a writer wish to create. A poet by the name of Elizabeth Bishop used her own imagery of life to create her poems. She was a Massachusetts woman, with a passed away father and a mental mother; her grandmother raised her. She grew herself to become an independently wealthy woman, who traveled the world and lived in many places. Her range of observations grew very wide with background on different life styles and cultures. She knew what was true and precise to living. Her poetry never reflected personal feelings or emotions. Only what she saw through her exploration. In viewing her poetry you can see the way her forms of writing are. It’s always in either paragraphs, or stances. She has plenty of line breaks in which not ruin the form of the poetry, but only bring greater meaning to it. She strangely also uses parenthesis. Which is very strange to find in a poem. But that difference technique is what gets the reader to question what the poems are even about. For an example in her poem A prodigal, she used this quote in her poem, “(he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours)”. Why would she do this? It’s as if she is describing something this man is doing? An action? But can’t you already speak action in a poem? This part of the poem is to stand out. It’s to show you there is a lot of hidden meaning into what there is towards the story and these actions. It just completely draws the eyes and mind into the poem. Just like she uses quotes. Quoting something from observations. In one of her poems called Chemin De Fer, she said “Love should be put into action!”. She quotes this from some source. A person it’s seems like. She was observing something great and wrote a poem of her mind and eyes. Elizabeth bishop isn’t a very confusing writer, nor is she hard to understand. It just takes time and dedication to read her work. From her biography she is said to write very slow. And It can be said the slower the person writes the more emotion gets into their work. Her poems are like stories. It’s as if each time she writes a poem she is speaking of a memory. Not her own memory or anything that will reflect one emotions or thoughts, but more like what is happening. What she sees from her eyes and the person’s eyes. It’s always very vivid and straight to the point of her poem. Something pretty interesting is that all of the work read, ends in something like “the dark knight”, or “I leave now”, and things of such. As to also a lot of weird names for the people she’s talking about. Never something so random, but something more… unique? Two giants, an idiot, and a dwarf.