Harrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrison+Talese-Rhodes


 * "Poetry is like playing the piano. As long as you act like everything is going smoothly, nobody will notice your mistakes." - Unknown**

Hello there, my name is Harrison Talese-Rhodes. I am a sophomore at Science Leadership Academy. This is a collection of my poetry. I'm kind of a grammar freak, and I love using alliteration and mixing up words. I'm mainly an objective writer. I try to steer clear of emotion and bias in my writing, so this was really a new thing for me. As I said, I also favor good syntax, so the whole "breaking the rules," thing was pretty difficult for me. You may see all of that reflected in my poetry. Please enjoy!


 * Here is an ode entitled "Ode to BAMF"**

The illusive BAMF When one only wins does not fail does not lose not ever. Then one has found and become one of the illusive the amazing the exclusive BAMFs. They walk among us elegant in their uncaring way not bothering to look left or right when crossing the road for the cars do not scare them the cars fear them. For there are many the James Bond weapons flashing from every direction and yet never a scratch this is also true for The Kool-Aid Man he is made of glass and yet he breaks down walls without spilling a drop of the delicious red juice inside his hulking figure I wonder what the flavor is but The Joker does not for The Joker not only knows but he does not care for he is one of the illusive BAMFs. One must not reach for what cannot be caught by reaching but rather absorb for one of the true the only the amazing BAMFs.

Here's a sonnet entitled "Television."


 * Television**

I lay on down, looking for the remote There it is! I now turn on the TV Do I want to change the channel? the moat. Oh, to be or not to be? Woe is me.

I see the action movie is on now Maybe I'll just watch something funny, ha Hey, in that show the dudes eyes are out In this one, from a zombie she is runs, ha

So many choices, so much time there is I think I'll just surf channels for awhile. Maybe I'll watch a DVD, no miss I think I just need to get past this mile

Some water on the kettle I will put Tea I will drink while my mind fills with soot.

Here is a ghazal entitled "Trash Man Ghazal."


 * Ghazal on trash men**

There is the one inconsequential, he who fills the soil-clad landfill Oh, what he goes through for that bad landfill

Did that men grow up in the business? Did he go to transport since he was but a lad, landfill?

Up early or late, life is an abyss To gather the product that fills that sad landfill

Personalities hard as stone or fresh as South American fruit Needed to collect the trash that’s all up in that mad landfill

Maybe the little landfills must be raised I wonder if they sit close to their dad landfill

Do you need to go to college, even high school? Do the garbage men even know how to add, landfill?

Do they even speak English? Could they read the Illiad, landfill?

My dog sits barking at them from the window I say, all they’re doing Teddy is getting the garbage to put it in that rad landfill

I wonder if they experience pain Have they ever been hit in the nads, landfill?

Having to carry heavy loads, amounts of weight that may kill Such self-sacrifice to transport the uselessness to get it to the- EGAD- landfill.

How large it must be, will it consume the world? They must keep working to help the tad landfill

I sit watching, wondering what money they must make Did they ever get their post grad, landfill?

Uh-oh, I have some extra trash this week, how to get it taken away… Sould I put out a paper ad, landfill?

They walk and lift, moving nowhere specific They begin their journey to transport to the pad landfill

I watch their hard faces, with no trace of like Why are they not glad, landfill?

Maybe they snack on Orville Redenbokker popcorn Harrison thinks they must eat something when going to the gross fad landfill


 * Mark Strand**

Mark strand was born in 1934. He has been a poet his entire life.


 * Eating Poetry**

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush. The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick her hand, she screams.

I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark.


 * Man and Camel**

On the eve of my fortieth birthday I sat on the porch having a smoke when out of the blue a man and a camel happened by. Neither uttered a sound at first, but as they drifted up the street and out of town the two of them began to sing. Yet what they sang is still a mystery to me— the words were indistinct and the tune too ornamental to recall. Into the desert they went and as they went their voices rose as one above the sifting sound of windblown sand. The wonder of their singing, its elusive blend of man and camel, seemed an ideal image for all uncommon couples. Was this the night that I had waited for so long? I wanted to believe it was, but just as they were vanishing, the man and camel ceased to sing, and galloped back to town. They stood before my porch, staring up at me with beady eyes, and said: "You ruined it. You ruined it forever."


 * The Coming of Light**

Even this late it happens: the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up warm bouquets of air. Even this late the bones of the body shine and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

Analysis

Mark strand immediately caught my attention when I was searching for a poet to analyze. His writing is straightforward, and mostly gramatically correct, but it still sounds "poetic." His poetry is also short. I believe that for something to truly be a poem, it has to be concise and thought provoking. Most poets bombard the reader with absurd amounts of symbolism inside of pages of writing. Words lose power with every minute they're spoken. Short, sweet and to the point is the way to go. My man Mark Strand gets it. His poem,"Eating Poetry," He fills the readers head with very graphic images. At the beginning of the poem, the third line says," I have been eating poetry," thus establishing the literalness with which his title steps forwards. It seems that the librarian may symbolize one who understands poetry, while he is a "non believer," of sorts. "Eating," poetry turns him into an animal, a fate which had befallen others in the library. It seems that "eating," poetry makes him a savage, while the librarian who probably appreciates it is civilized because she understands it. In his poem,"Man and Camel," He represents a relationship between him and someone else, the identity of whom is a mystery. He makes it seem that the Man and the Camel are mysterious and cryptic in nature.