Return to flip book view

THE HIDDEN POET BLAKE BOHANAN | P O E T R Y W R I T I N G P O R T F O L I O | Fall 2021

Table of Contents Reflective Essay ............................................................................................................................. 1 No. 52 – American Sentences ................................................................................................ 2 MoMA ............................................................................................................................................... 3 Land of Oz ...................................................................................................................................... 4 Ode to Obsession ........................................................................................................................ 5 Notebook ......................................................................................................................................... 6 Onomatopoeia .............................................................................................................................. 7 Man / Woman ............................................................................................................................... 8 Dog Days ......................................................................................................................................... 9 The Gunslinger ............................................................................................................................ 10

1 The Persuasive Art of Poetry Until taking this class I had always despised poetry. Having preferred novels and short stories in school, units on poetry were always my least favorite. I found it difficult to read and even harder to comprehend, and I have thusly avoided it like the plague ever since. But despite poetry’s best efforts, my love of literature had nurtured a passion for creative writing. To further hone and diversify my skills, I decided to bite the bullet this semester and try my hand at the enigma that is poetry. In practicing and researching its various forms, I have come to appreciate the complexities of poetry and admire the types of expression it uniquely allows for. This collection reflects that shift and attests to my decision to abandon my anti-poetry crusade. My first work, “No. 52 – American Sentences”, summarizes my creative journey towards a gradual embracement of poetry. Based on American poet Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”, this poem references lines from a popular piece and rewrites them to illustrate my adoption of the form. From here, my portfolio explores similar themes of self-discovery that have developed over the course of this semester. I come to acknowledge and understand my inner poet, question my obedience to the literary formats that have previously bound me, and profess my newfound adoration of the genre. My last two poems are also unintentionally themed around dogs, but given that this portfolio is a testament to change (I've always been more of a cat person), I suppose it's only fitting. Thank you for taking the time to read through my works and experience my journey through creative discovery and artistic experimentation. If you find yourself as disinterested in poetry as I once was, perhaps here you will find the same inspiration that hooked my attention and has yet to let go.

2 No. 52 – American Sentences I bequeath myself to chroniclers of memory and emotion. Find me beneath your boot soles, veiled in the words and lines of every text. It flings my likeness ever present. Hopes and fears transcend time and space. The fibre of the page is thick and red like the fibre of my blood. Unruly and unclear, I find myself tamed and translated in ink. Lost in vivid thought and breathing reflection it coaxes you to dusk. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged. Pick me up. Read again.

3 MoMA I have a tattoo of Monet somewhere on my body. I think it’s of one of his water lilies. Not too unlike the ones out front, those garden lilies. They have a beauty like a Girl with a Pearl Earring. I saw a girl around the corner with a pearl earring. Her smile was faint like the Mona Lisa. Her smile looked just like the Mona Lisa. Her irises swirled like a bright Starry Night. They speared a man whose hair was black as night. His clothing carefully picked for a Sunday Afternoon. He stopped to tie his shoe in the gallery this afternoon. Hands laced knowingly, the Persistence of Memory. A sight that sparked an insightful memory: Somewhere on my body, I have a tattoo of Monet.

4 Land of Oz Listening last night to the wails of passing trains and Analyzing the chirps of each cricket, I wondered but Never really answered where I came from. Am I just Domestic stock or some exotic breed? Fields of wheat Obscure the truth. This Emerald City, the home of my Forebears goes unrecognized. Knowledge limited, the Oak of my ancestral tree has narrowed like a stepping Ziggurat whose bricks are every color except yellow.

5 Ode to Obsession O my head is filled with cement stiffening, forcing me to contently accept a contempt I cannot prevent. O OCD O my mind has succumb to the haste racing panic of a frightful grand prix whose agitation marinates fear’s taste. O OCD O my thoughts have left me rendered obsessively compelled, functionally fixated on disfunction that’s hindered. O OCD

6 Notebook Here I lay featureless, white blank and with possibilities rife. Inside I find my skeleton, blued lining ribs, even spaced, College Ruled. Conscripted inscriptions did the general Five Star, margins edging the femoral. His paperwork neat, orderly, prepared to be sent but from the corner glared an omission. One Subject overflowing Spiral Bound I descend, gut Three-hole Punched, my being Perforated along broken rails of Composition. Wide eyed, white lined. Readily willing to remain undefined.

7 Onomatopoeia You are the test result my cardiologist solemnly mumbles. The nitroglycerin in my medicine, the boom in my dynamite. Thump. Boom. Thump thump. Boom thump boom boom. You are the defibrillator pressed against my cold, still chest. The impulse electric, the arrythmia cured yet disturbed. Thump. Zap. Thump thump. Zap thump zap zap. You are the beat of the EKG whose electrodes cling to my frame. The pulse of my lifeline, the short circuit in my turbulent reading. Thump. Beep. Thump thump. Beep thump beep beep. You are what makes me love the sounds. The sounds Love makes because of you.

8 Man I love how men are sensitive in that discreet kind of way. Society can’t know what you feel but like an onion you have layers. You’re big bark, little bite. I dare you to put up a fight. Your relationships with other men are fun, playful, in that eternal youth kind of way. You smell. Kind of musky or like cheap body spray. It’s off-putting but alluring. I love you. In that special “you” kind of way. Woman I love how women are sensitive in that overt kind of way. Society can’t know what you think but like a rose you have thorns. You’re big bite, little bark. I best stop when you tell me to park. Your relationships with other women are powerful, bonding, in that creed kind of way. You smell. Kind of natural or like fancy perfume. It’s off-putting but alluring. I love you. In that special “you” kind of way.

9 Dog Days Let sleeping dogs lay in the sheltering shade from ever-present heat lest we perish from exposure. Let the rot in our makings, sun-bleached and baked, squirm silent, hiding from searching senses. Let them numb us to the bites, scratches, knives from mouths festering atop harsh verdant blades. Let us stop to release one last defiant piss resounding flatly that ignorance is bliss.

10 The Gunslinger A gunslinger walks into a bar. Hand on her hip, she’s hoping to spar. “Partner,” she asks, “I’m looking for the man who shot my Pa.” Her iron swivels, hammer clicked, towards the outlaw. The outlaw chuckles “You must’ve come far. Waving your toys like you’re some kinda star.” Challenging him, the gunslinger’s made a fatal flaw. He reaches neath the table and thumbs the steely claw. Tense and stiff, the two suspended in tar. In comes a three-legged dog with a nasty scar. “Excuse me,” he says, “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.” The gunslinger and outlaw blink, break their draw. And the three of them there, they all look at each other. The outlaw stares, says “I ain’t know you had a brother.”