My final short creative writing assignment for this class was based on the identity of the speaker and subject of a literary work. This was the only poem I ended up writing for this class! Though I was very pleased with my final poem, my professor did point out that I didn't really accomplish the task of including 'secrets' - an improvement I might need to make if I ever were to revise this. However, I had a lot of fun experimenting with the prompts I was given and combining them into a coherent piece. Epistle14 line poem (short! but you've got to pack a lot in) Write an epistle: a poem in the form of a letter. In the epistolary tradition, the reader is looking in on a correspondence that isn't meant for them, so play with this secrecy. You can write a letter from someone in any sort of intimate relationship to the other person in that relationship (lovers, spouses, best friends, siblings, parent-child, etc). You'll fill it full of secrets only the recipient of the letter would know, BUT the relationship (its nature, its tone, its status) should NOT be completely opaque to the reader. By the poem's end, the reader should have a good basic sense of what that relationship is like, even though they won't know exactly what all the secrets refer to. Both the speaker and recipient of this poem/letter may be you, anyone you know (unless they're a member of this class), or any one you invent. Begin with responding all 13 prompts below in a list. Then put at least 7 of these pieces together in order to make your poem, of course adding other material as necessary. See below this list for other expectations and suggestions. Epistle Poem:
A Poem For My Future Child Inspired by Sarah Kay’s “B” (or “If I Should Have A Daughter”) To my little chick, hidden away, not yet emergent, When you are born, your eyes will be planets, reflecting the depths of the universe: Moon-starer, they’ll call you, my young astronomer, a child of the stars. Chickadee, small and sweet, your feathers speckled like the freckles of your cheeks, Already, you are my heart break, dream by day, mare by night. The fears I will whisper form smoke and ribbons, this dark lullaby keeping me from cradling you close. Do you remember these midnight secrets I braided into your hair? Darling, I am a craftsman, a storyteller, a worrier, and too much a child – I am apt to forget to remember[1]that you are not Icarus; no tragedy is written in your stars. “Tous les enfants, sauf un, grandissent,”[2]but you are not Peter Pan, trapped forever in Neverland, that place between stars, in need of a mother to guide you home. Someday, I will realize that the finger paint and glitter glue I’ve given you has given way to creation, and the frame of the wings you’ve built yourself will send a shadow over the sun, and You will spread your wings and take flight, (m)y love. The sky (a)waits your (ma)gnificence. [1]Line adapted from “[anyone lived in a pretty how town]”, by e. e. cummings [2]“All children, except one, grow up”, the first line from J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan.
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