What you're seeing right now is a little taste of my video from last semester's URSP session.
I titled it "Everybody Hates a Poem," because let's face it, a lot of people do.
There's a certain art in crafting a single, well-written poem.
And I found in my research that the crafting of a poem is similar to baking.
Some of us can bake, and others can only fake bake.
And like any recipe, there are various main ingredients and add ins.
In my research last semester, I found that a blend of the following main ingredients are necessary for a well-crafted poem.
These are title, form, voice, subject, and imagery.
The conditions that play into this, like adding in flavors or variations, are environment, time, weather, mode, and distractions.
The significance of this research was to discover what elements it takes to craft a poem and to put these findings to the test in my own writing.
As for how I
conducted my research,
I looked at various
poets across the ages
and their noteworthy
works, as well as
essays on writing poetry, in
order to model and gain ideas from well-crafted poems.
It's also important to note the
last semester's research was
as I was withdrawn
in a space of
creativity and solitude.
As I continued with the research program into this semester, I found that all of my previous findings still held true.
With these in mind, I researched a very different, but also necessary, aspect of poetry-- compiling and sorting through one's work into a manuscript or chatbook and looking into submitting them to magazines or sharing on social media.
This type of research was much more external, with the mindset of interactively sharing a poem with others.
Ultimately, the goal this semester was to get some poems published or shared externally in some way.
And I've achieved this goal by creating a pilot visual poem, with the intentions of sharing it on social media sites.
And what you are about to see is a poem
I crafted this semester with the intention of turning it into a visual film for others to enjoy across the mediums.
The outstretched branches of the black walnut tree scrape against my window, its protests growing louder as crows jump from branch to branch, calling and laughing in the grey morning light.
I'm drawn to the window, and I lean up against the smudged glass to get a better view.
"There's three of them," I said to no one in particular, watching them turn their heads to watch me, their black eyes looking through mine.
"That's bad luck.
That means murder," you said, startling me.
"What do you mean, murder?"
"It's just bad luck to see three crows, you just wait." But I didn't have to wait long.
The laughter from the three crows followed us all day.
A chipped mug and a plate of green beans caused instant bouts of "I told you so."
The rain from 1:00 to 3:45 and a leak in the basement only made you shake your head.
"No one's been murdered yet," I said as we drove around town.
"Not that we know of," was your ominous reply.
I turned the radio on and hummed to a song that I knew I wouldn't find, deciding not to tell you about the fourth crow.