A Collection of Poetry Written by Jasmine Stole

Just Wanted To Say:

Table of Contents

Forms

Whenever You Speak..................................................PAGE 3Villanelle

Dark Lips Told Me So...................................................PAGE 5Sonnet

Why Curse It.................................................................PAGE 7Sestina

Free Verse

My Father’s Breath......................................................PAGE 9

Beard Not Needed......................................................PAGE 12

Sky Of Ink...................................................................PAGE 14

Whenever You Speak

Whenever you speak

At first, I h

ear your candor

Forgive me, I mean not to critique

But your lemon rind mystique

Does nothing but slander

You slay, smolder when you speak

Then regurgitate, feign unique-ness,like diluted water, only blanderForgive me, I mean not to critique

Your words burn and reek

In the same way it panders

Every time you speak

I have listened to you tweak

and broadcast others’ witty banter

However, I do not aim to critique

See, you are human and only seek

acceptance and to be grander

Which is why, when you speak

I forgive and do not critique.

:)J

☀

✤✤✤

✤✤✤

//3

Whenever You Speak

Whenever You Speak

a villanelle

I do not claim to be a poet and, before this course, could never reallyconnect with poetry, so I was, and still am, a tenderfoot newbie. At thetime this was written, I had written three free verse poems that was pre-sented to my peers and a tanka.

“Whenever You Speak” was inspired by two things, an acquaintanceand William Carlos Williams’ “This Is Just To Say.” This was the secondstructured poem I had written. I found the rhyme scheme of a villanelleplayful and manageable. It was the first poem I wrote in which I workedwith stanzas and also when I started to pay attention to the visual balanceof a poem.

Except for the standard end rhymes of a villanelle, I did not pay toomuch attention to rhymes, internal, off-rhymes or otherwise. I did want totake on the challenge of an enjambment with line 7, and split the word“uniqueness” into two lines. The enjambment does not work quite so welland makes line 8 start with a speed bump in terms of flow, but visually, theenjambment appeals to me.

I was mostly influenced by the 9th line of “This Is Just To Say” inwhich Williams’ writes “Forgive me,” which, to me, is the equivalent ofpeople saying “no offense,” right before they say something offensive, asif the disclaimer absolves them of guilt.

In a way, “Whenever You Speak” is my attempt to recreate that ex-change in a poem. I also attempted to add some irony, in that the entirepoem criticizes someone else’s speech, but the speaker insists that he isnot criticizing.

//4

Dark Lips Told Me So

Dark lips with teeth that hold the claims I seek

Warm breath rises and surges from that mouth,

To succumbed the gospel I knew, so bleak

And unearth what my daydreams had shut out.

Be patient, it breathes. You are still budding.

He who you desire is worth much still

But not worth the life you’ll end up living

It should not be forced, should only be will.

Those words caress, glide, slide so easily

They choke, shake the deepest part of my gut

And haul, into the sun, so I may see

A serpent dressed in silk, and doused in blood.

Wishful thoughts enshrouded, coughed, then unveiled

Those lips are my friend, now welcome, regaled.

//5

“Dark Lips Told Me So” is a sonnet

written about my first experience having

my fortune told.

I decided beforehand that I wanted to attempt to write the

sonnet in iambic pentameter.By keeping with the iambic pen-

tameter, the poem was built with a pulse. From this poem, I

learned how words can be given life, by being built on rhythm,

which is an aspect of poetry I failed to appreciate before this

workshop. I understood more what “music” in poetry meant.

The rhyme scheme I chose to employ was the standard

and easier [abab cdcd efef gg] scheme. I also attempted to tap

into my inner Shakespeare and start each line with a flat footed

syllable, but that is harder than I thought.

“Dark Lips” started as one of those poems in which the

first stanza, or line, came easily to me. In my jungle brain, the

first line kind of swooped in on a vine and stayed with me. I also

think my focus on lips was influenced by Katie’s poem about fin-

gernails. I like to think that I’ve absorbed some approaches and

practices my classmates employ in their own original poetry and

I chalk it up to their presentations during class.

With “Dark Lips,” also I worked to incorporate some allit-

eration and assonance. I didn’t see the rhyme scheme as a road

block and, also, taking into account the iambic pentameter, I ac-

tually felt diction become a sort of puzzle. Overall, I’m pleased

with “Dark Lips” because of all that it accomplishes, the syllabic

meter, the diction and the content reflects an experience I

wanted memorialized in a poem.

Dark Lips Told Me So

a sonnet

//6

Why

Curs

e It

Six years between them, more knowledge with her

He said trust, but meant lust, to which she agreed.

Her favorite story was of past injuries

Fathers or uncles or strange familiar men

That shook her, of those who took her, of curses

She still bleeds. With wide eyes, he drunk

From her cup of calamity, till he was drunk

With “love.” So relentless, this love, only her,

Only them, a pair so perfect, why curse

It with logic? Why doubt the obvious? Blindly he agrees

To the sour tales she spoons. Of all men,

It is he, who nourishes her, heals those injuries.

Only to fake new injuries

That spring from nights so drunk

With truth, it seems like fiction of men

Who are masters of myth. In the daylight, her

Sober words contradict what dazed eyes beheld. So he agrees

To their love and promises never again. He’s cursed

To see facts only through a bottle, a curse

He bears unbeknownst. The only injury

Between them is that he agrees

She hurts whenever he is drunk.

Stage tears wipe away her

Guilt, add to his growing list of a man’s

Wrongdoings. Like those before him, men,

A line of factory glitched beings, are cursed

To ensure she suffers in eternal perdition. For her,

Love must be proven, exists without injury

Or strife, is conditional and born of drunken

Slurs of fools eager to agree

That they are man enough for she. He agrees

To the greed, to the thief, to the black inside this woman

And he drowns the vile with drinks

Knocks ‘em back, without heed, and then curses

The day he believed. But he plays off his injury

Everything right, instead of everything wrong because of her.

Lust so strong, a man like her

Could coerce a sober curse

From a drunk to agree to lick away all injury.

//7

Why

Curs

e It

a sestina

“Why Curse It” proved the most difficult to write be-

cause it is so highly structured. That said, I, personally,

feel a sense of achievement having actually written a ses-

tina. The challenge for me was finding an area of my life

worthy of 39 lines of poetry. The sad thing is, nothing in

my life inspired 39 lines of poetry out of me, so I opted

for the next best inspiration, which was my brother’s life.

Drafts of previous attempted sestinas showed me

that I tended to become quite prosaic and I focused more

on repeating end words and developing the story, than the

sound of the words. With “Why Curse It,” however, I was

able to eliminate the prosaic feel just by being conscious

of it and I was so inspired that the sounds flowed without

complication, especially for the first stanza.

I am quite pleased with the assonance, alliteration

and internal rhymes of lines 4 through 10. Though Dr. S.

mentioned sestinas don’t usually rhyme, I feel satisfied

with the couple I managed to toss in there.I also ventured

off track in the 6th stanza by replacing “man” with

“woman.” This, however, is, not only to avoid any more

redundancy than is already expected from a sestina, but

also because I feel it ties into the first line of that last ter-

set, which I write “a man like her.”

As mentioned, “Why Curse It,” was the most chal-

lenging structured poem to write, but one of the most re-

warding, for me, because of few “musical” lines I created.

//8

My Father’s BreathMy Father’s Breath

The second hand clang, clang, clanged,

Summoning the sun, insistently

I listened to his breath

Comfortable, definite

Like his lungs were new

Like his heart wasn’t tired

Of delivering the same blood

To the same worn limbs

Like his feet haven’t paced for 75 years

Like there weren’t any rainbow relievers

Leaden, lurking inside him

As if a shameful catheter

Wasn’t beside him,

just in case

Or a diaper,

just in case

Like he didn’t need anything

just in case.

His fluid breath, lulled,

Just as it had for 18 years.

As if it always will.

John I

sidoro Stole 11734-2010

//9

{{My Father’s BreathMy Father’s Breath} }

The second hand clang, clang, clanged,

Summoning the sun, insistently

She listened to his breath.

Comfortable, definite

Like his lungs were new

Like his heart wasn’t tired

Of delivering the same blood

To the same worn limbs

Like his feet haven’t paced for 75 years

Like his gut wasn’t filled

With a murky myriad of rainbow relievers.

As if a shameful catheter

Wasn’t beside him,

just in case

Or a diaper,

just in case

Like he didn’t need anything

just in case.

His fluid breath, lulled,

Just as it had for 18 years.

As if it always will.

DRAFT/DRAFT/DRAFT/DRAFT/DRAFT/DRAFT/

//10

{{My Father’s BreathMy Father’s Breath}}

“My Father’s Breath” is the first poem I wrote, for the semester, and pretty

much the first poem I’ve ever written (middle school attempts excluded). I knew I

wanted to write about my father once it was known that we would be presenting

original works in class.

My father’s death is the most profound life-changing event I’ve been through

thus far. As a Cancer, I’m naturally prone to acting distant, and this can be seen in

the draft shown. This is actually not the very first draft as I remember scrapping

at least five different versions before presenting this version to the class. It was

initially, and as my peers pointed out, generically titled “A Memory.” It was also

initially written in third person point of view, to maintain that distance. I tried to

emphasize my father’s breath, I tried to give small change and come at the mem-

ory of my father indirectly. I paid no attention to line length or sound. I did want

to keep the tone of the poem tranquil and I feel I accomplished that.

The class also noted my use of punctuation, which I paid absolutely no mind

to. My years of essay writing and my odd affinity for commas showed and was

pointed out. The punctuation added nothing to this poem. I employed some repeti-

tion and alliteration, even in the first draft, in my novice effort toward turning

this diary entry into poetry.

With the critiques of the class in mind, I revised the title, punctuation and

line length. I also put myself into the poem. I feel with “My Father’s Breath” I

learned to attach myself to my poems. We’re told to write what we know, and I

don’t know how I thought I could do that without stitching myself into my writing.

I guess I felt poetry was already such an intimate kind of writing that I was afraid

to further fuse myself into my work for fear of being completely exposed (a Can-

cer’s worst nightmare).

I’m not saying that I have completely exposed myself, especially not in this

poem, and also, where’s the fun in being transparent? However, I am more in-

clined to bind some of myself or my feelings into the poems I write, which I no-

ticed adds some depth, and hopefully to the reader takes note as well.

//11

Beard Not Needed

Man of stuttersStammers, mumblesTwitchy handsEyes that skip

Overgrown cuticlesGraceless, ineptNear hersTesting the gap

Two pulsesBoth quickOne of nervesThe other of dread

My advances Not to advance youKeep your paceSave your face

A man like youNeeds not a beardTo keep the stolesFrom doubting your preference.

//12

Draft

Draft

“My Words”

In the morning they must be coaxed

From last night’s visions.

But by the afternoon they gush.

Which is why you think

They are for you.

But you are not the man for me,

Because I am not a man.

Beard Not NeededInterestingly, “Beard Not Needed” stemmed from a poem I wrote

in the beginning of the semester, in which I aimed to be indirect

and only succeeded in being annoyingly cryptic.

The term “beard” refers to a woman that a gay man seemingly

dates (or marries) to thwart suspicion that he is gay. Sometimes a

gay man and a woman do this in collusion if the man doesn’t want

to be “outed” completely, or sometimes it is a gay man’s refusal to

acknowledge his feelings.

For a time, I was arrogant enough to believe an acquaintance of

mine, who I thought was gay, was trying to make me his beard.

Thus, these poems came to being.

With “Beard Not Needed” I worked to shorten and condense my

words. This was also around the time I wrote “Sky Of Ink,” which

is also choppy kind of fragmented poem. The sounds flowed well

to me. The “t” sounds and “k” sounds add to the choppiness that

I wanted to achieve. The first three stanzas describe the man and

then it shifts after the line “the other of dread” to reflect my feel-

ings about the situation.

In class, the word “stoles” threw off some people, though others

understood I meant priests or pastors. I thought ‘pastors’ would

be too obvious, and thus making it obvious that the term beard

was not actually about a beard.

Overall, I feel “Beard Not Needed” did what the minuscule “My

Words” couldn’t. And it turned out the man was not romantically

interested in me, so really I should have ‘saved face’ and left him

alone.

//13

Sky of InkSky of Ink

Tacit lines slurHollow words blur

Conversation spawn littleOr nothing—yes, nothing.

Spines dismantleA car mat, a candle

Blue plaid button down,Curve, the green bottle, smoke-

Tranquil lips inciteSilent hips excite

Chit chat, tit for tatFor an earful of nothing.

Shadows move Behind orange hues

From the lit stickBetween your fingers,

Chilled breeze surroundsOrion’s belt furrows

I think you mention tomorrowBut I know you mean nothing.

//14

DraftDraft

DraftDraft

DraftDraftThe original draft of “Sky of Ink”

Lines are slurredWords are blurred

Conversations spawn littleOr nothing—yes, nothing

Spines dismantleA car mat, a candle

Blue plaid button down,Curve, the green bottle and smoke

Tranquil lips inciteSilent hips excite

Chit chat, tit for tatFor an earful of nothing

Shadows move Behind orange huesFrom the lit stick

Between your fingers

Chilled breeze surroundsOrion’s belt bends, furrows

I think you mention tomorrowBut to me it’s all nothing.

//15

Sky of InkSky of Ink

Sky Of Ink was what I used to test the sound of words and to compress words. This poem is also freeverse, but I decided to set it up into quatrains. After comments were made by my peers and professor

about the lack of discipline in my poetry, I worked to incorporate stanzas into my writing.

I've always loved the night and I played with the idea of writing an ode to the night or to the stars.Daylight is too harsh and concrete for me. The nighttime is always so unfocused and blurry, whichmakes it more appealing, the darkness seems to make possibilities endless since one cannot see an

end.

What is interesting is that the first three lines of the poem had been sitting in my head for days. I re-call looking out the window of my car one night, marveling at the darkness and knowing I wanted toput my admiration into a poem and I thought up the first three lines. When I finally sat down to writeit, I loved the crispness of those lines and tried to keep that same compression throughout the poem.

In class, my peers pointed out the change in my poetry as it had structure and sound and was less

prosaic. Rebeca observed that the first two lines could be tweaked to be consistent with the other be-

ginning two lines of the other stanzas, which I duly noted.

Before I presented this poem I feared I was too proud of it, which could make me blind to its deficien-cies, but I was pleased to find my classmates appreciated it and felt it needed minor changes (although

that could also mean it's not worth repairing. Ha!).

Still, I feel a certain fondness for this poem, for its content, its use of rhyme and its compression.

Sky Of Ink is probably my favorite poem. It's based on a memory merged with a this fanciful notion,but not a fantastical, dreamy notion. It's more like a hallucination, I guess. It's crisp and is the firstcrisp poem I ever wrote. My firstborn Crisp.

//16

I do not claim ownership or creative rights over images in this portoflio

unless otherwise stated.

pg17: (c)Billy Alexander via www.sxc.hu

//17

About

Jasmine Stole is a 20-year-old Communications major, with a track in mass media and a minorin English. She's also working for production on the newly-resurrected UOG Student Radioshow and is the Co-Editor for the Triton's Call. Her interests include horoscopes, numero-scopes, handwriting analysis and the like. She is an avid tweeter and completely dysfunc-

tional without at least one Mr. Brown Iced Cappuccino.

This collection of poetry was compiled as a final portfolio for the EN-311 course at the Uni-

versity of Guam during the fall semester of 2011. The creative writing course focuses on po-

etry and is taught by Dr. Christopher Schreiner.

//18