VVP: Art 434 & Engl. 410

Website for Vision Voice and Practice: An Interdisciplinary Course in Art and Creative Writing

Monday, May 23, 2011

Individual Projects: Poetry

Us girls

Us girls never back down,

like the Spanish color yellow:

boom-boom, bounce back,

catapult upward with fast-luck,

conditioned to roll with the punch.

Bend us arrows and tightly pull

so that we can fly and hit the bulls'

eye square in the mouth

to break his teeth.

One pound flesh-and-bone we mix

into shepherdess pie. 'Mid

genderized beef, the mashed

potatoes smother the deed

which we waited,

for so long,

to eat.

- Katelynn Camp



Unexpected splendor yielded by inner-city excursions

manifests in sun burnt kids with bare feet, wandering

their gated yards, lying so close to the metro tracks

that their mothers cast a wary eye every time it passes.

The leathery old men walk the baked cement sidewalks

of humming Los Angeles, shuffling unconcerned amidst

rushing middle class crowds pouring out of offices

For the too-short lunch hour, heads down and feet forward.

They, the thick life-blood of the city, chugging through

its intravenous structures, keep the California conurbation

alive and kicking, however rebelliously, or eagerly, or what-have-you,

moving the city-scape along, the creaking cogs and lynch-pins

of the sprawling metropolis, faces so fantastically various

that one could never be bored, the trains and buses

offering up their carriage for impertinent observation

as long as the observer manages not to get caught.

History is the substructure of the city, culture bursts out

On the streets in so many forms, art blooming unexpected

Appearing in stations, on sidewalks, in vacant store windows

Giving the rushing throngs something to look up at, to think about.

These the invaluable treasures the city keeps

and displays to its visitors and residents, a constant show

now veiled, now glowing, fading in and out of the smog

to astonish when least expected with its majesty.

- Candace Arce-Lindsay


Common Moments

One day you'll come home and trample

the carpet, flinging yourself out of

your coat like splitting skin.

You'll wash my nude lipstick

off the side of one of my favorite

baroque mugs,

listening for the sound of my voice

whose gratitude invites you in

to the grandeur of my embrace,

and then enter fully into a moment

that can overwhelm, like a river

running wild.

As the throat is tugged hard by the

rush of time, you calmly speak aloud,

in a current pounding past,

I won't remember much and I'll forget

the days which passed like single squares,

without a sound of carpet or coat.

- Delia Baltierra



You move through lost origins, not obvious,

Possible loop-holes of soft turquoise foam,

Or shove to fortress rocks above

Bold shadows of broken octagons-

Forget those for now; hot stones force

you down toward shore, freedom

Removed to move, to explore. Go now

To homes known only to moss-covered

Bones, or golden coins lost forever.

You drop below the gloss, tones of

Loss so frozen for moments, so open for

Movements. Silhouettes become gone so

Often, only to shoot out of coves

Once unnoticed. Above, before you drown.

Without rhetoric of topaz roars,

Orations of horizons pointing to

Other shores, onyx-mouthed oceans

Would lose voice, groaning only

Apologies of driftwood, driftwood.

- Jonny Mueller



Water in the river was always red

and before I thought it was just the dirt

but turns out the river is made of blood

and the blood is actually Jesus’ blood

who is a carpenter who made me. His

blood is in all the rivers, and if you

float your pain in one of them for long enough

it will all get washed away into a kingdom

that is under the river. You go there too.

- Megan Jackson

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