Just in time for National Poetry Month, I have faced a writing challenge!

Good morning everyone!

I'm actually up early or late depending on how you may or may not look at this. I know that usually we talk about music and pop cultural things on this blog, but I figured that I'd make a post of a different kind.

For those who don't know, I write poetry. I've been writing since spring of 1997. (I was 11 going on 12 at that time.) At first, it was just something I did for fun. Well, it still is something I do for fun, but I became serious about it when I was in high school. Since starting college, I've taken a few different writing workshops whenever possible. This semester I am taking ENGL 499, which at the University of Maryland (aka my school) is the Advance Poetry Workshop. I'm taking the class with Michael Collier, who is this brilliant poet originally from Arizona but has called the state of Maryland home for the past 20 years now. At one time Professor Collier was Maryland's Poet Laurette. In class, the assignment to write a sestina was given. I think the reason my professor gave this assignment to my class was because I mentioned to him how one of my goals for this school year (2007-2008) was to write a sestina. (Back in August of 2007, I figured that I'd try to challenge my writing skills) But don't tell my classmates this or else they'll kill me! (just kidding i think...)

Anyway, I am going to share what I've written. It's the first draft and is going to be workshop this coming Monday afternoon. I'll admit some parts of the thing is weak. (then again, I shall let you decide that actually) The form of the sestina is super difficult to write, but I gave it my best shot. Oh and by the way, it doesn't have a title. If anyone has a title to recommend please feel free to share. Same with any sort of feedback. A little hint about reading it, try reading it out loud. You'll hear the strange repetitions a lot better that way. (And one more thing, I noticed that due to the way the layout is done for the blog, some of the lines go over and don't look like how they are suppose to appear on the page. I'm going to bold the words that are suppose to be the end of the lines. I hope that makes sense!)

An Untitled Sestina by Megan T. Lahman (Draft 1)

In my sleep, I exhale all of these secrets. Last night, I had a dream
that we went swimming during a blizzard. In the water, you smiled and placed your hands
on my shoulders. Somehow your fingers touched the wires in my spine. Is this the new loving
or are you lying? There were cars falling into the ocean, we wept and then my leg muscles
became extremely tight. Yes, it’s true; I had to stop treading the violent waves
and yes, to gain forgiveness I had to make myself like anvils in order to sink.

In real life, when you kiss me, you taste thirsty. It makes me want you go to the kitchen sink
and fill a glass with water. I’d make you drink deeply and dream
about how each time you touch me, it brings back the strange waves
of aching arousal. Awareness isn’t terrible, but when your hands
touch my flesh, I can’t help but flinch and somehow enjoy this. The weeping muscles
inside my womb make me wish I could hate you and the act of loving.

I still crave little aches to flow into my veins and for you to give more loving
glances but we keep on running out of moments for looking. Maybe soon, you will want to sink
into my bed, under my sheets. You know me; I’d make time to touch your muscles
and to smell your thoughts like as if they were blood roses. Sometimes you dream
about the world coming to an end. I can tell by your tremors, my hands
reach out to give you comfort, but it all ends with waves.

I still wake up in the morning with the sound of the ocean waves
and your whispers still buzzing in my ears. Was that a dream or an actual moment of loving
some sort of truth? The last time I tried to kiss you goodbye, you used your hands
to block my aim. I still remember right before I left your house, using the bathroom sink
to wash away my sins. You were out of soap, and this issue became a haunting dream
involving you and me fighting in the sea. Salt water can give you sore muscles.

You have me rub and scratch your back. The muscles
are worn and tired. Light waves
only show how scary the damage is. You dream
at night about being a loving
man, but all you are to me now, is a sink
hole that will trap and bury me. No longer am I your slow hands.

You used to believe in the healing power of your hands
and in the power of your tender fingertips. You would touch my skin and muscles
bringing me relief. Yet, you were yearning for me to save you from your sink(ing)
ship. Instead, I stood on the shore giving you waves
of sorrow and goodbye. I once was a good, loving
girl, but for now, if you want me, you must dream.

Your hopeless dream has made your hand
numb. Not even someone who is loving can give you your muscles’
strength back. The waves have won and you’re going to sink.

(copyright 4/21/08)

ps - if anyone wants to read more of my stuff or cares to see the final portfolio that will be produced from this class, please let me know!