Poetry Portfolio

Poems written in 2023

Gabriel J. Waldor

Advisor Mary Hearding
 

Author’s Note

 

Poetry has always filled my life. My father is a poet and took every opportunity he could to share the rambling art with me and my siblings. At a young age, this manifested through poems recited slowly to put us to sleep. Though my brothers never really found interest in poetry as they grew up, I did. My childhood is filled with delusional attempts to write books of poetry, but more and more as I write I am plagued with the ability to find deep hatred for all of my poems after they are written. This particular project was difficult, because unlike any other, I was bound to the rules of school and thus had to create a final product and not throw it out in the end. It surprises me that even though I hate my poems, there is a satisfaction to creating a small book of them. I still enjoy one of the poems, this one being Titans We. The reason, I think, is because it’s so layered in complexity, obscurity, and oxymoron that I understand it’s okay to simply revel in the words. I do, however, like all the poems I write for a brief period, and during that time, I can enjoy reading and editing them. I loved combing over the poems fresh off the press; I loved switching words, adding stanzas, and rearranging. I’m never married to the original, and I always enjoy giving the poems a second opportunity to flourish. As you read the poems in this portfolio, you’ll see immensely varying styles. One poem is set in a tight meter with a rhyme scheme and archaic vocabulary. Another is almost an essay, full of self-reflection and comments on my life. Others simply open a window into a seemingly mundane experience I’ve had, but the true purpose of all of these types of poems—and, I believe, every type of poem—is to open a fleeting glimpse into the mind of the author, to create an almost impossible bridge of human connection from one consciousness to another. It is said that to become an artist, you must attempt to emulate those who inspire you, and though you will fail, in the process you will discover your own voice. That is what I’ve done with many poems, but the inspiration that I appreciate most comes from Pablo Neruda. His poems carry such a genuine and simple window into his life that it is impossible not to feel as though you know him when you read his odes. Specifically, his poem Ode to My Socks was an incredible template to base my poem: Blue Denim Couch. And though I failed miserably to come close to his beautiful writing, it was still a fun and insightful process.

 

 

Titans We

 

Gently the soft and echoing sigh  

Drew through the caverns of that bronchi 

 

As one to wait and then unbridle  

The drowsed muse of rest to break  

To push through chasm of endless recital  

And force from that nightly farce of ache 

 

The lights come up the city's wake 

Fortolds the day of endless make 

 

The toile of this play so grand 

That all mistake what truth must hold 

And let the runnings go unplanned 

Around the charnel house is bold 

 

The fools of myth and legends old 

Relay the way that is foretold 

 

what ilk of imp to prompt their arm 

And claim they know immortal truth 

forget their words of subtle art 

And flee from here to distant lands unhilled 

 

Titans We (Original)

 

Slowly the first breath of air drew through

The canticle space of the iron lung

All was dark and blue as the first shivers 

Of life alight upon its vast walls

Deep in echoing chasms the great glowing

Blast furnaces pumped its life steel 

Of production all throughout the facility 

Hundreds of people streamed out of 

Their many abodes like ants in the gloom

And as the patrols came to life

And the factories began to tick,

A thick red light suffused the world in ardor

The causeways were flooded by the life of a great Colossus

And countless murders were committed 

As due course in the face of progress

As every day before had gone the machinations 

Of the city built to a thrumming fervor

Once the pace was set, the workers moving with such speed, 

The oligarchy began to wake

They stood atop a pedestal that none could see 

And slowly for the sake of their will

The factories began to move

 

Commentary

The initial poem was done in total free verse but I often find that when I give myself rules it breeds creativity. And on the first iteration I found myself completely stumped as to how to proceed because the message of the poem was so lost in the words. Rather than try to fix the problem I simply re-made it with the imposed rules of a slightly enforced iamb and a rhyme scheme (AA BCBC CC … ). This made the poem even more dense and confusing but I find it fun to read and the music of the words is in much more harmony. 

 

The main issue I faced is that the project I had set for myself was far too ambitious so the result was messy and did not come close to getting the job done. My solution was to shelve the initial project for a rainy day and embrace the fact that the poem would be a much shorter preamble to the longer poem.

 

 I often have trouble knowing what type of words to pick because I love archaic language but I don't think it sounds good in freevers. Puting the poem into meter, stanza, and rhyme made the vocabulary feel much more at home.

 

I think it is necessary to simply write for yourself sometimes, of course the reader is important and you don't want to leave them behind but sometimes I think that you should forget everything about your expectations for the poem and find joy in the witless rambling of the words.

 

 

Understandings

I sit and listen to the elderberry song

The chilling cords of a chant elicit a rare but true chill

Their voices weaving sweet melody through the fire

But can the blade ever correct its cut through music?

Does the weave still bear patterns of twenty shuttles back?

 

Does the philosophy really matter?

The music reaches the crescendo, a timeless moment devoid of all, in ecstasy

Through harmony we can heal

But if that chorus ever comes 

Could our cracked lips part to drink?

Or would the hollow cycle continue

 

Understandings (Original)

I sit and listen 

The chilling cords of a chant

Run through the shivers of my spine

Their voices weaving sweet melody through the fire

 

But can the blade ever correct its cut through music

Can the dripping blood be used to poultice the wound

Can you truly be a difference so deep from your kin,

That the poison of your family does not yet run through you

 

But 

 

When you finally see 

And the gauze of shame and denial is torn away so stark

Then will through sacred last remnants of that _____

Ever dare to _____ our cracked lips again

 

Commentary

 

This poem looks nearly unrecognizable from its first iteration. After coming back to it, I realized like I do about so much of my poetry that I hated it, and so I fully reworked it. I define one type of good poem as something that has a clear meaning and arc on the surface, and once you understand those, you can see layers of interesting nuance throughout the cohesive whole.

 

When I reread the first iteration of the poem, I decided I hated it, but I loved the line “But can the blade ever correct its cut through music?” It almost became the core idea and touchstone for the rework of the poem. It was important that I did not alter this line at all because it was as good as I could have made it, and trying anything would have muddied the intent.

 

When I first write poetry, I break my stanzas up in two ways: the first is by separating  the ideas in the poem into their respective stanzas, and the second is by aesthetics. When I first write pieces like this about philosophy, I separate the stanzas into how my thoughts best flow, but that can create a disjointed poem. When I reworked it, I split the stanzas into two even chunks, which made it more palatable for the reader.

 

When I recreated the second stanza, I made it opposed to the first so I could voice my own doubts and see the conundrum of the poem from more angles. I added the line “Does it really matter,” which served to show the reader my shifting perspective, but whenever I read the line, it tickled me the wrong way. I then changed the line to “Does the philosophy really matter?” This made all the difference because not only does it remind the reader what I am referring to, but it underscores and makes accessible one of the core themes of the poem without bashing the reader over the head with it.

 

 

The Cacti

 

So much is unwanted in the desert

The spines of cacti, the slanted winds of snow

The pounding gaze of the sun, the final caress of a spider

 

But amidst this oasis of barbs there is

Bounty of those sweeter, softer moments

That do not compare in size or scale but surpass in sanctity

 

The dry sweet taste of elusive saguaro fruit,

Or the secret unseeming honeyed centers of prickly pear 

And the gentle visit of a young soft hare, joining us for lunch

 

I have naively thought that in life there is a rule of justice:

All tragedy is weighed in equal measure with joy

Maybe there is more merit there then I once thought 

 

The Cacti (Original)

So much is unwanted in the desert

The spine of a cactus, the slated wind of snow

The tearing grasp of the sun, the final kiss of a spider

 

But amidst the oasis of _____ there is

Bounty of those sweeter, softer moments

That do not compare in size or scale but instead ______

 

The crispy sweet of the elusive saguaro fruit,

Or the soft unseeming sweet centers of the prickly pear core

 

Commentary

 

Often it is difficult to know why you’re writing a poem. For me, it is often to relate some small insight I have had about the world. But other times it is just for the sake of writing beautiful words or sharing an experience. Initially, I thought this poem was one of the latter two, just some musings about the desert. But then in the magic that all poetry forms from, the final stanza occurred to me, which created a deeper meaning and insight to this poem. I never plan for these insights, but if I am lucky, they will simply arrive. 

 

I always leave my poems riddled with blanks which I allocate as a future Gabe problem. But after letting them sit, it often makes them even more difficult to fill, because I build up meaning and layers of depth around the poem, making the stakes of the word choice more and more perilous. In the end, I find it most useful just to put some word in and change it later (which I end up doing with almost every word in the end anyway).

 

Sometimes it is important to know when something is just bad, and the word choice of “tearing grasp of the sun” is, in my humble opinion, terrible. The reason I find it so abhorrent is because the imagery of the sun grasping or holding something is a difficult one and does not suit this situation.

 

One final change I made was turning the word “kiss” into “caress” in the third line. This one is slightly more nuanced. The difference of kiss to caress is harder to weigh the merits of, but “kiss” holds such immediate visceral meaning, which takes the reader on the vast cliche of the kiss of death. In this case, I want there to be a more subtle picture of what is going on, and “caress” does that well by not having as immediately recognizable a use.

 

 

Puppy at the Docks

 

Down on the clay yellow stone of that dock

Clothed in the indigo hues of spectacle

Swarming with every walk of life 

There is only one true visitor

Only one who can see through the forest of legs

To long for the ripples in the water 

Or notice the deep creases in the solemn face of the sarangi salesman

 

The generations of ancestors debate, and 

In the same miracle of that day long ago:

I kneel, outstretching a tentative hand in peace

To share a brief moment of kinship 

I gently scratch its soft fur, and that slow, contented closing of its eyes

Is a greater reward than could be asked of any feat

 

Through the indulgent and curious weight of your gaze

And that momentary abandon in connection 

I now carry you here with me 

And maybe you carry me too: 

Little spotted puppy of the old city on the clay yellow docks

 

 

Paul Celan Poem

 

A carapace of scarabs 

Caked only in the fruit of our lives

But waiting only for withering

They stand in legions

Until the petal falls

​





 

Haiku

 

Cars rush by eyes bright 

Softly a down feather falls

City does not care

 

Mountains freeze crystalline

Bright world weight crushes me down

Crystal/Blue ice does not crack

​





 

Photo Poem

 

Back then life was so simple 

That an ampoule of gold could cure all ailments

The brilliant luster of the metal 

Produced a smile so transcendent it broke my symmetry

But all joy comes with sadness 

And just moments later I would smash 

My hard won prize into thousands of burning pieces

The loss of the precious ampoule weighs on me even still

And the longing to steal someone else's prize

Highlights my humanity in stark relief

The only thing I question is the imbalance of life 

That my experience sits monolithic 

In my mind for the loss of the precious thing

But does not rejoice at the joy of having had it 

However fleeting

 

 

Extended Metaphor

 

When the dust of time settles to the sea bead

And all the crustaceans have died and fossilized

When the octopus’ rock gardens have been swept away

And the clownfish’s anemone has gone

Come to me then and say ‘When will I die?’ 

And this to you I tell ‘With the least speck of specks at the end of it all’

 

 

Blue Denim Couch

 

The frayed edges and patchwork stains can only rival the fading of its once vivid color 

Even its ideals are left behind, the craze for denim forgotten in the early 2000s with punk rock and Nokias

It sits in the back corner of my room opposite my bed never chosen in favor of the old couch 

My childhood was rooted in the quaintly preppy suburbs of New Jersey where I would risk life and limb jumping between the gap the two halves of the couch afforded caught every time by its rough but warm embrace

Its versatility is a testament to inanimate objects, how it transitions seamlessly from crib to the fraught resting grounds of a teenager

After much turmoil and the tragic loss of one half of the couch, it still represents the last fraction of that naive notion of stability