Unbelonging

These aren't my shoes.
My feet are just living here
for a while.

I had shoes that I loved -
really loved -
a few years ago.
I'd worn them for so long
the shoes
and my feet
changed shape, fitting together
like perfect partners.
And walking was
dancing,
then.

But it couldn't last.
My feet were still growing,
and one day,
without any warning,
my favorite shoes
didn't fit
anymore.

But I loved them.
I loved them.

So I crammed my feet into them
violently, desperately.
But now walking hurt,
and there was
no more dancing.
And it broke my heart
that I hated
my favorite shoes.
So I let them go.

Now I am barefoot
standing in these empty shells
that are my halfway house.

Because I need shoes,
but these aren't them.
My feet are just
living here.

Abinadi's Story in Sonnet Form

For the take-home portion of  my midterm exam, I had to compose a sonnet based on a Book of Mormon story. I was supposed to stay close to the text, following the standard rhyme scheme for a Shakespearean sonnet (ABAB CDCD EFEF GG). Iambic pentameter was not required (it was considered too hard to grade), but as a Shakespearean scholar I practically think in iambic pentameter all the time now, so I threw that in my sonnet, too.

Anyways, that's the gist of it. I wrote a sonnet about Abinadi (because he's my very favorite Book of Mormon prophet). The sonnet itself is a bit contrived, but I was in a bit of a rush. Plus, after pouring over Shakespeare for so many hours the one thing I have determined is that he was absolutely brilliant - I can't really compete. But take it for what it's worth: a new perspective on a favorite LDS tale.

Sonnet #17

Three days in prison could not make him fear.

Accuséd, by the priests, of blasphemy,

They charg’d him say that Christ would ne’er appear;

Without this vow, he’d have no amnesty.

Abinadi would not recall his words,

“For they are true; I die that ye may know.”

The king, whose anger by the priests was stirred,

Swore he would see this prophet burn. And so,

Amidst the scorching strokes, swallowed in pain,

The prophet cried out from his martyr’s pole,

“This blood is innocent that you have slain.

Fear recompense. O God, receive my soul.”

Engulfed in flames, he drew his final breath

And sealed his testimony with his death.

By Jessica Grosland

I'm Yours

These are my hands.
They're not very big.
They aren't pretty or slender, either.
My fingers are stubby, and my knuckles stick out.
I have hangnails all over.
But here they are anyway:
My hands.

These are my feet.
They're really quite squat.
They're callused and a little dirty.
I have a hard time squeezing them into high heels.
I'm not sure they're the right shape.
But here they are anyway:
My feet.

This is my heart.
I know it's not perfect.
It's scared sometimes, and weak.
I don't use it as often as I probably should.
It just looks so small.
But here it is anyway:
My heart.

God,
it's hard not to feel like
I'm not very much.

Your power is so great,
and I'm only a tiny piece
of everything.

But I love you, and I know that -
incredibly -
you love me.

So I trust you.

Take them.

Take my hands.
Use them to reach people who need you.
Let them lift spirits and carry burdens.
Make them strong enough to do your will.
They're yours.

Take my feet.
Use them to get your gospel moving.
Let them guide me on the path of righteousness.
Make them quick enough to run to my brother's aid.
They're yours.

Take my heart.
Use it to find your children in their sorrows.
Let it show love to those who need it most.
Make it soft enough to hear when you whisper.
It's yours.

I give you all that I have,
all that I am.

I may not be much,
but
I'm yours.

A Boy-Inspired Poem

His eyes stake a claim
on my hair,
on my laugh,
on me.

He worships me softly,
wanting just to be near me,
just to hear me,
his angel.

I've woken up on a pedestal,
a rose on the shelf,
a jar full of hopes.
Is this me?

I will not be captured.
I will not be claimed,
my identity
destroyed.

To call me a treasure,
to call me a jewel
makes me less
than I am.

I don't fit in a box,
on a shelf, in a jar.
I'm immune
to his claim.

If any man would have me,
he must first learn
he cannot
have me.

- Jessica Grosland

34 Days: Shakespeare and Stephenie

For my Early British Literary History class, I wrote a sonnet today. We've been studying the Renaissance, where the sonnet came into being. In my writing I also included another aspect of Renaissance culture, though one that is not as well known: Imitation. They saw no problem in what we would call "stealing" from another author's work. They viewed literature as more of a community effort in that way, I guess. Each author borrowed from other authors and tried their own spins on old ideas.

Anyway, that's the long, boring explanation for what is really a rather funny poem. It's based off of William Shakespeare's Sonnet 130, but I've written it basically in response to the ever-so-popular novel Twilight. I hope you like it.


















A Sonnet To Stephenie Meyer

My lover’s eyes are nothing like a gem:

No topaz, onyx tint within them lies.

If stone be hard, his arms have straw in them.

If wit be sharp, his teeth are far from wise.

I have seen stars that sparkle purest white,

But no such sparkles see I in his skin.

He’s never climbed into my room by night,

Nor fear I being eaten by his kin.

He loves to drive my car, yet well I know

His palm could never put a dent in one.

Our kisses never make me swoon; still, though,

I’d think to be awake is much more fun.

So keep your moody, teenaged carnivore

I find a man who’s living offers more.

- Jessica Grosland



Today's Movie: Some Scooby Doo Film

68 Days: Simile

I wrote this poem for my Fundamentals of Literary Criticism class. We've been talking about figurative language, and one of the things we were assigned to do was to write our own poem that used an extended simile as its basis. We all had the same topic, too: "When I'm at work, I am as . . . "

Anyway, here's my poem. And I tried to use some of the weirder tools of poetry (adding accents to words, removing syllables from words, that sort of thing) so if it doesn't work, that's only to be expected. Also, I'm too haggard to really think straight, so . . .



Simile

When I am at work, I am as
A crumpled, uséd groc'ry bag.
I tumble on a gust of wind;
Without deciding, I come in.
I move always unconsciously,
But still they find a use for me:
They fill me up and plot the course
(I'm empty without outside force).
And when the work is done, I'm then
Discarded on the road again.
I tumble on without a care.
It's as if I were never there.

- Jessica Grosland
Poems in 10 Minutes Inc.

A Bit of Poetry to Pass the Time

bored + nothing to say + too long since last post = A poem from my files that I wrote several months ago.
Happy Reading!

Will You Die For Me?

By Jessica Grosland

When loved, my heart holds deeper shadows still.
I wander hopeless in them and am lost.
Who dares venture into my darkened soul?
I seek only your own soul as the cost.

Give me your life; I thirst for faith and dreams.
I'll sing to you of love - a macabre jest -
And when I've finally won your tender heart,
I'll tear it, beating, from your empty chest.



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-
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Iambic Pentameter is the bomb!

Zombie Invasion Haikus

*My sister recently had to write a bunch of haikus for an English assignment. She asked me for help, and so I kind of got in the mood and wanted to write some more. Naturally, when I cast my mind about for a good topic, the first thing I thought of was the impending Zombie Rebellion. To you, the reader, I ask only that you "judge not, lest ye be judged." I DID write this in, like, ten minutes*


ZOMBIE HAIKUS

The window shatters.
I stick my arm through the hole
And unlock the door.

My hunting party
Stumbles past me and inside.
I roar in triumph.

It is a party.
Many of my friends are here.
(The ones who aren’t dead).

Angela sees me.
She waves with a frenzied air.
Her hand is severed.

Toby is eating,
Bent over a young girl’s form
And slurping her brains.

A few hearts still beat.
The sound is loud in my skull
And I follow it.

I find their hideout.
They see me and try to run.
They aren’t very fast.

Soon the house is still.
Everyone is digesting.
It’s a happy place.

There’s a joyful shout.
More survivors have been found.
Good. We are hungry.

Ode to an Essay

O cursed wretch am I! O loathsome fate!
To struggle in my mind's dark, empty shaft
And torture self to write something of weight
To push toward that gloried final draft.
My pen leaves trails of blood as testament.
My sweat and tears have soaked the paper through.
I eat and breathe this essay every day.
And as I weep from effort's long torment
Myself I offer sacrifice unto
Whichever god can help me scrape an A.

- Jessica Grosland



P.S. In case you are unfamiliar with the rules for structure in Ode-writing, let me clear a few things up:

There are three main guidelines. An Ode:
1) Must be ten lines to a stanza.
2) Must be in iambic pentameter. (ten syllables, with every other syllable emphasized)
3) Must follow the rhyme form ABABCDECDE.

There. You're smarter now. Aren't I a gem?

Happy Birthday To An Old Friend

With our long and twisted history

Of honesty and mystery;

The good times, and the bad as well,

From Brookside, through and on past "Hell";

Sharing dreams and schemes and fears,

Music, laughter, even tears;

It matters not how far you get,

How long it's been since last we met.

You are so rooted in my heart

That we can never be apart.


- Jessica Grosland

There are some people I just love.

It's just the truth. Too frequently I find myself annoyed by the human race at large, but I don't think I'm a particularly disagreeable person most of the time. I like most people. But there are some people I just love.

(*smiles peacefully*)

There are almost too many songs to describe these people and the effect they have on me. I can't even begin to quote them, because my brain hits an instant traffic jam when I try to think of some good lyrics. So I will just make up my own.

Oh boy. Here goes:


I'm a stubborn person.
In case you couldn't tell.
And I refuse to let it show
When I'm going through Hell.
But you always seem to notice,
Because you care enough to see.
And it's the little things you do to help
That end up saving me.

A nighttime visit. A friendly note.
Waiting so I don't have to walk alone.
Respectful silence. A firm embrace.
A sweet conversation on the phone.
A soothing touch. Reassuring words.
These are the acts of a perfect friend.
And I gain new strength to fight my demons
Cuz I know you'll be there to the bitter end.


(*exhales*)

Sorry if it sounds stupid. I really did write it on the spot. But I feel like I made it through the last couple of weeks leaning on the shoulders of some very good friends. I just wanted to express my gratitude.

You know who you are.

Thank you for everything you do for me, even when I'm being a crazy-psychopath. I know I'm hard to live with, but I'm glad you put up with me. I don't know where I'd be without you.

Sincerely and with great love,

Jessica