221 *Mini* B

For class today, we had to read  "The White House"  by Claude McKay, which details the speaker's rage at the treatment of Black people in the United States. McKay leads the reader through the battle the speaker endures to contain themselves and emotionally rise above the racism they face on a daily basis. This piece connects well to  A Raisin in the Sun , by Lorraine Hansberry, which we read and analyzed earlier in the semester. In that play, Walter Lee Younger is shown as desperate, seeking a way to elevate his status both financially and socially. He longs to follow his dreams, but is constricted by the society in which he lives: America. He may have once been composed; in fact, his mother claims he was, but his economic status has driven him to anger by the play's onset, resulting in a tirade of negative emotions. He is resentful and pained, obviously past the point of controlled calm that is depicted in "The White House."  The Younger family in A Raisin

November 29, 2022: there was a sharp chill in the air. I trudged along, wind whipping across my face, sweeping my hair in violent gusts as I headed toward the Student Union. My face held a splotchy flush by the time I reached my destination, eyes squinting, adjusting to the bright lights. Clopping down the stairwell, all too aware of my boots thudding against the tile, I scanned for Marley, finding her at the exact same table she had obtained at the last Lumen event. The echoes were lining up, but I was set to shatter one precedent: remaining silent. I greeted both her and Matt, sitting myself down. We all waited the remaining minutes until the clock struck six; Dr. Brown immediately jumping up, excited to begin. He beckoned us all forward, initiating the bundle of bodies that settled on the couches, the podium a gleaming death situated before us.  My heart, dormant before, began to quicken, reality sinking in. It is the feeling that settles within me whenever I've resigned myself

Straight out the gate: I am not fond of this man's poetry. If you're not prepared for some slight Williams bashing, I would find another post to indulge yourself in.  Most of them are pleasant, I promise! Note: Dr. Reed, since you're forced to read this for grading purposes, I apologize if you really enjoy his work. Anyhow, I was first officially introduced to this particular poet in my Introduction to Creative Writing course, where Dr. Brown was teaching us about free verse poetry. He was a part of the imagist movement— alongside Ezra Pound and H.D. Williams— which involved several principles.  There is meant to be a direct treatment of the "thing" being written about Use a minimal amount of words to convey meaning (be concise!) Lay out the poem musically in terms of rhythm; don't subscribe to the metronome With these principles in mind, I'd let to make a quick correction. In class one day, I was discussing Williams and connecting him to the term "Co

Presenting: an established favorite of mine on this blog. Don't worry, I'm not about to detail another internal crisis; rather, I'd like to discuss the poem I researched— "When I consider how my light is spent" —and the poet himself: John Milton. I find him to be an incredibly tragic man. He lost his eyesight, fearing for the future of his passion, his talent, his life, to an issue that (should he have been born in another time), would have been treatable. The poem sparked personal fear within me as well, for although I am not religious, I do fear what would become of me should I not engage in my passions. His lament over his newfound restrictions is incredibly sympathetic to me, for I too would rile at the idea of being unable to write again. Words may not always flow from my hands, and my mind oftentimes struggles to put thought to paper, but when it is there, I'm in Heaven. There's nothing more satisfying than conveying yourself through a medium, especi

The hall of Old Main was bustling with activity, for class had just been released: ten to noon. I slipped out of my Creative Writing classroom, eyes flickering around, catching sight of my peers scattered along the corridor's walls. Marley followed after me, and we both strode past my next class' door, attempting to secure a segment of the wall for ourselves. We settled down, mirroring one another, chatting about the mundane, although I loath to describe our conversations as such, for I grasp any snippets I can get, cradling them with reverence. Five to noon. My finger settled on the phone, eyes darting periodically to check the time, as class started at twelve, and even the concept of lateness generated discomfort in me. With a minute to spare, I bid her goodbye, refocusing my mind toward class.  Stepping into Room 207, I sat myself down, preparing for a film. I lacked all knowledge of what the movie could be, for I failed to remember its title from the syllabus, and had not i

The light was beginning to dim as I made my way across campus, heading toward the Student Union efficiently, yet not hurriedly, for I had ensured ample time to arrive. Earlier in the day, I had hesitantly asked Dr. Kirchner if I could miss a portion of our weekly evening class to attend the Lumen Open Mic event, and to my relief, she assured that I could, recognizing the importance of English and writing to my college experience. With her express permission, I left the classroom in the middle of lecture and trekked down the stairs of Hirt, anticipation and nerves welling within me. I waged a war in my head, debating on whether to read a piece of my poetry or not. Logically, I knew what the answer should be: participate and read; however, public speaking withers me down, rendering me a wired ball of anxiety. Heart pounding, legs shaking, voice wavering: all the works. It's tedious, but I have steadily improved over the years.  I made my way down to Luke's Landing, making note of