"if we did less useless potry it would be better."
A mini-collection of useless potry by Sophia Fields
Note: Title is an unedited response to one of Liz's student experience surveys.
Note: It is not my response.
To my future self. You're welcome -- this is literally the one final assignment that you did not save until May 7.
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AcknowledgmentsLoading...
Thank you to the table in the bottom right. You guys brightened the classroom and always made me laugh. Loading...
Also big thanks to my friends, my family, Joanina, and obviously, Ms. Liz.Loading...
Table of ContentsLoading...
Betrayal of the MindCounting Sheep
Return to the Unknown
Melodies of Immutable Monotony
Betrayal of the Mind
After "The Consent" by Howard Nemorov
Late in the winter, the light starts to vanish
Not even far passed noon, my long walks
Along the forested trail come to a violent end.
For eventually, I open my front door
And as though the end of time: darkness and shadows
Have obscured the paths today, that yesterday
Had shined under a seemingly permanent ball of light.
How could I have forgotten? What senses failed?
What in the deepest depths of my brain decided to reject this transition from light to dark, from day to perpetual night?
Denial or forgetfulness?
And if this can happen thus, what shadows may be looming over my unknowing conscience?
What use to trust my instincts at all if at the start of every winter my mind believes the brightness will last forever?
Not even far passed noon, my long walks
Along the forested trail come to a violent end.
For eventually, I open my front door
And as though the end of time: darkness and shadows
Have obscured the paths today, that yesterday
Had shined under a seemingly permanent ball of light.
How could I have forgotten? What senses failed?
What in the deepest depths of my brain decided to reject this transition from light to dark, from day to perpetual night?
Denial or forgetfulness?
And if this can happen thus, what shadows may be looming over my unknowing conscience?
What use to trust my instincts at all if at the start of every winter my mind believes the brightness will last forever?
Counting Sheep
The swirling sun sinks farther down the sky,
slowly submerging as if only slightly heavier than the horizon.
My head seeks the fresh pillows,
my body the welcoming quilt,
I wait softly for dormancy.
I spend eternity switching positions on the sheets that soon feel like sandpaper against my fiery skin. I open my droopy eyes defeatedly to scan my inky room, its features obscured by a darkness that can only be filled with frightful imagination: a clothing rack disguised as a hooded figure jolts me farther into mechanical cognizance
My limp arms flail blindly to turn down the fan from a loud roar to a dull hum and my thoughts expand to fill the newfound silence like a lake bursting through an open dam.
I grasp for the right cerebral spiral that could serve as a bridge to the slumber-state. I fight against my consciousness which grows stronger with each blow.
Desperately thinking of thoughtless nothings
Because no one ever remembers the exact moment they fall asleep.
slowly submerging as if only slightly heavier than the horizon.
My head seeks the fresh pillows,
my body the welcoming quilt,
I wait softly for dormancy.
I spend eternity switching positions on the sheets that soon feel like sandpaper against my fiery skin. I open my droopy eyes defeatedly to scan my inky room, its features obscured by a darkness that can only be filled with frightful imagination: a clothing rack disguised as a hooded figure jolts me farther into mechanical cognizance
My limp arms flail blindly to turn down the fan from a loud roar to a dull hum and my thoughts expand to fill the newfound silence like a lake bursting through an open dam.
I grasp for the right cerebral spiral that could serve as a bridge to the slumber-state. I fight against my consciousness which grows stronger with each blow.
Desperately thinking of thoughtless nothings
Because no one ever remembers the exact moment they fall asleep.
Return to the Unknown
The paint of the blue house
Has started to chip and fade
Muting the blueberry hues
into the murky shades of deep and unexplored waters
The creaking of the old hinges feels different now
Strong and accusatory
To punish me for leaving
Childhood photos still clutter
the cracking mantle.
Lost versions of myself
smile back at me curiously
Wondering why I have returned
I'm looking for the fragile reality before my departure
A moment of recognition or remembering that unites past and present
But childhood familiarity has faded
And I’ve become a stranger in my own house.
Has started to chip and fade
Muting the blueberry hues
into the murky shades of deep and unexplored waters
The creaking of the old hinges feels different now
Strong and accusatory
To punish me for leaving
Childhood photos still clutter
the cracking mantle.
Lost versions of myself
smile back at me curiously
Wondering why I have returned
I'm looking for the fragile reality before my departure
A moment of recognition or remembering that unites past and present
But childhood familiarity has faded
And I’ve become a stranger in my own house.
Melodies of Immutable Monotony
I spend the summer
trudging through tree-tunnels,
discerning differences
between bushes of brambles,
silently singing
melodies of immutable monotony.
Eventually, I emerge
from the fathomless forest
reeling in relief as I
confront a clandestine clearing.
What serenity to sprawl my aching body upon a bed of warm concrete
in a field tinged by the kiss of the sun!
What relief to rest my dying mind in the world
of the writing on the chipped silo which claims the world is dying too!
What joy to jostle the littered cans and throw pebbles at the collapsing fence!
What joy to destroy.
At last, I abandon the area
Wandering back into the woodlands
As unfamiliarity fades.
trudging through tree-tunnels,
discerning differences
between bushes of brambles,
silently singing
melodies of immutable monotony.
Eventually, I emerge
from the fathomless forest
reeling in relief as I
confront a clandestine clearing.
What serenity to sprawl my aching body upon a bed of warm concrete
in a field tinged by the kiss of the sun!
What relief to rest my dying mind in the world
of the writing on the chipped silo which claims the world is dying too!
What joy to jostle the littered cans and throw pebbles at the collapsing fence!
What joy to destroy.
At last, I abandon the area
Wandering back into the woodlands
As unfamiliarity fades.