My Conflict with College Poetry Professors

I have written poetry as long as I can remember. I have poems saved in my computer that are dated all the way back to 2005 and binders full of writing predating that. Unfortunately as a child I never thought dating my work served a purpose so I have no idea how old it all is.

So it was to my great surprise that in college I was told I was doing it all wrong! I often wrote poems in one sitting with little to no editing. Apparently I was supposed to edit my poems for more than just clarity and punctuation. My poems focused on my emotional state while writing. WRONG! Poems are supposed to tell stories my professor chorused.

This led to one of the most frustrating writing experiences of my life. I sat down a wrote a poem for the class. My first draft is as follows:

Floors

Crashing down around are emotions I can't restrain

All that holds me up are barren floorboards beneath my feet

Bruised knees carry the memories of broken prayers

When my only comfort was the concrete floor

Where I threshed truth from the lies of life

Caught by the only constant in the world

The floor of objectified reality

Fingers pick idly at the splintered threads

While minds seek a place of empty peace

Shattered lives like broken vases land here

Amongst the decaying crumbs of last meals

Cold comfort fills the ever growing void

When the floor halts my spiraling descent

Hands press flat, muscles strive to find strength

With the steadying presence beneath my body

I push, I strain, I kneel, I rise, I stand!

When all thoughts were turned to chaos

And emotions ran like watercolor

The floor halted my tortuous descent

Provided the force to rise again

From all fours to knees to feet

Though oft forgotten and thankless

The floors of life inspire gratitude

That helps me to rise every time I fall

I thought: Awesome! Assignment finished! WRONG! Here are some excerpts of the critique, which I saved to this day for posterities sake. (And some vindictive desire to prove them wrong of course.)

"What works: The imagery is powerful...make[s] me pause to see the image and want to know how it fits into the poem. The verb choices make me pause as well

What doesn’t work: I struggle to see a coherent storyline that matches the powerful imagery and verb choices. I so want to experience the desperate actions, but I get lost because of the “floor of objectified reality,” because of the idle picking of splintered threads (and the idea that there were floorboards and then a concrete floor). I do not understand why “minds” are introduced into the poem. I also do not understand why “shattered lives” come in. The plurals of both of these throw me. I struggle with the cold comfort filling the growing void. I do not understand why the descent is spiraling.

What I want to have happen as a reader: I so want to witness this struggle on a wood floor where prayer has not sustained the individual. I think this can be achieved by tightening the narrative and providing clearer transitions. Below is an example of seeking more concise language that might help the storyline be clearer: Barren floorboards steady my bruised knees that witness broken prayers.

He then proceeded to tell me (the whole class actually) that our next assignment was to revise and edit our poem at least five times. Five freaking times. I tried, I really did. In the end I made a few minor changes in revision one. Then pushed around punctuation for edit two. For the rest I made changes just to change things and never really wanted to. So here is the fifth draft:

Floors

All that holds me up are barren floorboards beneath my feet.

Bruised knees carry the memories of broken prayers

when my only comfort was the concrete floor

where I threshed truth from the lies of life.

Caught by the only constant in the world

the floor of objectified reality.

Fingers pick idly at splintered threads

while minds seek a place of empty peace.

Shattered lives like broken vases land here

amongst the decaying crumbs of last meals.

Cold comfort fills the ever growing void

when the floor halts my spiraling descent.

Hands press flat. Muscles strive to find strength.

With the steadying presence beneath my body,

I push, I strain, I kneel, I rise, I stand!

When all thoughts were turned to chaos

and emotions ran like watercolor

the floor halted my tortuous descent,

provided the force to rise again.

So what did I learn through this process? I learned that my teacher has a very literal mind. Which surprised me considering they were teaching a poetry class. I also did some digging and found out that his specialty was editing and publishing NOT poetry. Suddenly his suggestions and advice made a lot more sense. His statement of "I so want to witness this struggle on a wood floor where prayer has not sustained the individual" was personal preference, not "objective reality" as I described in my poem. 

This process reinforced that poems can mean different things to different people. My focus in poetry is emotion, symbolism and catharsis. His focus in poetry was storytelling. If I want to tell a story I write prose not poetry. If I want to share an emotional experience without the need of context I write poems. 

As much as I would love to say my professor was a quack without any concept of how poetry works, that would be lying. We just focused on different goals and preferences in our art. As one of my favorite youtubers Shasha at CasuallyComics says "Different strokes for different folks". 

Let me know in the comments which version of the "Floors" you like better and why. I'd love to continue to discussion with you. 

                - Jacob H. Taylor

Ahsoka vs Luke: A Discussion of Power vs Experience

Ahsoka Tano

Last night while doing my typical insomnia scroll YouTube binge I came across a Stupendous Wave video discussing who would win in a fight: Ahsoka Tano or Luke Skywalker. While his analysis of in universe reasons is quite specific and well thought out I want to share my own perspective on why this debate is framed poorly in the wider scope of the internet. In doing a little more digging most of the discussion online seems to focus on the concept of power. 

To begin, power is only a single metric. According to dictionary.com is the "ability to do or act; capability of doing or accomplishing something". Just looking at the character's themselves this metric would be determining who has more abilities to do or is capable of accomplishing more. If we are only using the metric of power clearly Luke is more powerful. Throughout cannon, and what is now considered legends, Luke displays more force powers and feats of strength than Ahsoka. In terms of brute force he would win by a landslide. 

Luke Skywalker

The problem with calling the discussion here is that sheer power rarely is the determining factor in a fight. Some example of this is the American Revolutionary War. By pretty much any metric the British Army and Navy were far superior to the American's forces. By some rather miraculous events the Americans won their independence. This mostly had to do with Faith and Desperation. The Americans were desperate for freedom and had faith that the God of Abraham would deliver them. Because of this faith they were willing to take risks that the British weren't. The Delaware crossing comes to mind.

Another metric that I feel is more important than power is experience.  Experience leads to control and wisdom. In cannon Ahsoka spent the early years of her life leading battalions of soldiers, was framed for terrorism, escaped from and evaded the Jedi Order on Coruscant, cleared her name, survived order 66, helped found the rebellion and survived being pulled through the world between worlds. All of these experiences led her to have a phenomenal understanding of herself and the Force. They provided opportunities for learning control. As an example of this I learned about meek machines when I was younger. 

"There is a story about a man who visited a factory where a large machine acted like a guillotine, cutting and crushing metal beneath it. The visitors were awed by its power. The operator of the machine turned to one of the day’s guests and said, “Let me give you a demonstration. Lend me your watch.” The man was understandably a bit hesitant, but he complied. The operator laid the watch on the block. He adjusted the dials on his control panel, and the machine went into motion. The lever tripped, the hammer came crashing down and stopped just one-sixteenth of an inch before it struck the watch. “We call this a meek machine,” the operator explained. “It means that its power is under control.”

                Quoted from “Story Wisdom” by Albert L. Zobell, Jr., pages 98 and 99.

Ultimately who would win in a fight comes down to the authors and what would make the best story (we hope). Many authors tend to favor certain characters and that leads to biased fights. For example, if I were to write a fight scene between Ahsoka and Luke I would have Ahsoka make a complete fool of Luke with the numerous tricks she learned over her long life. Luke might have more power, but she has longer breath of experience and greater understanding of herself and the Force. (At least at the point of the Mandolorian.) But then, that's just my opinion. Share your thoughts with me in the comments!

The First Day of the Rest of my Life

 About a year ago I had wonderful discussion that led me to an interesting conclusion: average is just extraordinary you haven’t met yet. This came up because I found myself at a karaoke bar, quite by accident, talking to some old friends. It was my first time out on the town since getting divorced. I made the comment that I was just average and didn’t understand why so many people were expressing interest in me. My friend then told me, Jacob, you are doing great. You are extraordinary. You have so much going for you and he provided examples. What I realized is that those things I found average and ordinary He found extraordinary because they were things he just learned recently.

We then discussed how I don’t see the best things about myself because I have spent the last four years being emotionally and verbally abused. I reached the point that I literally couldn’t see my positive traits because of the abuse. It was only then, after months of being divorced, that I began to see those positive things within myself again.

I can now see that I am a writer, That my poems, my words have power. The power to evoke emotion, to heal, and to inspire. I can now see that my scarred hands are tools for building, not just walls to hide behind. I see that I have inherent worth, regardless of how much education I have or job titles I obtain.

So here I am, sitting at my computer writing my first blog post after the first day of the rest of my life. A life I know is worth living. One where I have so much more to give.