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Maxwell’s Poetry Anthology By Maxwell 9.2

Table Of Contents Page 1 - De Piscatione by Thomas Bastard Page 2 - Ladies and Gentlemen in Outer Space by Ron Padgett Page 3 - Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds I Will Visit in the Next Days and Weeks by Mary Oliver Page 4 - The Oceans Power by Mel F.R. Page 5 - Leaves Fell by Juhan Liiv Page 6 - Autumn Haiku by Maxwell Page 7 - Stream Sonnet by Maxwell Page 8 - Fishing Concrete by Maxwell Page 9 - Enchiladas free-form by Maxwell Page 10 - Rain Haiku by Maxwell Page 11 - My Name, Written piece Page 12 - Bibliography

Book 6,  Epigram  14:  De  Piscatione.   BY  THOMAS  BASTARD Fishing, if I a fisher may protest, Of pleasures is the sweetest, of sports the best, Of exercises the most excellent. Of recreations the most innocent. But now the sport is marred, and what, ye, why? Fishes decrease, and fishers multiply.

Though only  six  lines  long,  the  theme  of   this  poem  is  clearly  communicated  to  me.   Every  line  rhymes  adding  on  to  the  song   part  of  the  poem.  Lines  2-­‐3-­‐4  all  start  with   the  word  ‘Of’.  Lines  3  and  4  are  parallelism.   The  poem  is  about  Dishing,  a  sport  I  love   and  the  author  loves  too.  The  poem   reDlects  how  it’s  changing,  opportunities  to   Dish  are  decreasing  and  Dish  are   disappearing  because  of  overDishing,  not   poaching,  but  the  fact  that  there  are  just   too  many  people.  Part  of  Dishing  is  just  the   peace  and  quiet  of  being  outside,  which  is   nearly  impossible  now.  The  pleasure  of   Dishing  is  being  destroyed  along  with  the   nature  it’s  part  of.  It’s  shown  using  the   poems  song-­‐like  Dlow;  it’s  easy  to  get  stuck   in  your  head  and  give  it  a  tune.

Ladies and Gentlemen in Outer Space Ron Padgett Here is my philosophy: Everything changes (the word "everything" has just changed as the word "change" has: it now means "no change") so quickly that it literally surpasses my belief, charges right past it like some of the giant ideas in this area. I had no beginning and I shall have no end: the beam of light stretches out before and behind and I cook the vegetables for a few minutes only, the fewer the better. Butter and serve. Here is my philosophy: butter and serve. This is  a  solid  poem,  it’s  well  written  and  constructed  and  it  has  a  decent   Dlow  to  it.  It  doesn’t  paint  a  song  in  your  head  and  it  doesn’t  rhyme  but   this  particular  poem  doesn’t  need  that,  because  it’s  a  philosophy.  The   poem  is  separated  well  with  commas  and  colons,  which  adds  to  the  Dlow.   You  read  it  at  the  right  pace  and  it  comes  out  more  clearly,  it  makes  sense   the  Dirst  time  you  read  it.  Towards  the  end  of  the  poem  theirs  an   extended  metaphor,  not  quite  a  conceit,  comparing  life  to  cooking   vegetables.  If  ever  there  was  a  Ditting  metaphor  to  life  this  seems  to  Dit   quite  well,  for  me  at  least.

Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds I Will Visit in the Next Days and Weeks

just that lucky,

Mary Oliver

over the edge of darkness,

What is so utterly invisible as tomorrow?

my heart on fire.

my legs splashing

Not love,

I don't know where such certainty comes from-

not the wind,

the brave flesh

not the inside of stone.

or the theater of the mind-

Not anything And yet, how often I'm fooled-

but if I had to guess

I'm wading along

what the soul is supposed to be

in the sunlight-

could send us forth

and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining

with such cheer

days aheadI can see the light spilling like a shower of meteors into next week's trees, and I plan to be there soonand, so far, I am

I would say that only

as even the leaf must wear as it unfurls its fragrant body, and shines against the hard possibility of stoppagewhich, day after day, before such brisk, corpuscular belief, shudders, and gives way.

This poem  is  kind  of  cryptic;  I  had  to  read  it  a  few  times  to  pull  out  a  good  meaning.  It’s   about  life,  and  how  the  future  is  unpredictable,  the  clearer  you  think  it  is  the  farther  away   it  is.  The  poem  is  made  completely  out  of  subtle  metaphors.  Each  one  connects  to  the  next   and  helps  the  poem  Dlow.  The  poem  almost  is  a  conceit,  its  poem  is  about  life  and  it’s   describing  it  using  walking  from  pond  to  pond,  ponds  being  events  in  your  life  It  has  a  sad   tone,  slow  like  waiting.  Unlike  some  other  poems,  this  one  doesn’t  have  the  same  kind  of   rhythm  or  Dlow.  Because  of  the  kind  of  poem  this  is,  not  having  the  Dlow  adds  to  the   monotone  feel  of  the  poem.

The Ocean’s Power Mel F.R. The dark ocean waves, clashing amongst each other, above the ocean floor that dose not have a bother, Not a worry in its nonexistent mind, not a care, but only to its swimming friends, but when a disaster strikes the creatures will fear there world is at end But not for any to fear, the ocean has a special power, a power that humans can not comprehend, so unique it causes them to cower The ocean releases its power to heal all, to heal, from the dark waves to the ocean floor, the process may take from days to centuries, but when all is done, it is left for all to adore.

This is  poem  is  about  the   ocean  and  the  oceans  “healing”   power.  The  power  can  heal   your  mind  and  body  on  more   of  a  spiritual  level.  Using   personiDication,  the  poem   takes  the  ocean  and  turns  it   into  some  sort  of  magical   being,  like  a  god.    The  poem   has  a  strange  disordered   rhyme  scheme,  some  lines   rhyme  with  the  other,  some   don’t,  and  some  are  separated   by  lines.  But,  the  poem  has  a   decent  Dlow,  it  also  sounds   mystic  which  is  really  Ditting.

Leaves Fell BY JUHAN LIIV A gust roused the waves, leaves blew into the water, the waves were ash-gray, the sky tin-gray, ash-gray the autumn. It was good for my heart: there my feelings were ash-gray, the sky tin-gray, ash-gray the autumn. The breath of wind brought cooler air, the waves of mourning brought separation: autumn and autumn befriend each other. The poem  is  about  the  fall,  and  it  being  “gray”.  The  colour  gray  itself  is  a   neutral  colour  between  the  brightness  and  cheer  of  white  and  the  darkness   and  gloom  of  black.  The  “gray”  is  a  metaphor  for  autumn  being  a  calm,   peaceful  season,  a  transition  between  the  exciting  “white”  summer  and  the   cold,  uncomfortable  “black”  winter.  In  the  poem  itself  it’s  shown  using  a   unique  rhythm  and  description  carrying  the  theme  from  the  start  to  the   Dinish,  the  Dirst  two  sections  being  parallelistic  in  structure.  

Sometimes I walk Under trees when the leaves fall, And I feel at home By Maxwell L

I wrote  this  poem  about  walking.  The  kigo  of  this  poem  is  “leaves  fall”   representing  the  Fall  when  trees  drop  their  leaves.  The  Kireji  of  the  poem  is   the  comma  at  the  end  of  the  second  line,  separating  the  thought  of  walking   during  the  fall  and  how  I  feel  about  it.  I  tried  to  establish  a  tone  of  peace  in   the  poem,  because  I  like  the  fall  and  it  makes  me  feel  calm  when  I  walk.

The stream starts high up in the mountaintops And it runs the valley through the hills It passes boulders and, suddenly, drops Down the valley, through the hills, never stills The stream that ran through the valley now is In the city, forgotten wooded park A long pathway, people walking, bikes whiz Rolling through the big city, dawn till dark The stream melts leisurely through countryside Forever flowing, never stopping though Perhaps only emptying, turning wide The new big river water still does not slow But this stream doesn’t stop, not here nor there By Maxwell L Forever a part of the earth and air

Before I  wrote  this  I  expected  it  to  be  impossible,  but  I  went  camping   the  day  I  did  and  I  think  it  inspired  me  and  so  it  wasn’t  as  bad  I   thought.  When  I  wrote  the  lines  I’d  think  of  what  I  wanted  to  say,  write   it  down  and  then  modify  it  to  rhyme  and  have  the  right  syllable  length.   I  opened  a  website  to  Dind  rhyming  words  which  was  crucial,  and  I   double  checked  all  of  the  syllable  counts  and  revised  until  I  thought  it   was  perfect.  The  only  problem  is  that  syllables  seem  to  all  be  counted   differently,  so  I  don’t  know  if  it  really  works  out  100%.

By Maxwell L

I painted my room. It is the colour of rain. super depressing By Maxwell L

I wrote  this  poem  based  off  of  my  real  room,  which  I  painted   supposedly  grey,  but  it’s  the  perfect  shade  of  ugly  rain  cloud.  I   couldn’t  :igure  out  how  to  put  a  kigo  in  that  was  easy  to  see  but  rain  is   probably  the  closest,  representing  the  spring  or  summer  weather.  The   Kireji  is  the  period  at  the  end  of  the  second  line  separating  the  idea  of   what  colour  my  room  is  with  depression.

An enchilada is a piece of art Beauty; they all are unique and different to different people Style; they come from Mexico and have been re-created and re-mastered But an enchilada is still just food And still delicious

This poem  is  about  how  delicious  enchiladas  are,  and  is  a   conceit  comparing  enchiladas  to  art.  For  example,  line  2  is   about  how  beautiful  enchiladas  are  and  it’s  a  metaphor  for  all   the  different  restaurants  that  serve  different  kinds  of   awesome  enchiladas  and  how  none  are  the  same.  Line  3  is   about  how  enchiladas  are  originally  Mexican  food  but  have   been  adapted  as  more  American  style  food  and  re-­‐mastered.   But  it’s  still  just  food,  even  though  it’s  complicated  on  the   inside.

My Name People say my name probably between twenty and one hundred times a day, but I’ve never counted so it’s really just a guess. I never honestly thought about my name like that, in a sense that it is more than just a word. I asked my parents why they named me Maxwell. My dad wanted to name me Rocket. I don’t know if he was serious but, still, what an awesome name for a kid. My mom wanted to name me Sam. Sam is a really bland, non-specific boring name. My grandparents had a dog-named Sam and it did about as much as it would do dead, like name itself, dead. Rocket isn’t even a name, but it would have made my self-esteem higher than the name could ever fly. My brother was named after Harrison Ford. My name, though? They said that it didn’t sound girly, at the time. And I never got a better answer than that. I wonder if my parents even care what my name is. My friend and savior Google says Maxwell is a unit of measurement of something nobody knows about. But then it says Jessica Simpson has a daughter sharing my name and thats just frustrating. Moving on, a few websites later the name means Capable. That’s a three on my report card, but it means I can. I can get things done and I can decide, make life choices and be in control. It’s fitting, I consider myself a capable person, I try do lots of my work, teaching myself as I go along. I fired my guardian angel before I was even born. People call me by my first name but when my mom is angry she uses all three. My middle name: Donald. From my grandpa, who, after seeing an old photograph looks almost exactly like me. My mom tells me I’m like him, and I would agree. I mean, we have the same hair. He’s a carpenter, he has a home inspection business and he builds a lot of things. From when I was younger until even now I’ve always enjoyed helping him build. We built and upgraded a fort in my backyard, and he constructed my bed, which now is old and broken, covered with scratches. I guess you could say he’s a pretty capable person. I guess my first name is almost the same as my second, and as for my last name, it’s four letters and another word for road. My first name itself originated from Scotland, first recorded in 1144 as Mackeswell, meaning Mack’s spring or stream. A stream is a serene place; it brings every sense out in you, it makes the blind see and the deaf hear, it relaxes the mind. The stream is my goal, it’s every day I’m alive, how I’m going to get there, whether I’m going fishing or out on an after dinner jaunt. It represents calmness to me, without worry and cares and being able to relax and have fun. I’m the stream. By Maxwell L

Poetry Response Ten poems  to  represent  who  I  am.  And  who  I  am  is  my  identity.  Identity  is  shaped  by  things   around  you,  what  you  watch  on  TV,  who  your  friends  are,  family,  things  you  read  and  write.  like   poetry.  I  wrote  Dive,  found  Dive,  and  all  ten  connect  to  me  in  4  different  categories.  Poems  about   Fishing,  about  the  Autumn,  about  relaxing  and  peace  of  my  mind,  and  Dinally  my  life  in  general.   It’s  summer.  There’s  no  school,  it’s  hot,  and  I  have  no  movies  left  to  watch  on  my  laptop.  What   better  to  do  than  grab  my  Dishing  rod  and  leave,  enjoying  the  summer.  The  whole  year  of  learning   is  like  a  top.  I  wind  up  until  I’m  really  tight  and  then  I  release  and  spin,  and  the  way  I  release  is   Dishing.  I’ve  done  it  since  I  was  a  kid  but  never  appreciated  it  until  I  could  use  it  as  a  stress  reliever.   In  my  concrete  poem  about  Dishing  I  wound  up  the  poem  and  then,  “…I  get  the  prize  in  my  hands   and  all  the  casting,  waiting,  and  reeling  pays  off.”  The  top  unwinds.  And  loving  it  so  much  makes   you  attached  to  keeping  it  alive.  I’ve  seen  the  Earth’s  population  grow  and  multiply  like  bacteria.   Pollution,  expansion,  the  anti-­‐stress  loses  it’s  anti.  Thomas  Bastard  wrote,  “Fishes  decrease,  and   ;ishers  multiply.”  He  wrote  in  the  1500’s,  so  if  this  is  what  he  saw  then,  than  what  am  I  seeing  now?   Come  the  fall  it’s  too  cold  to  Dish,  and  the  season  closes.  But  when  one  door  closes,  another  opens   some  say.  I  love  the  autumn.  “Before  such  brisk,  corpuscular  belief,  Shudders,  and  gives  way.”  The   leaves,  green  and  vibrant,  transition  to  yellow,  to  orange,  to  falling  and  landing  softly,  gently  on  the   ground.  It’s  so  peaceful,  I  can  go  hunting,  celebrate  my  birthday,  and  pick  up  on  all  the  best  video   game  releases  the  fall  brings.  And,  the  temperature  is  perfect  to  walk.  I  usually  go  walking  in  the   summer  but  usually  for  more  of  a  purpose.  In  the  fall  I  walk  because  it  feels  good.  “It  was  good  for   my  heart:  There  my  feelings  were  ash-­‐gray.”  Juhan  Liiv  knows  exactly  what  I  mean,  a  season  of  little   excitement,  but  its  not  cold  enough  to  be  depressing,  it’s  so  neutral  that  it’s  basically  perfect.  My   mind  can  be  at  ease.  “Under  trees  when  the  leaves  fall.”  I  wrote  to  describe  the  experience  of  it.   Walking,  because  it  makes  me  feel  better,  and  because  it  helps  me  think.  I  can  open  my  mind  and   take  in  the  scenery.   When  you  open  your  mind  and  let  thoughts  out  you  need  something  to  Dill  it  in.  For  me  it’s  places  I   can  sit  and  be  quiet.  The  autumn  makes  me  feel  neutrally  happy  but  relaxing:  that  takes  something   different.  I  wrote  a  sonnet  about  a  stream.  And  although  it  is  just  a  stream  I  know  that  it  is   something  more,  because  this  is  my  number  one-­‐Zen-­‐relaxing  place.  I’m  my  happiest  when  I’m  by   a  stream,  creek,  or  river.  The  sound  of  moving  water  is  like  my  thoughts  and  worries  all-­‐pouring   out  into  the  water  and  Dlowing  far,  far  away  where  the  bad  ones  will  never  Dind  me  again.  My   sonnet  outlines  3  different  streams,  creeks  and  rivers  that  are  important  to  me,  but  I  won’t  name   because  that  will  ruin  it  for  me.  “It  passes  boulders  and,  suddenly,  drops”.    Second  to  streams  is  the   ocean  (a  particular  theme  I  realized  for  me  is  that  I  really  like  the  water  for  some  reason,  I  can’t   explain  that,  I  just  do).  Since  I  was  little  my  parents  took  my  brother  and  me  on  a  vacation  once  a   year  to  the  Caribbean.  It’s  usually  the  best  part  of  my  year,  and  is  my  best  memories  with  my   family.  “(The  ocean)  The  ocean  releases  its  power  to  heal  all.”    My  family  usually  leaves  mid-­‐winter,   so  it’s  like  being  able  to  escape  school  and  the  cold  at  the  same  time.  When  the  water  is  frozen  and   everything  is  covered  in  snow,  this  is  a  wonderful  alternative.

I have  3  misDit  poems.  They  don’t  have  anything  to  do  with  the  autumn,  Dishing,  or  relaxing.  I  just   decided  they  were  about  my  life.  “It  is  the  colour  of  rain.”  I  wrote  a  haiku  about  my  room.  Early   this  summer  I  painted  it,  and  around  the  same  time  a  few  bad  things  happened  to  me.  The   depressing  part  is  that  the  blue  it  was  supposed  to  be  is  greyer  and  my  room  is  like  a  sick   reminder  of  the  bad  things  that  happened,  because  it  looks  like  I’m  sleeping  in  a  rain  cloud.  When   sunlight  shines  in  it  is  kind  of  happy,  but  on  rainy  days  my  room  is  like  double  depressing  and  I   close  the  blinds  and  hide.  Anyways,  I  found  a  philosophical  poem  I  really  liked.  The  meaning  is   really  wide,  but  I  came  to  a  conclusion.  “(Butter)  and  serve.  Here  is  my philosophy:  butter  and  serve.”  I  mowed  the  lawn  yesterday  to  chew  up  leaves  and  Dinish  off  the   grass.  Most  people  might  hate  stuff  like  that,  but  I  like  it.  It’s  rewarding  to  get  things  done.  When   you  work  and  you  work  hard  things  come  back  to  you,  and  when  you  slack  off  things  come  back   worse.  That’s  life  sometimes.  And  Dinally  I  wrote  a  food  poem  about  enchiladas.  “An  enchilada  is  a   piece  of  art.”  You  are  what  you  eat.  Now  this  poem  is  completely  random  so  explaining  it  might   make  no  sense.  Some  people  like  asparagus.  I  think  it’s  disgusting.  I  like  enchiladas  and  some   people  hate  them.  You  are  what  you  eat,  and  I  eat  enchiladas  because  they’re  amazing.  Art  like,   even.

Image Links No name. Trout Silhouette. 2013. Clipart page 3. Digital art. September 9, 2013. No name. No title. 2010. “horrible fishing laws are made without evolutionary consideration.” Photograph. September 19, 2013. horrible-fishing-laws-are-made-without.html No name. Stars is the Answer. 2013. Mikalao, Sound Cloud. Digital art September 10, 2013. A’Hearn, Walter. Large Fall Pond. 2013. Paintings. Painting. September 10, 2013. http:// No name. Underwater looking up. 2012. Nature. Photograph. September 11, 2013.http:// Schroll, Ted. Pine Lake Fall. 2009. Brookside and Wheaton Album. Photograph. September 11, 2013. No name. Fall Path. No date. Discover Ohio Media. Photograph. September 11, 2013. http:// No name. Falling Leaves 5. 2012. Stock Images/Plants. Digital art. September 12, 2013. http:// Barr, George. Blue Rock Creek. 2006. Behind the Lens. Photograph. September 12, 2013. No name. No title. No date. Fish Creek Watershed Project. Photograph. September 12, 2013. http:// No name. No title. 2013. Top 5 Chicken Enchilada Recipes. Photograph. September 13, 2013. No name. No title. 2010. Atmospheres, Explorations in the. Photograph. September 13, 2013. No name. Shiny Star. No date. Digital art category. Digital art. September 16, 2013. http:// No name. Fall Stream. 2012. Nature. Photograph. October 1, 2013 http:// Poem Citations Bastard, Thomas. “Book 6, Epigram 14: De Piscatione.” Chrestoleros: Seven Books of Epigrams written by T. B. Ed. 1598 Padgett, Ron. “Ladies and Gentlemen in Outer Space.” Poetry. N.p. Ed. N.d Oliver, Mary. “Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds I Will Visit in the Next Days and Weeks.” Poetry. N.p. Ed. N.d F.R, Mel. “The Oceans Power.” Poetry. N.p. Ed. July 13, 2010 Liiv, Juhan. “Leaves Fell” Poetry. N.p. Ed. June 2011

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