Artists Among Poets - Emily Cyr

Back Home Again The brisk, bitter cold stings my face as I escape the thick gasoline heavy garage I trot over to his car and cram myself into the seat, my feet drowning in the assorted garbage My hand peeks through the holes of my gloves as my fingers clasp onto his He gives my hand a squeeze and reverses the car The car groans in protest as it struggles over the icy driveway into the unplowed street My breath fogs out in front of me as I tell him about my morning The white salty stretch of road guiding us to our destination We stumble into a fading parking spot in front of the old diner I tighten my damp and itchy scarf as he zips up his coat a little bit more Bracing ourselves for the wind, we burst open the doors The cold assaults our cheeks and faces as we trudge against it  The icy shards of wind cutting through our clothes to our skin Finally we reach the doors and fling them open Immediately the warmth of the indoors washes over us like a blanket fresh out of th

          A poem is good for indulging artistic expression in a way that is not entirely visual. It is a way to better express more abstract emotions and situations in a way that is more pleasing and interesting to read than if you had picked up a more academic explanation. In addition, it's something that connects people together with their feelings and experiences in a way that a more visual artistic expression may not be able to do.            The most difficult part about writing a symbolist poem was avoiding writing it too blatantly or realistically. For example, I chose to focus on a scarf for the symbol of jealousy and control in a relationship, and I felt it was often difficult to do so in a way that wasn't making it seem that either the boyfriend was actually physically strangling his partner with the scarf, or that it was far too obvious that the scarf is the symbol in the poem. However, despite my difficulties writing this poem, I felt that it went far bet

          Meaning is absolutely crucial in any poetry. When a poem lacks any kind of intention or meaning, it is extremely difficult for me to fully understand or appreciate the written word. In addition, a poem without meaning very obviously lacks a sense of care and quality, and will end up being a poorly written poem. In the visual arts, however, meaning is not so crucial to a finished work. This is due to the fact that the way to experience art does not require a sense of analysis, and can be appreciated purely on the basis of that it looks nice. It is more difficult to get away with that in poetry, as it is difficult to arrange a poem in such a way that the only intention is that it looks nice.            It is entirely possible to delve too deeply in trying to understand meaning. I often draw the line when the individual attempting to understand the piece will try to link an object or description with something that was never even hinted at by the author. For example, if a po

          When writing, I've found that I have to be prompted or inspired to be able to sit down and create a written piece. It's extremely difficult for me to be sat down in front of a computer and just begin typing out an idea. My writing habits are unfortunately a lot more scarce than I'd like to admit. I thrived in high school with my writing, as my senior year I managed to get signed up for 3 different english classes to have the outlet to write. However, with the start of my college life, the only writing I usually stay faithful to is my journal, a habit I've stuck to since I was about 6. When writing, I prefer to be in a quiet and isolated place. Any music, talking, or constant noises keep me from concentrating, and there are times where I will go to the third floor in the library just so I have guaranteed silence. It usually doesn't particularly matter the time of day I prefer to write, however, I find that I'm not quite properly "warmed up"

"Sky Above Clouds IV", by Georgia O'Keeffe (1965) I drift far above the ground, gliding gently over the clouds below me The sky hums softly with gentle colors and hues, Whispering stories of calm in my ear Peaceful and empty, yet filled with light and color and joy I may be a visitor passing among the soft sky Yet in the end, I am grateful even as a witness To have seen such gentle grace and light Drifting aimlessly above the clouds It seems incredible to me that there are millions Millions of people who have never gone above the tree tops Above the buildings Above the clouds And have never known this quiet and foreign world Visited by thousands but never occupied To compare it to the ocean would be unfair As the vastness below spans far wider than any sea And the vastness above spans far greater than our sky It is its own world, untouched by any living being for more than a moment It is far quieter, far gentler, and far more lovely than we will