the poetry of a prose writer

[Debitt]

When I started college, I thought it would be a good idea to take a Creative Writing class in order to help augment my portfolio for when I apply for the higher creative writing courses. The only course was poetry, and while I was wary, I nevertheless registered.

Long story short, some personal revelations of mine have steered me away from the Creative Writing major, and I'm now just in the poetry class. It's not so bad - except the weekly poem assignments, for a prose writer like me, feel like a punishment out of the 9th level of hell.

But alas, I write on and would like to see what critique the CAA poets had for me - a major part of the course that is yet to come is to assemble a portfolio of my revised poems. ^^ So please please critique and help me find a way to improve this drabble.

Anyway. >> I've said enough. This is last week's assignment, a Walt Whitman style free verse with subtle repetition.

The Diviner

You had always been a sort of joke to me
With your nervous smile and your sentences tangled hopelessly like stubborn twine
You had always been happiest when the floor was carpeted with red white and black
Dealing poker or solitaire or sometimes other games I could not discern
You had never been more than a harlequin in my eyes.

The sound of steel on steel clatters about in our heads
And makes countless pairs of hands steady helmets and rifles and torn packs
And still you butterfly those cards and perplex me with your games

The sound of steel on steel clatters about in our heads
And your nonchalant voice floats like a buoy above the din
And you smile at your cards and say “Tomorrow we will be deadâ€

[creed4]

Interesting.... need a little work though. It seems a bit unclear untill you get to the end

[Anna Mae]

Ah, good old Walt. What do you think of his poetry?

The Diviner

You had always been a sort of joke to me
With your nervous smile and your sentences tangled hopelessly like stubborn twine
You had always been happiest when the floor was carpeted with red, white, and black
Dealing poker or solitaire or sometimes other games I could not discern
You had never been more than a harlequin in my eyes.

The sound of steel on steel clatters about in our heads I don't know how picky your teacher is about grammar, but you do have two prepositions in a row in this line.
And makes countless pairs of hands steady helmets and rifles and torn packs
And still you butterfly those cards and perplex me with your games

The sound of steel on steel clatters about in our heads
And your nonchalant voice floats like a buoy above the din
And you smile at your cards and say “Tomorrow we will be deadâ€