Colonel Mustard

Because I can, and because I think it will force me to write with more intention I am going to post some of my poems I write for class on my blog. I am in a creative writing poetry class this semester that writes about a poem a week. I am also in a upper level poetry class that is surveying the modern poets, i.e. Eliot, Yeats, Stevens, etc. Basically everyone that is way over my head.

I was intrigued by poetry and wanted to find out more about the process while reading great poets because of the unique way they interpret the world and express themselves. If a poem is going to be any good the poet would have had to thought deeply, uniquely, creatively and intentionally about what it is they are writing on. (If you will excuse the following over generalization.) People do not think deeply anymore. Hence, why I wanted to learn more about poetry as a medium for interpreting the world and expressing myself.

Here is the first poem I wrote worth posting. It was inspired by this summer and the nights my friends and I would sneak up the top of the surrounding mountain at camp. The poem is in the poetic form Ghazal.

Colonel Mustard

We stole the mustard colored truck, named the Colonel

and drove up to the clearing on top of the mountain tonight.

Orange and purple in the twilight sky

had just been swallowed up by the darkness tonight.

The dry dirt road was steep to the top,

and was lined with cracks, crevices, and holes tonight.

The colonel, so old, I struggled to find the gears,

while my friends bounced and jumbled to and fro in the bed of the truck tonight.

Our last quest to the top.

A summer full of nights like tonight.

We dangled our legs over the edge of the colonel

and as usuall the dry and warm air moved with a breeze and graced over us tonight.

From memory, I recited one of David’s hymns:

‘for you are always with me, you hold my right hand’ tonight.

‘A falling star,’ she yelled

I returned, ‘that’s the seventh tonight.’

Time stretched on and he sang:

‘oh its such a shame for us to part’ tonight.

Down the mountain we rolled, like an eighth falling star.

yes, such a shame for us to part tonight.

‘David’, said the Colonel, ‘Yes?’ I replied

‘Never forget the grace of that breeze you felt tonight.’