Hunter Smith

Dr. Hoffman

4/28/2018

2018Explicit

INTRODUCTION

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Your explicit memory is a type of long term memory that is described as “conscious” thought. Something you must work for to remember. It can be something as simple as having to remember what you had for dinner last night or something as frustrating as when you have to work to remember who is singing that song that’s “on the tip of your tongue,” because you so desperately know who it is. With these poems I aimed to feature work that I had to work to remember how I thought about in the moment I experienced the topic of the poem. It’s the focus of working through these memories of the people, actions, or emotions through my life through these poems. My real effort was to be honest, within the poems and pick things that really represent people or events that really have shaped me a lot through the past couple of years. One of the most admirable things is to speak honestly through your writing and to reveal a piece of yourself within your work.

Vulnerability is a word that is related to honesty a lot of the time. It had previously been looked at as a sign of weakness. Growing up as a more feminine acting male, I’ve seen a lot of pressures to act a certain way to conform to a stereotype of male culture. However, growing up with three best friends who are homosexual, I feel like a shift has been made to discuss more of being yourself and discussing things that are make you, you. I believe that things have also really shifted to a respect for writers who can present something that may make people uncomfortable. If we look at some of the writers who pushed the limits by either speaking on their own experiences (Ezra Pound, William Carlos Willaims, etc) or societal/political issues (George Oppen, Jena Osman) we see a push toward strength and respectability. It’s saying what’s being unsaid. The thing that mostly shocks people is what’s mostly human, in all honesty. It’s sex. It’s drugs. And everything in between. Things that we all see or experience for ourselves, but doesn’t come up for formality’s sake. It’s what the reader looks at and understands, because in all honesty, they’re more than likely relate to what is being spoken upon.

I’m not sure if there is quite one poet who really had a full influence on me or my work. There has been a lot of poets that I have looked into through this semester and I think they have influenced me with their honesty, but not their styles of writing. There is a lot of the “blues era” and eulogy poems that we had read through classes that kind of had an impact of my tone I’d like to think. But again I kind of look at them, not with sadness, but with energy of remembrance. Although some of the poems could be considered “bad memories,” I think it’s more important to describe them as things that shaped me rather than moments that hurt me, because the pains were only temporary and lessons are now permanently with me.

I will be honest, one or two are pieces that I had written prior to taking the class, but placed within the Modules as we went along, because they worked with what we were learning at the time. Something that I usually like to work with is rhyme scheme of poetry. It really hits me hard when a poem has a beautiful and deeper meaning within it, but also has a clever rhyme hidden inside. I do however feel that at some points they could almost sound forced to get a word to rhyme with another and that’s why I aim to go with at least an approximate rhyme. When you kind of shove words into a poem that don’t really belong and you’re doing it to “just make art,” it

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really feels as if you’re not really making actual poetry. I think as long as a poem can be interpreted and has a sound of poetics, it can be considered a poem.

Something else I found somewhat difficult is giving titles that don’t give in too much into what I’m writing toward. Through most of the Modules, I hadn’t really put a title with poems and picking these titles gave the poems more characteristic then I had anticipated. I had tried to name them toward the direction of ambiguity for the reader, but also giving myself a little solidarity. Titles are always something I’ve found important, because they kind of (at least for me) put a finishing point to your work, but because I hate finishing work, I hate titles. All of these poems, I hadn’t chosen a label for until this assignment and I feel as though, for most (if not all), I won’t really being seeing again after this class. It’s like when you name an animal that’s being put up for slaughter and you kind of grow more of an attachment to them.

Now, after that dark simile, I would like to discuss one final point. Being an English and theater major, obviously there is somewhat of a love for the idea of storytelling and portraying emotions through art of words. Something that has always interested me is the broad idea that everyone has a story to tell. There’s always something you don’t know about someone, even if it’s your best friend or a never before seen stranger; you don’t know the full story. Everyone has a reason for how they got to where they are now. They have a heartbreak story, a death in the family, a unfair accusation, a loss of a best friend and I think I really tried to present a backdrop into a couple of my stories with my collection. I look back at some of these poems and I kind of find a weird feeling of numbness. Those who inspired quite a few of them are no longer in my life and it’s almost as if you were looking at them or the stories they had inspired. There might be shorter poems throughout, but I try to lay a foundation of a story without giving too much away. Something I like to let people do is take information and then let them almost form their own story with the words…kind of what poetry is.

Hopefully you enjoy a look into my “story.”

‘

HER

RAG

OOPS

MINI MOMENTS

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She tastes like salt

I’ll hold her hand

And hate the touch

Tell her I love her

But think of him way too much

And honestly, it’s all my fault

Wet hair hanging down

Black flannel made from satin

Her concentration held mountains

The eyes told stories, she hadn’t

Talk is cheap and I’m not

Don’t tie my feelings into a knot

Because you’ll have to trust me

The truth bites and it will happily

Take one last look and give a little nod

The feeling of this distance makes me feel odd

I look as you walk by and I can’t help

But to think of the best friend I use to have

THE YELLOW SHED

NVR

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The long texts

The late nights

The loud drives

They only are a memory I no longer look for

Remember the night we went to the shore?

I’m not sure I’ll forget your name

And this feeling, I will take the blame.

Splats of grass hanging off the side

Paint chipping from top to bottom

Innocent windows and a door hiding what’s inside

Finally things had gotten to him

Goodbye nvr tasted like lemonade

Sweet, sour, and refreshing

Goodbye nvr felt so freeing

I’ll take my scarf, sweatshirt, and bracelet

The good memories

And I’ll take the honesties

PRISON NOTES

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Goodbye nvr seemed nicer

Until it came from someone like you

Goodbye nvr gave me what you did

The cop locks the door.

We are not let out of our cage, day or night.

There is a jail within a jail here, Hell within hell.

“Anybody dead back there yet?”

I’m sorry that you are distressed by our actions

From the lower bunk.

It is a little later. Footsteps.

For each of us, it’s becoming harder and harder to sleep.

I fall asleep, exhausted, and dream:

She has been force-fed.

I am sitting on a top bunk

After the noon visiting hour

We are still waiting for further news for when

I am home again.

SUMMER

2:14AM

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Let’s get high in a parking lot

While we fill up on air

Pic with my fingers in your hair

Want you to post it

Hostess

At Outback

Low rates

Hot dates

Never had the shame

No one else to blame

Lay in your waterbed

No he said

She said

Using our money till we’re broke

Scream your name till I choke

Looking at the hindsight

We were racing toward a red light

ALIEN

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I no longer feel welcomed here

The room where the band played

The couch where my youth laid

The cabin where I drank a sip

The car where I had felt hip

I no longer feel welcomed here

The apartment where we would hang

The house where my best friend’s heart had rang

The class where we had filmed the show

The woods where I can no longer go

I no longer feel welcomed here