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The poem in question: is here.

Several weeks ago I was going through some boxes in my closet and found two poems that I wrote for assignments in a French class at BYU.  This is the sillier of the two; the other will be the subject of my next commentary.  This is called “Le Singe et Son Thon” (“The Monkey and His Tuna”).

Il y avait une tortue qui voulait du thon,
a demandé d’un singe s’il en aurait un peu.
Le singe a dit, Quoi?  Le demander à moi?
Allez ailleurs, attendez dans une queue!
La tortue a pleuré, elle a mendié,
Donnez-moi du thon, j’en ai besoin!
Le singe a gloussé, gloussé, et gloussé,
a dit, C’est ton problème, pas le mien!
La tortue a crié, Pourquoi être vilain?
Est-ce que vous ne m’aimez pas?
Le singe a dit, non, mais j’ai une leçon
que je vous enseigne maintenant:
Le thon sera bon
la semaine prochaine
mais cette semaine-ci
il faut que tu te baignes.
En réalisant qu’elle se sentait mauvais,
la tortue a promis un bain,
seulement si le singe lui promet du pain—
le thon—avec un peu de lait.

And a rough translation:

There was a turtle who wanted some tuna,
and asked a monkey if he had any.
The monkey said, What? Ask me?
Go somewhere else, wait in a line!
The turtle cried and begged,
Give me tuna, I need some!
The monkey chuckled, chuckled, and chuckled,
said, That’s your problem, not mine!
The turtle yelled, Why be mean?
Don’t you love me?
The monkey said, no, but I have a lesson
to teach you now:
Tuna will be good
next week
but this week
you need to bathe.
Realizing he smelled bad,
the turtle promised a bath,
only if the monkey would promise him bread—
tuna—with a bit of milk.

While it’s silly, I’m impressed with myself that I managed to create the rhyming scheme in a foreign language.  And I got an A-, I think for some minor grammar errors (which I’ve corrected in the above text).

Update 6/27/2016: Here is an image of the paper I originally turned in for my assignment.

The poem in question: a new beginning

I wrote this poem for an assignment in my freshman English class at BYU.  I don’t remember what the assignment was, specifically.

As with many others, this poem is about inner demons and what ifs, but with a much more hopeful tone, kind of like From now on.  I may have mentioned this before, but I always found it much easier to write well (what I considered well, anyway) about bleaker subjects than happy ones, and in bleaker tones, so poem this was something of a breakthrough for me.  Not only is it hopeful in tone, but I think it’s also decently written.  Double whammy!

I don’t have the original copy, but I can tell from some erase marks in my notebook and an old web print out that the last stanza originally read differently.  The original version—likely what I turned in for my assignment—is:

effortless though it may be
I cannot be brought down
I’ve been relinquished of myself
and set out toward what I’ve found

In fact, all of the copies I have, except the one now on my web site, have that last line.  I do like “and set out toward higher ground” much better though.  In fact, I really like the message of the last stanza.

The poem in question: Weep For The Damned

I also wrote this poem while sitting in a class at BYU.  It seems I did a lot of that in 1998.  By my count, there are nine poems that I wrote either during class or for a class assignment, or were at least written down in the notebook that I carried with me to school every day.  This particular poem was written during a class called American Heritage.

It seems to be a throwback to Aftermath and Achievement, at least by the subject.  I think I was just bored in class one day and started writing.  I guess I just like morbid battleground scenes.  I do think it’s an interesting idea that the survivors were driven mad by what they had experienced, and eventually the madness started to spread.  It reminds me of Mordeth in the Wheel of Time books.  Who knows, maybe that’s what I was thinking of at the time.

There is one oddity: one copy I have of this poem changes the punctuation on two lines, but I’m not sure how much it affects the poem itself.  I’ll let you be the judge.  Instead of

Haunted faces stare about;
Disabused by fear and doubt,
The scant survivors sigh relief and drop their weary heads.

it reads

Haunted faces stare about,
Disabused by fear and doubt.
The scant survivors sigh relief and drop their weary heads.

The poem in question: A Day In The Life Of

I wrote this poem while sitting in a Book of Mormon class at BYU.  I was sitting on the left side of the classroom, near the back, staring out the window at the falling snow.  I have the original handwritten copy, in blue ink, and it surprises me how little change there is from that copy to the final version.

Plotwise, the poem treads familiar ground: trying to cast off inner demons, referencing outside help, and putting my thoughts into poetry because that’s the only way I felt I could truly express myself.  Really, many more of my poems than I realized do this.

The style is cobbled together from other poems I’d written, notably Cried Out (the second stanza), disillusion (the fourth and fifth), and various couplet-oriented rhyming ones (the third).  I think this was my first attempt at mixing styles, and I think it came off pretty well.  It is like a combination of different parts of me, cobbled together to make a whole.

I’m don’t recall how I felt about them 16 years ago, but today, I really like the lines

non-realization of the lack of the quintessential
goes forgotten and unlooked for in the bustle of normalcy

It is indeed a “clever ploy” to get us to lose ourselves so much in everyday life that we don’t look for something more, or indeed realize that there is something more.  There’s hope at the end, though: the last stanza is a reference to the final Calvin and Hobbies strip, which always brings a tear to my eye whenever I read it.

Interestingly, the web version of this poem seems to be missing a line.  It’s not in the original handwritten copy either, but it is in my other copies.  I assume it was some sort of oversight, but I’m not sure if I’ll correct it.  After “a seed sown in the hidden cracks” it should read

planted discreetly

I assume I added the line to more closely match the style of disillusion.

There are some scribbled out words and phrases in the original copy, and unfortunately I can’t make out what all of them said.  It looks like I removed the word “further” from a line and changed “speed” to “incur.”   Other scribbles are indecipherable and lost to time.  The last stanza originally read

The snow still blankets the ground around me
Leaving a new memory, yet to be discovered.

I prefer how it turned out.  Overall I really like this one.

Update 6/27/2016: Here is an image of the original handwritten text:

The poem in question: is here in this commentary, as promised before.

January 29, 1998.  This is just pure melodrama.  Heartfelt melodrama, but still melodrama.  I like the oblique references to Cried Out and Insincerity.  I cringe a little at poor teenage me who was so distraught over the never-ending battle against lusty thoughts.

I think this is the part where
I say something completely heart-wrenching
and you cry out in pain for me
but I’m the only one here to console myself
and I’m no good at consolation
just ask that guy at the supermarket
I’ve never consoled him
the fact I’ve never met him is totally
beside the point
that’s not what I’m trying to illustrate here

I am forsaken
not really because I know you love me
but sometimes I feel that way because of
what I’ve done
how can I ever get rid of these thoughts
they return to taunt me constantly
I can never be free
they’re out to get me to make me lose control
of everything I’ve worked for strived for loved for
sometimes they succeed

I am plagued by the constant reminder of
my past and the difficulty of
the present and the shadows of
the future

I need a bloody rewind button or
maybe just a good slap to the head
and some words of encouragement
and an I love you

someone save me from myself
I cannot do it on my own
I need guidance from another
but I so often misapproach the possibilities
and stumble blindly where few have tread

I’m so tired of being afraid
of never knowing what’s coming next
what bombardment lies in wait
licking its lips in anticipation
for my demise at its hands
please oh please oh please let me be

the tears are forming now
I can feel them burning within me
but they can have no real release
not one that means anything
I’ve forgotten how to truly weep
maybe I should relearn

my wall is thick and I am lonely
I yearn for you to hold me
tell me it’s okay
tell me I’ll make it
another day

please