MBU Creative Writing Students Share Original Work at Poetry Reading
Tuesday, May 2 was the day that taking a final meant sitting on a sofa and eating popcorn—for the eight students of the Creative Writing class, at least. When they weren’t standing behind a lectern to read their poems, they were sitting on a sofa or in an armchair in the Den of Old Main, being literarily enriched by their classmates.
Under the direction of Mr. Jerry Kolwinska, each student prepared at least six original poems over the course of the semester. Only a week earlier they had turned in these poems, along with several other assignments, as part of their writing portfolio.
Now these students had the opportunity to stand in front of their classmates and guests and read at least two of their poems. Mr. Kolwinska opened the reading with prayer, and one by one students volunteered to share their works. After the last poem, Mr. Kolwinska invited the guests to stay for refreshments.
Mallory McCue, a Business graduate with a Writing minor, reflected on the experience: “The poetry reading was a big stretch for me. But after going through the semester with our class and growing more as a writer, I knew it would be nothing but fun.”
Humanities Letters senior Devan Neal added, “The poetry reading meant a lot to me because my stories resided outside of my own head for the first time.”
Mr. Kolwinska spoke for both students and guests when he said, “It was a great experience for everyone.”
Scroll down to read some of these original poems from Mr. Kolwinska’s 2017 Creative Writing class.
Leah Marema, English Senior
Examination Exploitation
Oh the frustration
And the mental dilapidation
When the administration
That promotes my education
Provides pointless information,
Expects perfect application,
And genius interpretation,
With no consideration
For the dire combination
Of my lack of preparation,
My severe procrastination,
And the untimely limitation
Of my lagging imagination
Amid the long duration
Of each examination.
Rachel Mayes, English Education Senior
Bridges
I’ve been trying to build poems like they’re towers.
I choose my words like bricks and heap them high:
words
on
words
on words.
I stack them tall till they tickle the great blue belly of the sky
and, climbing, cling to the spire. I’m hoping
the city will see
me
from there.
But here on this high-rise made
entirely
of my own lofty ambition,
I look
down.
From here, I can’t see
faces;
I can’t read the passersby.
Their stories would be open books if we were
eye-to-eye.
Without their words,
what good are mine?
I don’t need
a line to stand on,
but a cable that can hold its own.
Let each word
suspend
this hope:
No man is an island;
no one is alone.
So it’s time to return to my table
and draft
something new:
I must learn to write bridges.
Poetry means making; let me build
structures to span
the desolate sea. Let them stand strong, their pillars
deep.
I do not need
some tower to lift me; I need
a bridge that will link me
to you
so I can cross, come closer, and whisper
a poem,
line
upon line.
Ellie Loftus, English Education Senior
To Show Himself Strong
2 Chronicles 16:9a “For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to shew himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward him.”
Smoke drifts lazily into the air
Escaping the charred rubble below.
Tear filled eyes can only stare.
Could flame overcome ten feet of snow?
Why did God destroy the home where I belong?
To show Himself strong!
Sometimes God destroys to make new
Creating beauty His character to reflect.
God’s eyes search the earth to
Find those who hearts are perfect
Why did God allow the flames to rage so long?
To show Himself strong!
I can’t withstand the weight of my loss.
From the ashes and dust
God started this fire to purge me of dross,
And teach me “Child, only trust.”
Though in human eyes flames look wrong,
God ignites each fire, to show Himself strong!
Isaiah Kazarovich, English Senior
The Secret of the Glens
The trees were storytellers once—
Those aged wooden sages grew
In sunlit glens to whisper all
The hidden verses no one knew.
They told of history’s mysteries:
The Word that sprung them from the ground.
They groaned beneath the painful weight
Of secret secrets they had found.
Some trees had darker stories in
The center circles of their boughs.
And others carried nothing more
Than happy tales for children’s brows.
The world would come to hear them groan,
The elders came to memorize,
The men wanted to hear of gold,
And king’s enquired for advice.
But soon the trade of story-lore
Became a game of taking more
And taking turned to felling,
And axes struck the bark
And ripping, shredding, metal tore
Into those servants of the lore.
And wood became another trade
Far removed from telling games.
Now enslaved as carver tools,
And endless sufferers of the flame.
The time of tales had all been lost,
And trees refused to speak again.
Until one child became a man,
And he recalled those sunlit glens.
He took the trees and made them leaves,
And crushed some stones into a jar.
He took his makeshift ink and wrote
The stories he had heard so far.
And from those trees of ancient seed
The man had made a scroll to read.
The pages of all books and songs
They bare the secrets of the glens
And if not for the felling day,
We’d have no use for pens.