SupaStudy
04-02-2009, 06:07 PM
Hello everyone,
I'm a highschool student who has been going through the works of some American poets and trying to get a feel for the writing. I know each person's style is unique to themselves, but I've enjoyed "trying on" each poets style and learning (or at least attempting to learn) the viewpoint through which they saw the world.
Right now I've taken a stab at Dickinson's works, and I wrote a poem based on how I felt after reading her piece "A shady friend for torrid days." Id really appreciate any input as to whether this feels like Dickinson or not. I understand I may have completely missed the mark, and if so i can take criticism. Thank you :)
“A Maiden’s Musings”
What shame it is to waste away
At fiendish fulfilling fingers
When what is needed is caressed by one
With a tickling mind that lingers
With buoyancy comes baffled brains
Of in my presence would hide
When shadowed by a fruitful bust
Who belittle that which is I
A fickle god, a fortuneless witch
Or mother’s image that humbles
Alas my countenance it seems
In crowds will only mumble
I'm a highschool student who has been going through the works of some American poets and trying to get a feel for the writing. I know each person's style is unique to themselves, but I've enjoyed "trying on" each poets style and learning (or at least attempting to learn) the viewpoint through which they saw the world.
Right now I've taken a stab at Dickinson's works, and I wrote a poem based on how I felt after reading her piece "A shady friend for torrid days." Id really appreciate any input as to whether this feels like Dickinson or not. I understand I may have completely missed the mark, and if so i can take criticism. Thank you :)
“A Maiden’s Musings”
What shame it is to waste away
At fiendish fulfilling fingers
When what is needed is caressed by one
With a tickling mind that lingers
With buoyancy comes baffled brains
Of in my presence would hide
When shadowed by a fruitful bust
Who belittle that which is I
A fickle god, a fortuneless witch
Or mother’s image that humbles
Alas my countenance it seems
In crowds will only mumble