"A poem begins with delight and ends with wisdom"

Hello beauties I'm Bryanna J and you just happen to be on my poetry page. Well I am not skilled poet, but I enjoy telling a good story. Throughout this unit I was able to take my storytelling and merge it with poetry (which is much easier than it sounds). I'm not going to say all of that cliché poetry stuff about how it's a "great way to express my emotions" because we express how we feel in every little thing we do. Poetry allows untouched thoughts to manifest themselves in ways that captivate the mind, that's at least how I feel about poetry. Below I have a played with a few different styles to see which one I liked the most ,and I must say abstract is my favorite. I also tested repetitive, abstract and a few more.You are now entering a part of my mind that I barely interact with, but you my friend have a special opportunity to see what goes on in there. ✌ ✌


Little hips swish as her fate crashed into a hoop
While holding back her fingertips as it collided into her tiny hands.
Leaving behind crimson nails.

Cotton, hugged unfortunate areas creating space
In which time will fill
But the hoop,
Taking away a bit of her existence at a flick
determining her.

She Watched, silently hoping for a flood to carry them inside
But the hoop wouldn't let her go.
with its unbreakable grip, he forced her to stay

Womb (Riff poem first two lines are stolen):
I see my beauty In You.
Trying to feel the vastness of our true identities
I Feel It
continuously stretch for the surface in undesirable proportions
I saw my beauty in you

The see-saw that once teeter tottered on your chest has broken
So he placed his hands in places god himself has never been
Trying to aid the deadly breathes
But I pushed, you pulled
I cried, you bled

Why didn't you prepare yourself
I was waiting, we were waiting
I saw heaven in you heart beat
finding its way back to the modern world was its goal,
But along the way the teeter totter could no longer measure its immense imbalance.
Leaving the modern world and the heaven were they lay
One blanketing the other inorder to keep things like this from happening
Holding the blessing of life in its arms,
I lost you

Ode to my bracelets: Armor
Intricately aligned in a row in order of seniority
Rusty brass metals
to fading petals
to the wood of a that old tree
I love these dusty things

Trying to rearrange themselves
They imprint,
deep creases into my skin reminding me of how long its been since i last took them of.
Leavng behind there skeletal impressions, they try
to take away a piece of me when ever I leave them behind
and they do

I don't sleep with them because they wouldn't be comfortable.
for a person who sleeps on their arms
I don't shower in them either because
then they would be in the way
When I shower I put them on a pedestal above my cable box so they can sunbathe
because they can't withstand the harsh water pressure spouting from the shower head
What makes my flowers better than the real thing is that mines don't wither as the days pass
They become apart of me


I Was Raised By...

I was raised by
Hot combs warming on the stove
While the chicken fried on the burner next to it
Just for me packages torn open
for the scalp burning concoction inside
"Lets go i ain't got all day to be diggin' in yo head" kinda folk

I was raised by
unraveled VHC tapes
Stacked so high that heavy foot steps would knock them over
Shoving them it into the VCR backwards because i didn't want to rewind it.
And when I did Barney backwards look like an exorcism

I was raised by
pink tights and soft slippers
ballet bars to high to reach and legs to short to stretch
Grand Jétes to low to be grand and
hair to short and nappy to be swept into a bun

I was raised by
Southern accents too thick to be deciphered
Grand parents to young to act their age
Aunts to stylish to miss a sale
and uncles to handy to be sitting on their asses all day

I was raised by
a dream
to big to attain for a five year old
And still elusive today
my dream is to be great
but i can't because I was raised by the greatest

i hate dreams
I saw you not to long ago, in a dream
A handsome devil you were
Claiming that its been forever since a feeling such as this came over you
Then it happend
I allowed this dream to fabricate my reality.
I was told that dreams can last forever and I crossed my fingers on it.
Until one day...
I woke up and wiped my eyes
praying that I could continue my slumber
Because my slumber was the only thing keeping with you
Sitting there bewildered
piecing together the pieces of my dreaming trying to build you in my reality but it wouldn't work
Laying in bed for hours trying figure out "how could happen this to me"
Yes, "how could happen this to me"
To teary eyed to straighten up my sentences
and to upset to try, I sat there
staring at all of the piece you left behind
but one of them caught my eyes when I walked pass the mirror
It wouldn't look back at me for to long, before the only thing they thought about was you
Trying to fight back waterfalls she choked
Gasping for air it fainted, falling back into your arms
And after having this happen to it every time it looked in the mirror it realized the only way it could reach you was threw pain.

Jimmy Santiago Baca
Jimmy Santiago Baca.jpg

Jimmy Santiago Baca was born in Santa Fe County, New Mexico in 1952. At age two his parents abandoned him, soon after he then lived with his grandmother for a few years before being put into an orphanage. Later at twenty-one years of age Baca was homeless, and soon after was incarcerated for drug possession. Baca spent six and a half years in prison, three were spent in isolation, the others were spent in a area of the prison called "death row." Within those years Baca taught himself how to read and write, then he began to write poetry. With these poems he would exchange them for cigarettes with other inmates. Another inmate encourages him to submit some of his work to a magazine called Mother Jones, while interacting with the magazine Denise Levertov was able to edit his work and soon publish his first Immigrants in Our Own Land.Today Jimmy Santiago is now the author of three novels, twelve pieces of poetry, the winner of: Push Cart Prize, The American Book Award and The International Hispanic Heritage Award.
Many people like to consider Baca as "A self styled poet of the people." Which I completely agree with but this assignment does not allow me to sum up his work. Baca, in my eyes, composes a hybrid my two favorite styles abstract and imagery. In his poem As Children Know he clearly uses the two styles to open his poem "Elm branches radiate green heat, blackbirds stiffly strut across fields. Beneath bedroom wood floor, I feel earth—bread in an oven that slowly swells,simmering my Navajo blanket thread-crust." These few lines are written in a way that can only be understood if read twice, and by the third time you can vividly visualize what he is describing. I have also noticed that Baca does not use stanzas as much as other poets do, and when he does they are lengthy. Jimmy Santiago Baca is a self-proclaimed artist who deserves all of the recognition he is given.

Below is an audio recording of a poem i like call "I was raised by..."