ENGL 3520 Writing Poetry
Fall 2021, These are my poems from my first poetry workshop at the University of Utah. I've used the skills that I've learned in this class to revise this collection of poems, and now I present the finished bunch. The poetic voices of the great writers we read, my peers, and my instructor now guide my writing future, and I am so grateful!
The Beauty of Iztaccihuatl
Buttery clouds collide with the rigid terrain
of a warrior’s scarred back,
and as hoarse winds howl, his cries
become whispers - faded by the laughter of children.
The children race the clouds to the summit,
longing to be swallowed by Earth’s white comfort,
they plan to ride the beastly clouds into battle.
Popocatepetl, once dormant now weeps.
A sticky ash turns his once bright snow tops into tar.
In tribute to his lover, his ice freezes clear
to create mirrors in each of the Earth’s crevices,
displaying his neighboring beauty, Iztaccihuatl.
As the children attempt to rein the soft gray fog,
his summit reveals, to them, her spellbinding beauty.
Once a daughter to an Aztecan chief,
she is now nothing but a silhouette that lays silent,
shaped by a thin shroud of snow.
Ripples in the mountain mimic her once lively
curls, and white trees line the hills of her breasts
and curve through the valley of her navel.
The children watch her through the vapor
of their breath, hoping not to blink in case she moves.
But she will never move - killed by sorrow and grief,
she was deceived by envious suitors
to believe that Popocatepetl was slain in battle,
his honorary blood made war paint.
The truth was, her lover lived - fighting for her hand.
And so he carried his fallen lover, his embrace soft as
the feathers he wore, and as careful as she had ever loved him.
The children make their descent, their worn shoes
nearly sliding across the slick ice, his frozen tears.
They watch silent snakes glide through the yellow grass
as they climb carefully down the back of the warrior.
At the bottom, they watch the volcano slowly vanish behind
the grey velvet clouds that swell with his heartache.
Forever mourning, Popocatepetl often wakes and rumbles
remembering his one love, Iztaccihuatl.
By Natalia Martinez
They Ran Out Of Schmear At The Local Bagel Shop
They ran out of schmear at the local bagel shop when the man ahead of me
ordered a mountain of it on his poppyseed slice.
He held the greasy prize like a rosary and prayed it would not fall.
But the longer he walked, the taller it grew. Squirrels ran up the sticky sides,
and sand in the wind made the onion spread grainy.
Pedestrians who weren’t paying attention walked straight up it and pulled
at their jackets when they reached the summit, where the texture of the top half of the bagel
was like a too-hard pear, and the air became brittle.
So I asked for my bagel toasted, I figured there was plenty of schmear in the clouds to share.
The cook behind the counter scrubbed the shiny dough with his calloused
fingers and punched three magic beans into it,
which he had stored underneath his sour tongue.
His fingers moved fast as he hole-punched my bread and threw it
into the purple flames of the tall, starving oven.
The Schmear Man was halfway up the hill by then. A town had been started
in the mountain he carried, and children skied
across icy peaks of caramelized cream cheese.
The champagne sky bubbled as the substance climbed to the pale moon.
And when the peak reached the stars,
no brave advocate volunteered to knock on the Moon Man’s glass door.
I reached in my back pocket for some change and handed the cook three
fresh leeks and a handful of crumpled tea bags. He huffed disappointedly,
and as he handed me my breakfast, it began to sprout.
I ran out the door to catch up with the Schmear Man, hoping he’d let me ask the Moon
Man my questions. But he would not listen, nor slow down.
The longer he walked, the skinnier he got. His ribs could be played like a xylophone,
and his face could be worn as a thin mask. I begged him
to stop but he could not hear me.
The bagel in my hand rumbled and leaped courageously in front of the Schmear Man.
The sprout was squished by his iron boots, and a grassy smell
leaked from the ground. Thick weeds broke through the dirt below us
and a waterfall of green flowed up, parallel to the man’s mountain.
I closed my eyes and reached for the leafy spine of the growing beast.
Its stringy arms grabbed me first and lifted me up into the sky.
I waved at families having picnics in the spread and
bared my teeth at cave dwellers in its divots.
I curled up in the blades as the air became cool, and watched the moon grow closer.
Through the moon’s back window, a man with the face of a frog
watched me. He turned quickly, stepped into some slippers, and opened the door.
The thick blades of grass left me gently at the Moon Man’s feet.
The frog-faced man was wearing a red fleece robe.
He greeted me warmly and invited me in.
I’ve known what I wanted to ask him my whole life, but the smell
of onions in the atmosphere evoked a greater question.
His answer was simple, and he churned a large jug of ice melt.
He gestured for me to open the double doors,
and pour his concoction onto the buttery mountain.
The ice turned to slush and the slush turned to rain,
and soon the whole mountain had turned into a thunderstorm,
raining down families and their pets.
The Schmear Man’s weight had been lifted,
and he finally slowed his feet to a steady stop.
He looked up at the sky and cried out to the Moon Man.
Freed, he watched people settle into town, doubling the population.
He opened his mouth and let the cream cheese rain mingle with his tastebuds.
It was then, that the Schmear Man was finally full.
By Natalia Martinez
Blanket
I always keep my blanket over my toes
Cover my belly, cover my nose
Tuck my ankles, tuck my knees
None of me shows, not even one piece
My blanket shields me
From all of the monsters running free
With this blanket, I have no fear
Because nothing evil can get in here
No vamperites, nothing that bites
Not even baby whistlermites
When boxbats arrive, I don’t even hide
When glide hounds tower, I never cower
When wereslugs attack, I just sit back
All these monsters in my room
but in my sheets I am immune
Every monster small and large
Knows that here, I’m in charge
I dare you, come give it a try
All those who crawl and those who fly
You sneaky beasts, you terrible ghouls
You rusty dusty howlermules
Try your best, please go ahead
But I’ve got blankets on my...
Wait! What’s this? My mattress is bare
No sheets, no blankets anywhere!
Laundry day...was that tonight?
It’s laundry day! Forget the invite
It’s pretty late, better be on your way
I know how much you wanted to stay
But go back to your dens
Crawl back to your grotto
Leave tonight, but come back tomorrow!
By Natalia Martinez
Your Market
The first time I saw your smile, it pulled me by the sleeve into a crowded market, where the muddied floors were slick, the rain drops reflected the sky onto a hundred bouquets of tulips. The flowers harbored enough color to saturate every gray corner of the world that day. The wind was weaving the sweet floral fragrance in and out of shops. And there you stood, arranging a rainbow of fruit. You made it look so easy, creating structures from plums and pears, like an artist chiseling at marble, cautious yet experienced. Your lips, soft as the seasonal persimmons piled high in the winter market, moved slow and certain when you spoke.
Today, your eyes are my favorite hangout place. I fall into them the way pyramids of fruit are destined to fall, suddenly and irreversibly. I watch the tumbling honeydew, wondering if they will bruise the way green apples do - creating pockets of honey under dark green imperfections. But your green eyes could never hold imperfections. They glow like the soft reflections of a market sign at night. In them sit street performers playing songs for themselves as the crowds disappear. And when you blink, the rain stops. The puddles glisten as they settle into your gaze.
Perhaps we will meet by the oranges, where the sticky perfume of the fruit makes the air taste sweet. Or by the tender cherries, the ones that paint my lips red with juice. Market lover, I want to know you. Like a vendor’s regular, I want to see your face light up when I walk into the room. I want us to wander your storefront, to admire the mellow rain and dance through the crowds. One day, I’ll take your hand from behind the counter and together, we will smell the flowers and taste the candied persimmons. But for now, I only hope to pass by you again tomorrow.
By Natalia Martinez
Ode to Grief
You grew a forest around me,
watered it when I cried
and nurtured it while I slept
until I woke up one day
tangled in your growing vines.
Here in your jungle, moss
forms around my waist,
dense and soothing,
it mimics the soft embrace
of those I’ll never see again.
So I sleep away under the shield
of your lush, forgiving leaves.
A blanket under your canopy
where you’re quick to drown out
the sun with evergreen trees.
Here, cicadas lull me to sleep
and I wake covered in crawling
tendrils and fallen leaves.
A veil of flowers covers my eyes,
born from the night’s lonely tears.
You say the sun will blind me
but Grief, we both know,
that the darkness blinds me too.
By Natalia Martinez
Delano Grapes
“The fight is never about grapes or lettuce. It is always about people.” - Cesar Chavez
The year is 1965, and
before America sits a table.
On this table, bunches of tempting grapes
glisten in boiling blood,
they now dictate the future
of the American farmworker.
Outside of markets during the day,
on TV at night,
protesters march around the table
carrying signs as tattered
as a bracero’s shoes, to repeat their
message - a humble yet crucial plea:
“Don’t eat the grape to save a people”.
The table teeters as America
continues to poke and prod the grapes
that imprison the growers.
Many drink the enemy wine,
not out of thirst, no, but out of hatred
for the immigrant workers.
Delano wine, part blood part sweat,
lines the shelves of every busy liquor store.
How evil of the wine to be so sweet,
so amnesic, so tempting to those who don’t know
of the grower’s fields, where threats are
as common as injuries and
saying the word ‘huelga’ could kill you.
The year was 1965,
and thousands of farmworkers
put their lives out on picket lines,
entrusting strangers,
with the hope that people would
think twice before buying the forbidden
and fate-sealing grapes.
With the hope that Delano growers,
their buyers, and the world,
would have the power to
ignore the table of bloody grapes.
By Natalia Martinez
Facing The Fear
Will I fail if I venture into what I fear?
Or will courage catch me when I cower –
Is it true, only the dauntless persevere?
In a crowd, my doubts tend to reappear.
Like monsters, their growls grow louder-
In a sea of people, I fail to face my own fears.
Yet alone, this jungle behind my eyes will never clear.
Weeds of worry grow stronger by the hour.
I wish I were dauntless – then I could persevere.
Perhaps salvation is closer than it appears.
In a crowd, I have a sense of purpose, of power.
Surrounded, I'm forced to jump into what I fear.
My heart races, I just want to disappear.
Could what scares me, the uncertain and unfamiliar, empower?
Hiding is not for the dauntless. Alone, no one can persevere.
Today, I’ll choose courage, I’ll wipe away my tears.
In the belly of this beast, I choose not cower.
To grow stronger, I must first face what I fear.
I may not be dauntless, but I will persevere.
By Natalia Martinez
Major Decisions
Picture a place with two monarchs at war.
The first is bright, quick, and precise
always confident, always eager to explore.
The next is crypic, using words to entice
always inventive, always formal by design.
One rules by sunshine, one by moonlight
But neither monarch can be confined.
Soldiers range over the day, protecting their terrain.
They guard the perimeter where day and night converge,
No rational enemy dares enter their radical domain
The night consists of riddles and rhymes.
Here, enemies succumb to a different kind of conflict,
Soldiers guard the premises, they watch the skyline.
Alive, both claw inside my mind, their realm.
Dreamer and thinker - but only one can thrive.
Here I’m told only one can survive.
My love for symbolism or symbols?
Study diction or learn how to derive?
Are there multivariable metaphors?
Forget the line, I’ll walk between them both,
create a new place and open up the gates.
Theories and thoughts together,
day and night as I’d hoped,
but your questions still ask - what is it I’ll create?
With this love for literature and the theoretic...
I only worry now, that my proofs will be poetic!
By Natalia Martinez
Ask A Poet
Don’t ask a meteorologist about the wind.
They’ll sigh a few words about pressure, and breeze
through scattered pages of information.
They’ll flaunt a Ph.D when you ask about degrees.
Ask a poet
and they’ll tell you that when angels whistle
love songs, their soft breath travels to Earth.
A poet will tell you that the winds only whisper
when great-grandmothers smile
and roar loudest when lonely children cry.
Don’t ask a mathematician about infinity.
They’re bound to bore with talk of limits,
(as if a place so bold could have any)
but they’ll claim that it’s no number nor place.
They don’t know
infinity is a number of places.
And never ask a biologist about love.
They synthesize connections into love and lust.
They’ll try to dissect stolen glances,
insisting it’s instinct that pulls us like string.
But I know,
that love can only be defined by a poet.
By Natalia Martinez