Most of my poems are highly personal. That's one of the primary reasons why I refuse to publish. I do record all my poems in books for my mom. Her wish is that if I preceed her in death to try to publish them then. She sees me as the next Emily Dickinson.

I do have one poem that was kind of fun to do. It was my first sestina written for a poetry writing class. My professor enjoyed it so much that she pushed me to publish it, which I did not do. It's a little bit tongue in cheek with themes of crime within it. Not my best by far, lol. A sestina has 6 words selected before the poem is written. These words have to be used in a certain varying order from stanza to stanza. They can be tricky for some but I've always enjoyed them because they tend to open up concepts by their repetition. The preselected words were given by my professor and are the following: book, fog, jump, downtown, circle, motion. You'll see these words repeat again and again. That's a sestina.

The Jump of the Arachnid
(A Sestina of Phobia)

The arachnid died with the swatting of the book.
As my brain filled with an impenetrable fog,
my hand trembled, leary of the jump
of the arachnid, a legend known to those downtown,
whispered amongst those in a selected circle--
that insidious danger of the spider in motion.

Stealthy, quick!--The spider in motion
whose life was crushed by the weight of the book.
Its body spread out in a flat, gooey circle,
black as shadow and insides the color of the fog
that settles in the sky at night in downtown.
No longer to crouch, to spring, to jump!

Thwarted, it was, from its hideous jump,
which occurs in the very quickest of motions.
Its prey are those living downtown,
who can only protect themselves with newspaper, a broom, a book.
It stalks in daylight, at night, in the fog
creeping above, behind, in a circle.

Its razor teeth bite leaving a red painful circle
after it captures its prey, after its legendary jump,
while outside the night turns white with fog
in a seductive yet sinister motion.
The kind of night you may have read about in a book
where the ripper stalks the ladies in the streets of downtown.

Unaware, are they, the people of downtown
of the danger that dares to encircle
them when they sit alone, read a book,
listen to music, think about a bridge to jump
off of saying goodbye, in one quick motion,
to the world, the city, the people, the fog.

The city, which buries itself with fog
that chills yet blankets the heart of downtown
slowing its inhabitants in their incessant motion.
Home to work to home in a constant circle
Never contemplating the arachnids about to jump,
unprotected: no newspaper, broom or book.

So, remember as you walk in the fog about your circle
on the streets of downtown, the arachnids and their jump
of poison in motion and swat with a good, heavy book. (c)

Stephanie


In every man there is something wherein I may learn of him, and in that I am his pupil.--Ralph Waldo Emerson