I workshopped my friend's poem the other day. One of his lines:
"And a woman could cry into the ocean,/ the waves rocking a boat the way she breathed."
Kid's got game.
I had my collection of fable/prose poems workshopped yesterday. They involved deserts and utopias and Gaudi and ghost towns and loving and geese and Juan Ponce De Leon. My classmates weren't too thrilled about them and gave really vague advice. But my teacher freaked out and said that I was the only writer doing real art. Shakira Shakira.
Then she compared my poems to a "beautiful cedar chest filled with peas", and I was lost all over again.
I'm working on video project for my English class.
So far it's pretty rough