"Sandy"

After such a dramatic first post, I'm surprised that I'm not entirely sure what I want to reflect on here. I intended One Iris to be a place for thoughts on my present and future circumstances. But I've come to realize that before I move forward, I need to look backward, so I can better understand how I've become who I am today and where I can still grow.

I first came to own my writing in my Sophomore year of high school. As such, my Sophomore English portfolio provides a fascinating glance into some themes that I reflected on at my "writing genesis" so to speak. It's hard to believe that was only two years ago...

Since then, I have written some informal pieces, but they were not uploaded to the portfolio. As such, I'd like to share some of the pieces I've written over those last two years, and provide a little analysis as to the meaning behind them.

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“Sandy”

Cast along the Sandy shore
Driven by the winds of lore

Wrinkling,
Wrinkling,
Brown of hue
Falling
Falling
Far from new

Little leaves;
Tired Trunks;

Tiny Trikes;
Big boy bikes;


All a falling
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This was a poem I wrote during Hurricane Sandy, which crashed into Rhode Island in the fall of 2012. I was stricken by an intense melancholy when I stepped outside for the first time after the storm. A tree, once strong and stout, had fallen down and almost hit our garage. A heavy rain was drenching the piles of dead leaves and branches strewn across the driveway.

Rhode Island was not the hardest hit by Sandy either, and I knew that in other places, Sandy had wrecked homes and even killed people. Something about the way that a force as simple as wind and rain could bring such devastation stuck with me. I still feel that sense of bewilderment and melancholy whenever I hear news about natural disasters as well as world conflicts.

"Sandy" explores that horrible confusion. Ultimately, it is a poem about death. Like a hurricane, death comes randomly and without discrimination. It tosses around the principles we base our lives around, whether they are strongly rooted trees or small fragile leaves. It can happen to young and old. It is inevitable.

Looking back, this was a very depressing poem. But there's a genuine fear in it that I still recognize in myself. I haven't fully come to terms with death in its morbid simplicity. Perhaps it's not something I should be coming to terms with at my age. But I think it's something one has to acknowledge before he/she can fully understand and appreciate life. This is not to say that one's mind should rest on such thoughts. Rather it is the courage to confront them, and the strength to understand and put them to rest that is important. In that respect, I am grateful that I saved this poem. Looks like I've still got plenty to learn from myself.