English Writing students in Shane and Eisten's classes have been challenged at length to examine their ideas around writing. As well as exploring, evaluating poetry by 20th Century poets, students were required to write their own two pieces this term as part of their assessment.

The first piece of poetry explored was an "atmosphere" piece in which students were to observe an environment close to them and write a poem. The second piece was "ekphrastic" poetry for which students chose an artwork upon which they would base their poem, which could be entirely imaginative.

Students have been exploring the use of creative language and poetic devices to enhance their work as well as focusing on finer elements like punctuation and cadence to add depth and meaning to their pieces. 

Here are student, Charlotte Woods', reflections about the course: 

Personally, I hadn’t read or studied much poetry before starting this course, so I found that looking at others' work was a huge help in shaping my own work. I tried to read a variety of different poets with different styles to expand my knowledge, and I found it really interesting how different people’s minds work around their use of language in poetry.

This course has pushed me to think outside the square through the subject matter in which we have been required to write our poems. Personally, I would not choose a painting or space I like to write a poem on, but I have surprisingly enjoyed doing it.

I have particularly enjoyed the feedback I have received from Shane and Eisten throughout this term as it has given me a better view on the style of my work. I also really enjoyed writing the reading journals on different poets as I was able to express my own opinion, rather than studying someone else’s.

The most challenging part of this course was pushing myself to modify my thinking around the criticism I have received on my work, as well as the ideas I have acquired from reading other poems. I think the most confronting part of the course was sharing my poem with the class for feedback, but I did find it very beneficial.

Student Work

Inside Art

Weaving through archways,

my eyes devour everything they see.

Wooden frames flaunt

colours and textures.

Inscribed steel plaques

guide me along the hall.

I pause,

a single glance;

this piece,

I cannot seem to move by.

A fine lined,

sweet chestnut yacht,

surrounded by lapping water.

Chimneys mark the sky,

peeking above homes.

A delicate woman

with porcelain skin

peers out.

High in her home,

she admires this world.

The slight of her gaze,

enchants me.

It fills me with desire,

looking upon them;

these fortunate people,

their blissful existence

inside art.

A wilted breeze

strokes my face,

the faint scent of chimney smoke swirling

details in the sky,

time begins to slow.

Ink bleeds from the paper,

staining the walls.

Escher’s illusion

clouds my vision.

I dive in,

and glide amongst my fantasy:

heavy velvet curtains

framing windowpanes,

life’s reflections

decorate the bay,

and market holders sing out

to those who saunter by.

I cannot be drawn from

this untarnished scene before me.

How has this artist’s mind

precisely read mine?

I find my place,

above the graceful woman:

savouring this life below

from my shaded corner…

-Charlotte Woods

Greenhouse 

A scaffold of shelving

lined with soiled clay pots

on grey concrete,

paving a lush city.

The sun rises:

an endless atom bomb.

Trowels and gloves

hang waiting for tasks,

and empty pots

cup the warmth of soupy air.

Each neat-potted sapling grasps

at waves of mottled light

stretching upward,

racing one another

for a front row seat

of the sun's parade.

In sweet ignorance,

maples thrive

and weeping pines flourish

like silent fireworks.

Together they rise

in their smothering sanctuary,

as a neglectful sun

leaves with its light.

-Dominic Rose

Outside the Morning Routine

Dew on the grass,

mercury droplets

caught in slanting light.

Above, the old gum towers,

its trunk overalled in shade.

A breeze rustles by,

leaves bristling at the air;

they glint boldly, bathed

in trickling light.

Below, that branch sways,

freakishly suspended,

a deformed arm

grasping at dead space.

Its shadow looms over leaf-litter,

flayed bark piles

teeming with beetles.

From the house, now squat and ordinary,

a sharp rattling whirl

startles the nearby lapwings,

the din of grinding coffee.

 -Fabian Spratt