creative writing portfolio
Some of you may already know this, but I really love to write poetry and short stories. I'm actually an English major with an emphasis in creative writing, so I would eventually like to take all of this nonsense I have going on up in my head and turn it in to a possible career.
Last semester I took an Intro to Creative Writing course up here at Texas State University. Part of the course load included two portfolios which could consist of either four poems or one short story. Playing it safe, since I'm more familiar with poetry, I submitted the three poems below (Along with a fourth one, but you know when you write something and then you go back and reread it and you're like "lmao what the hell is this?" yeah that's how I felt about that one so I chose to not include it)
Hope you like 'em, and if you don't then...that's cool too.
The Lovers
(Inspired by the painting above which is, shockingly, titled: "The Lovers")
They are cloaked
in the wrinkled sheets
of their own facade.
A veil to conceal
what lies beneath
the sheet,
the skin.
There is a valley
where their noses meet.
A creased river
ends
in mouths agape in desire.
Crumpled against each other,
their own pretenses
proving once again
to be the only
barrier
between them.
-E.Schulte
Dirty Laundry
the white linen Sheet
draped around your Shoulders
is Such a
Sweet Sight
for Surrender.
you Sit among
a wrinkled mass
of Soiled clothes
white collared Shirts
Smeared in red wine
you Bear your Stains
the way
Sinners
Bear
their Soul
in reconciliation
in Silence
you Baptize them in
Bleach
and I
Breathe
"Amen."
-E. Schulte
(Disclaimer: I understand that the capitalization is wildin' out in this poem. No, I am not an idiot ((well at least not because of this)) all things are done with reason) ((Also, if you're looking at Bear and wondering if it should be Bare, I thought the same thing but that's actually the right spelling))
My Father's Hands
I know
a man
with a map of rivers
on his palms
spilling out the channel of veins
in his wrist.
A man
with callous and blistered fingertips
like weathered down stone.
Who possesses a small gold mine
on his left hand,
and whose rounded knuckles
bend into hillsides.
Who has held
my hand
in the valley of his fingers,
and wears the sun
on the backs of his hands;
a creased wrinkle
for every trip around the sun.
I know
a man
steady and warm with life,
who has
The World
in his hands.
-E.Schulte
If you took the time to read my work, I really want to thank you. It means more to me than you know. I know you might not understand completely what I'm saying all the time (I mean honestly who does though?), but isn't that the beauty of poetry? It doesn't have to be taken literally and you may interpret my words in an entirely different way.
(Spoiler alert: the dirty laundry isn't actual dirty laundry)
