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Poetry in the Style of Lucinda Grey

One way I teach poetry is by having students analyze the style of a poet, then attempt to write their own poems using elements of that style.  In their self-portrait work around Frida Kahlo, students studied and discussed selections from Lucinda Grey's book, Ribbon Around a Bomb, a collection of first-person person poems written as Kahlo, then worked to write their own poems using elements of Grey's style.  The results were sophisticated and professional, and students' self-assessments showed that they learned a great deal about the reasons behind poets' stylistic choices.  Many of the poems tfollow, along with some of Kahlo's paintings.  Remember - like Lucinda Grey's poems, these are written as Frida Kahlo and they reflect what the authors know about her life from her paintings and biographical information.  

Selected Poems, 2007-08    |    All 3A Poems, 2008-09    |    All 2B Poems, 2008-09    |    All 8B Poems, 2008-09     

Self-Portrait, 1940

Wrong
Garrett J

As I lay awake in bed,
I dream of Los Dias de los Muertos.
Will I be celebrated?

I think back on my life
and wonder why
so many bad things
happened to me:
the polio,
the crash,
Alejandro,
Diego.
What did I
do so wrong?

Then I remember
the good things:
the polio,
the crash,
Alejandro,
Diego.
I smile
and celebrate.

Come Diego
Atlantis L

Here I lie,
alone and agonizing,
anticipating your return
with mucho amor.

¿ Donde esta usted Diego?

My true love is
not Leon, but you.
You are the lighter
to my cigarette.
Come to me.
Diego.
Come.
 

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The Two Fridas, 1939
Julia C

A storm is on
the horizon.
I am torn into pieces
by what my lover
does to me.

Sometimes I regret
our eternal bond, and
look back to days before,
days of loyalty
without cheating
behind closed doors.
My heart has been
severed and veins
bleed onto a formal
dress.

But I am saved
by my other half.
I hold hands tightly
with her and hope
for the best.
 

On the Borderline, 1932
Katherine C

We all live in the same world,
but completely different universes.

As I sit, wait,
in this metal bed for a miracle to heal me
from the wounds of September 17th, 1925,
industry and factories hide the world
I love,
the one of that seems so far away,
where bonita plants
fill the air with extravagant smells.
These great monsters make the air turn black,
and their shrieks pierce my ears.

How lucky I once was,
to be lying there in my wooden bed,
imprisoned in beautiful Mexico.
Mexico – home –
Beautiful, organic, real.

Chained here I see the world,
while Diego, my lover,
is free to fly and notices nothing,
nothing whatsoever.
He is calm and does not see,
that our world is changing.