One of my favorite poems of the semester was William Wordsworth’s poem “The Complaint of a Foresaken Indian Woman”. I sympathized with the tragic situation that was at hand for the speaker of the poem, and I could not imagine the amount of grief, nor do I wish to know. The forsaken “Indian Woman” is dealing with her probable death, and in her hour of death she is lamenting leaving her child. However, the diction of “complaint” in modern language sounds as if the woman is overreacting, and simply complaining. I’m sure that because of the change in connotation of words, maybe it wasn’t originally intended to sound insignificant. Nevertheless, I was inspired to write an actual complaint about a situation that isn’t nearly as tragic, or tragic at all.
My poem is about party culture within colleges. Often times, some of the smartest people on paper are the dumbest when it comes to self-preservation. I’ve tried to write about a funny/light hearted situation that turns into self analyzation for the speaker. I could think of several ways to turn this poem into a tragic occurrence, but instead I want to just focus on a good time (unlike Wordsworth’s poem that is very serious and sad), and how hyperbolic people are.
I emulated the form of the original poem, following the same end rhyme sheme. However for the last two stanzas I changed the rhyme scheme in order to give it my own personal style.
I also wanted to satirize Wordsworth’s poem because I think that often times in the middle of our lives and our privilege, we fail to remember that we are fortunate enough to have fun/leisure. This can apply to a modern audience because everyone within the classroom has probably encountered guilt over living comfortable lives while others suffer terribly. During the aftermath of the election I was especially bitter towards everyone having fun even when a fascist was in office or when people I knew weren’t talking about what was going on. Although, I’m still mad, I understand that there is a lot to be done, but I can’t blame some people for having fun…including myself. I also garnered inspiration from a new show I’ve started on Netflix called Dear White People. The show is essentially about Black Students at a prestigious university that still navigate towards racism within the campus. One of the characters in particular, is named Reggie and he deals with guilty feelings that he’s not doing enough for the cause because his father was black panther, and he wants to live up to the standard even when he is just having fun and being young. I hope my poem isn’t read in the way that it sounds as if I am not taking the actual misery of the mother seriously, or the pain of others who are going through actual misery.
The Complaint of a Forsaken College Student
[When a Drunken College Student, from pure intoxication, is unable to continue their party night with their fellow idiotic friends; they are left on their couch, supplied with a water bottle and dreams of redeeming what is left of their dignity. The unfortunate fool is left with an idea of how they accidentally spilled their drink all over a freshman, so it is, after all, forgivable. There is hope that they will regain their strengths, and shot gun just one more beer. Highly unlikely though, most of these people are left to wake up with a major hangover on Sunday, or as the ancestors named it ‘Homework Day’. Hopeless and docile, they think: this is totally like that poem by Wordsworth. It is not.]
Before I see another angry text about how I am usually wrong,
Let me play just one more round of beer pong!
In my drunker hour I heard the loud screams;
The red and blue lights still in my dreams,
Wait… who drinks this much? How’d I survive,
They wont tell me,
Yeah I’m definitely still alive,
I have to pee,
Before I hear another badly remixed song;
Let me have some water, I haven’t had some in so long!
My liver is probably not okay; it knew no bright day,
Yet it’s sort of okay, Guys, I’m on my way,
Full of watered down alcohol, the cups still lie;
And they have been abandoned, as will I,
When I was sober, I wished to not do this to myself every week;
But that was a distant time, before I had a drink,
Maybe it isn’t the alcohol that tastes so bleak,
I ignore the negative thoughts and instead hear cups clink,
I’m dizzy and there is more fun to claim than to feel;
My parent help me pay for school, for what?, for me to be a misdeal:
On a couch I lie;
In a room full of people laughing, while others in the world die
Alas! It was my friends who dragged me here;
With promises of another fun night like those I used to hold dear,
It’s too soon for me to be bitter,
So I go on the dance floor as I am not a quitter,
I watch the room move in slow motion as I trip and fall on the floor,
Oh hey Denise!
My drink is no more,
I wish I could make peace,
Still dizzy I sit;
Why am I still lit?
My bottle! Who gave it to another,
Another who didn’t go through the work of sneaking it out of a party of another,
When from the couch they took my sweet bottle;
It was probably that guy in my class about Aristotle!
I want to go home, my little bottle is gone,
I’m no longer having fun;
I search for a friend,
I feel as if I have been stolen too, by the end
My father fought for our rights;
And all I do, is party and waste my nights