Julie Dela Cruz hasn’t always been writing poetry.

“”I only recently added that major, the creative writing major,”” Dela Cruz said. “”I didn’t think I was a poetry writer until I took classes my junior year.””

In fact, the psychology and creative writing senior still hardly considers herself a poet. She only took creative writing classes in the first place because they’d help her graduate.

“”It was a required thing,”” Dela Cruz said. “”I didn’t realize how poetic I guess my writing was.””

This realization led her to explore the world of poetry. She recently entered and won the Fall 2008 Hattie Lockett Award at the Poetry Center for her poem, “”You’re a Quiet Piss in the Morning.””

Beginning with life as her inspiration, Dela Cruz uses imagery, sounds and rhythm in her poetry to create something more than just a good read.

“”It’s more of an experience thing, rather than just reading something,”” she said.

Dela Cruz said she thinks poetry should allow the reader to leave this world and step into another.

“”Personally, I think it opens your eyes to other perspectives,”” Dela Cruz said.

So, open your eyes, step out of your world and let the experience begin…

“”You’re a Quiet Piss in the Morning””
by Julie Dela Cruz
Had you over the other night and again we went for quick walks
through streets like open mouths and Tuesday nights, orange drippy
ash from the lighted ends, menthol-sweet puckered lungs. How about
we call Francis in the morning? A sissy? We’ll talk about screen doors and
ornamental metal frames of Neo-Rus and cut away to yesterday
and feeling, swallowing ice that tasted like dirt, like that summer,
Orion.
Orion.
Once I read that to smoke was evil and I left to smoke in the inherent
grooves of your fingertips, guitar strings don’t dance there anymore.
Once, I read that to take was evil and I left to take. A moaning recession
followed us into the bathroom and we watched as their feet gathered round.
Once, I read that sex was evil and I left to read mailboxes, numbered
and filled with quacks and hard-boiled love letters addressed to:
Orion.
Orion?
What else are we here for? You pressed your back into 32nd Street and
pointed to your namesake, damned to the night. And after we threw
naked fits, we sunk like deflating accordions, too sharp for their own good,
playing a parched Mahler melody. The empty-handed morning shook
our quiet soles as we slipped our feet, expunging the epicenter of affection,
into tomorrow’s debriefings of what I thought we had, what I never will
with you,
Orion.