Wednesday, April 30

Photo by GaborfromHungary, morguefile.com
Thoughts in a Zoo
By Countee Cullen (1903-1946)

They in their cruel traps, and we in ours,
Survey each other’s rage, and pass the hours
Commiserating each the other’s woe,
To mitigate his own pain’s fiery glow.
Man could but little proffer in exchange
Save that his cages have a larger range.
That lion with his lordly, untamed heart
Has in some man his human counterpart,
Some lofty soul in dreams and visions wrapped,
But in the stifling flesh securely trapped.
Gaunt eagle whose raw pinions stain the bars
That prison you, so men cry for the stars!
Some delve down like the mole far underground,
(Their nature is to burrow, not to bound),
Some, like the snake, with changeless slothful eye,
Stir not, but sleep and smoulder where they lie.
Who is most wretched, these caged ones, or we,
Caught in a vastness beyond our sight to see?

Source: My Soul’s High Song: The Collected Writings of Countee Cullen (Anchor Books, 1991).

On this final day of the A-Z Blogging Challenge, I share this riff on the heroic sonnet (they usually have an alternating rhyme scheme ababcdcdefefghghii, while this is aabbccddeeffgghhii) by Harlem Renaissance poet Countee Cullen. Cullen's piece is a great example of what good poetry can do. It speaks into Cullen's own historic moment, when the nation was very racially divided and injustice prevailed, yet it also has a more universal application that extends beyond it. No matter the era, we tend to put other people in particular categorical boxes, not unlike animals at the zoo, and seek to contain what we consider dangerous.

I hope this month's foray into poetry has opened your eyes to new connections, like Cullen's recognition of his own caged self in the "smoulder[ing]" eye of a zoo snake.

What surprising things have you learned from this series? 

Z: Zoo

Wednesday, April 30, 2014 Laurel Garver
Photo by GaborfromHungary, morguefile.com
Thoughts in a Zoo
By Countee Cullen (1903-1946)

They in their cruel traps, and we in ours,
Survey each other’s rage, and pass the hours
Commiserating each the other’s woe,
To mitigate his own pain’s fiery glow.
Man could but little proffer in exchange
Save that his cages have a larger range.
That lion with his lordly, untamed heart
Has in some man his human counterpart,
Some lofty soul in dreams and visions wrapped,
But in the stifling flesh securely trapped.
Gaunt eagle whose raw pinions stain the bars
That prison you, so men cry for the stars!
Some delve down like the mole far underground,
(Their nature is to burrow, not to bound),
Some, like the snake, with changeless slothful eye,
Stir not, but sleep and smoulder where they lie.
Who is most wretched, these caged ones, or we,
Caught in a vastness beyond our sight to see?

Source: My Soul’s High Song: The Collected Writings of Countee Cullen (Anchor Books, 1991).

On this final day of the A-Z Blogging Challenge, I share this riff on the heroic sonnet (they usually have an alternating rhyme scheme ababcdcdefefghghii, while this is aabbccddeeffgghhii) by Harlem Renaissance poet Countee Cullen. Cullen's piece is a great example of what good poetry can do. It speaks into Cullen's own historic moment, when the nation was very racially divided and injustice prevailed, yet it also has a more universal application that extends beyond it. No matter the era, we tend to put other people in particular categorical boxes, not unlike animals at the zoo, and seek to contain what we consider dangerous.

I hope this month's foray into poetry has opened your eyes to new connections, like Cullen's recognition of his own caged self in the "smoulder[ing]" eye of a zoo snake.

What surprising things have you learned from this series? 

Tuesday, April 29

SUGAR
by Jessica Bell

You were Yiayia.
But I called you Zacharati.
That was your name.
It meant sugar.
Photo by Max Straeten, morguefile.com

Your parents must have known
that when you aged,
you’d litter your kitchen
bench with it,
when you’d make halva,
and wipe your hands
on your fraying apron
exactly seven times a day.

I’d count.
You’d giggle.
Papou would cross himself.

Every day I’d watch
you press baked almonds
into the squishy centers
of the diamond-shaped
brown sweets.

You were granting them hearts.

And that’s when you’d bring out the sugar.
And a sieve.

And sprinkle your name all over my world.

Source: Fabric. Edmonton, AB: Vine Leaves Press, 2012. p. 22.


Childhood memories are a powerful source for poetry ideas. Bell's piece is all the sweeter (pardon the pun) because she also weaves in a sense of place and culture, using Greek words and presenting her grandparents carrying on traditions.

Bell's collection Fabric is woven though with elements of Greek language and culture. It's a wonderful read. My review is posted here. For more on this and Bell's other poetry books, novels and writing resources, see her website.



What lines or images stand out to you? What childhood memories might you tap as inspiration for your writing?

Y: Yiayia

Tuesday, April 29, 2014 Laurel Garver
SUGAR
by Jessica Bell

You were Yiayia.
But I called you Zacharati.
That was your name.
It meant sugar.
Photo by Max Straeten, morguefile.com

Your parents must have known
that when you aged,
you’d litter your kitchen
bench with it,
when you’d make halva,
and wipe your hands
on your fraying apron
exactly seven times a day.

I’d count.
You’d giggle.
Papou would cross himself.

Every day I’d watch
you press baked almonds
into the squishy centers
of the diamond-shaped
brown sweets.

You were granting them hearts.

And that’s when you’d bring out the sugar.
And a sieve.

And sprinkle your name all over my world.

Source: Fabric. Edmonton, AB: Vine Leaves Press, 2012. p. 22.


Childhood memories are a powerful source for poetry ideas. Bell's piece is all the sweeter (pardon the pun) because she also weaves in a sense of place and culture, using Greek words and presenting her grandparents carrying on traditions.

Bell's collection Fabric is woven though with elements of Greek language and culture. It's a wonderful read. My review is posted here. For more on this and Bell's other poetry books, novels and writing resources, see her website.



What lines or images stand out to you? What childhood memories might you tap as inspiration for your writing?

Monday, April 28

Kubla Khan
Or a Vision in a Dream. A Fragment

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)


Photo credit: alanmort from morguefile.com


In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
     A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw;
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.






Source: English Romantic Writers. Ed. David Perkins. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1967. 430-31.



I felt I had to throw in one of the Romantics, because they've come to define how so many conceive of poetry: strictly metered and rhymed and full of anachronistic vocabulary like damsel and thrice.



What I love about Kubla Khan is its song-like flow and dreamy quality. Coleridge himself admits this is a versification of "a vision in a dream." Now whether that dream took place during REM sleep or one of his opium benders isn't entirely clear. But clearly it does show that poetry doesn't have to be all about feelings or landscapes here and now. There's a rich tradition of exploring the mythic and fantastical in verse.



Have you ever written something inspired by a dream? If you were to write a poem about a mythical or fantasy world, which one would you choose? 









X: Xanadu









Monday, April 28, 2014


Laurel Garver






Kubla Khan



Or a Vision in a Dream. A Fragment







by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)










Photo credit: alanmort from morguefile.com








In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
     A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw;
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.






Source: English Romantic Writers. Ed. David Perkins. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1967. 430-31.



I felt I had to throw in one of the Romantics, because they've come to define how so many conceive of poetry: strictly metered and rhymed and full of anachronistic vocabulary like damsel and thrice.



What I love about Kubla Khan is its song-like flow and dreamy quality. Coleridge himself admits this is a versification of "a vision in a dream." Now whether that dream took place during REM sleep or one of his opium benders isn't entirely clear. But clearly it does show that poetry doesn't have to be all about feelings or landscapes here and now. There's a rich tradition of exploring the mythic and fantastical in verse.



Have you ever written something inspired by a dream? If you were to write a poem about a mythical or fantasy world, which one would you choose? 































            

          

          

        

Saturday, April 26


          

        








by Theodore Rothke (1908-1963)



I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.






Photo by Alvimann, morguefile.com



I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I learn by going where I have to go.



We think by feeling. What is there to know?

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.



Of those so close beside me, which are you?

God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,

And learn by going where I have to go.



Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.



Great Nature has another thing to do

To you and me, so take the lively air,

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.



This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.



Source: The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke (Doubleday, 1961)





This piece, unlike many I've presented during the A-Z challenge, is in a very rigid form. You might have noticed that beyond the strict rhyme scheme, some of the lines are repeated verbatim.



The form of Rothke's poem is a villanelle. Poets.org describes the form like this:





The highly structured villanelle is a nineteen-line poem with two repeating rhymes and two refrains. The form is made up of five tercets [three line stanzas] followed by a quatrain [four line stanza]. The first and third lines of the opening tercet are repeated alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final stanza, the refrain serves as the poem's two concluding lines.

Complicated, right? I've honestly never attempted to write one, but I can see the puzzle-like appeal of trying to compose to such a formula and somehow have it not only make sense, but also speak truth or beauty into the world. Quite a tall order.



What ideas or images strike you?








W: The Waking









Saturday, April 26, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Theodore Rothke (1908-1963)



I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.






Photo by Alvimann, morguefile.com



I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I learn by going where I have to go.



We think by feeling. What is there to know?

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.



Of those so close beside me, which are you?

God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,

And learn by going where I have to go.



Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.



Great Nature has another thing to do

To you and me, so take the lively air,

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.



This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.



Source: The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke (Doubleday, 1961)





This piece, unlike many I've presented during the A-Z challenge, is in a very rigid form. You might have noticed that beyond the strict rhyme scheme, some of the lines are repeated verbatim.



The form of Rothke's poem is a villanelle. Poets.org describes the form like this:





The highly structured villanelle is a nineteen-line poem with two repeating rhymes and two refrains. The form is made up of five tercets [three line stanzas] followed by a quatrain [four line stanza]. The first and third lines of the opening tercet are repeated alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final stanza, the refrain serves as the poem's two concluding lines.

Complicated, right? I've honestly never attempted to write one, but I can see the puzzle-like appeal of trying to compose to such a formula and somehow have it not only make sense, but also speak truth or beauty into the world. Quite a tall order.



What ideas or images strike you?






























            

          

          

        

Friday, April 25


          

        








by W. D. Snodgrass (1926-2009)





Flowers like a gangster's funeral;








Photo credit: Seemann from morguefile.com



Eyeshadow like a whore.

They all say isn't she beautiful.



She, who never wore



Lipstick or such a dress,



Never got taken out,

Was scarcely looked at, much less



Wanted or talked about;



Who, gray as a mouse, crept



The dark halls at her mother's

Or snuggled, soft, and slept



Alone in the dim bedcovers.



Today at last she holds



All eyes and a place of honor

Till the obscene red folds



Of satin close down on her.



Poulin, A. Jr., ed. Contemporary American Poetry. 4th ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985. 483-4.



Though written in fairly plain, workaday words, this piece is full of jarring juxtapositions that contrast who the recently departed woman was in life versus who she has become in death. I think this piece has a lot to say about today's glamour culture, and they way women are treated as if they matter only if they conform to certain standards of beauty. The sweet innocence of her snuggled under bedcovers jars with the final image of a red-satin lined coffin. In attempting to glamorize the deceased, they've turned her virginal innocence into a whorish spectacle.



What lines or images stand out to you?









V: Viewing the Body









Friday, April 25, 2014


Laurel Garver





by W. D. Snodgrass (1926-2009)





Flowers like a gangster's funeral;








Photo credit: Seemann from morguefile.com



Eyeshadow like a whore.

They all say isn't she beautiful.



She, who never wore



Lipstick or such a dress,



Never got taken out,

Was scarcely looked at, much less



Wanted or talked about;



Who, gray as a mouse, crept



The dark halls at her mother's

Or snuggled, soft, and slept



Alone in the dim bedcovers.



Today at last she holds



All eyes and a place of honor

Till the obscene red folds



Of satin close down on her.



Poulin, A. Jr., ed. Contemporary American Poetry. 4th ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985. 483-4.



Though written in fairly plain, workaday words, this piece is full of jarring juxtapositions that contrast who the recently departed woman was in life versus who she has become in death. I think this piece has a lot to say about today's glamour culture, and they way women are treated as if they matter only if they conform to certain standards of beauty. The sweet innocence of her snuggled under bedcovers jars with the final image of a red-satin lined coffin. In attempting to glamorize the deceased, they've turned her virginal innocence into a whorish spectacle.



What lines or images stand out to you?































            

          

          

        

Thursday, April 24


          

        








a concrete poem

by KD





This poem is proof that shape poems can be sophisticated, not simply clunky, childish strings of words fancied up using gimmicky typography. (There are plenty of examples of the latter online, however).



True confession: I don't exactly know who wrote this untitled piece and would love to give better attribution. I found it on someone's Tumblr page. I'd happily backlink the author if I could get an identity. My only clue is that this is someone from the Midwest or northern US or possibly Canada, where they use "anyways" rather than "anyway."



My favorite phrase here is "softer than the velvety chocolate inside of your vendor croissant."



What lines or images strike you?








U: Untitled (morning meeting)









Thursday, April 24, 2014


Laurel Garver





a concrete poem

by KD





This poem is proof that shape poems can be sophisticated, not simply clunky, childish strings of words fancied up using gimmicky typography. (There are plenty of examples of the latter online, however).



True confession: I don't exactly know who wrote this untitled piece and would love to give better attribution. I found it on someone's Tumblr page. I'd happily backlink the author if I could get an identity. My only clue is that this is someone from the Midwest or northern US or possibly Canada, where they use "anyways" rather than "anyway."



My favorite phrase here is "softer than the velvety chocolate inside of your vendor croissant."



What lines or images strike you?






























            

          

          

        

Wednesday, April 23


          

        








Studying poetry will make you a better writer, no matter what genre you aspire to master. Poetry uses a number of techniques that I believe are quite transferable to other kinds of writing.



Today, I'd like to share a technique to "steal" from poets--using the sound device assonance (repeated vowel sounds) to ramp up the emotion in your fiction. The thinking behind sound devices is often onomatopoetic; the sound and meaning are linked.








morguefile.com





Consider these examples. Say them aloud. How do they make you feel?



1. John groped for his coat in hopes the Tylenol bottle hadn’t dropped through the hole in his pocket.



2. Lisa worried they'd think her rude if she cooed at their cute baby, so she chewed her lip while brooding on his tiny blue shoes.



3. Wading deeper into the creek, Ross felt the coldness seep through his sneakers. Shining eyes seemed to peek through the reeds. A cheeping frog sent a shriek of fear streaking up his spine, but he ground his teeth. Must stay silent. Must not be weak.





In my first example, Can you feel John's inner ache? The repeated oh, oh, aah, ahh,make the passage seem to moan and groan on the page. The repeated O sounds (both short and long) make you verbalize John's pain response.



In my second example, Lisa's entire inner monologue does coo at the cute baby, even if she refuses to do it aloud. The repeated long U sound carries it. This is an excellent, subtle way to add layers of meaning to your character's thoughts. Characters might consciously deny something while the sounds in their words convey a deeper, hidden, unconscious desire for the denied thing.



In my third example, the creepy feeling is reinforced by a series of little shrieks, like one might hear upon having a bug scurry over bare skin: Eeek! Ross is screaming inside, even if he's being tough and silent on the outside.



Your turn:

Chose an emotion you want to convey and think of the most primal sound you associate with it, such as Os for groaning with pain, Es for screaming with fright. Write a sentence, paragraph or scene in which you repeat the sounds.



Hint: a rhyming dictionary will help you identify words with the vowel sounds you need.



How might you use this technique today to improve your writing?








T: Technique worth stealing









Wednesday, April 23, 2014


Laurel Garver





Studying poetry will make you a better writer, no matter what genre you aspire to master. Poetry uses a number of techniques that I believe are quite transferable to other kinds of writing.



Today, I'd like to share a technique to "steal" from poets--using the sound device assonance (repeated vowel sounds) to ramp up the emotion in your fiction. The thinking behind sound devices is often onomatopoetic; the sound and meaning are linked.








morguefile.com





Consider these examples. Say them aloud. How do they make you feel?



1. John groped for his coat in hopes the Tylenol bottle hadn’t dropped through the hole in his pocket.



2. Lisa worried they'd think her rude if she cooed at their cute baby, so she chewed her lip while brooding on his tiny blue shoes.



3. Wading deeper into the creek, Ross felt the coldness seep through his sneakers. Shining eyes seemed to peek through the reeds. A cheeping frog sent a shriek of fear streaking up his spine, but he ground his teeth. Must stay silent. Must not be weak.





In my first example, Can you feel John's inner ache? The repeated oh, oh, aah, ahh,make the passage seem to moan and groan on the page. The repeated O sounds (both short and long) make you verbalize John's pain response.



In my second example, Lisa's entire inner monologue does coo at the cute baby, even if she refuses to do it aloud. The repeated long U sound carries it. This is an excellent, subtle way to add layers of meaning to your character's thoughts. Characters might consciously deny something while the sounds in their words convey a deeper, hidden, unconscious desire for the denied thing.



In my third example, the creepy feeling is reinforced by a series of little shrieks, like one might hear upon having a bug scurry over bare skin: Eeek! Ross is screaming inside, even if he's being tough and silent on the outside.



Your turn:

Chose an emotion you want to convey and think of the most primal sound you associate with it, such as Os for groaning with pain, Es for screaming with fright. Write a sentence, paragraph or scene in which you repeat the sounds.



Hint: a rhyming dictionary will help you identify words with the vowel sounds you need.



How might you use this technique today to improve your writing?






























            

          

          

        

Tuesday, April 22


          

        








Spoken word poetry is meant to be experienced as a performance, heard rather than read silently. The piece I'm sharing below is a segment from a longer TED talk by spoken word poet Sarah Kay. More of her work can be found on YouTube. 



)



Absorbing a spoken word poem is a very different experience from reading it on a page. If you miss a turn of phrase, it's simply gone. You can't easily "reread" and consider your interpretation. You have to take it in, interpret on the fly, absorb what you can. I think that being a listener rather than a reader also takes away some of your sense of controlling the text. You're instead a passive recipient. You can't work for the understanding, you have to let it come to you. 



What strikes you about Kay's poem? In what ways do you find it better and worse than reading a poem silently?








S: Spoken word









Tuesday, April 22, 2014


Laurel Garver





Spoken word poetry is meant to be experienced as a performance, heard rather than read silently. The piece I'm sharing below is a segment from a longer TED talk by spoken word poet Sarah Kay. More of her work can be found on YouTube. 



)



Absorbing a spoken word poem is a very different experience from reading it on a page. If you miss a turn of phrase, it's simply gone. You can't easily "reread" and consider your interpretation. You have to take it in, interpret on the fly, absorb what you can. I think that being a listener rather than a reader also takes away some of your sense of controlling the text. You're instead a passive recipient. You can't work for the understanding, you have to let it come to you. 



What strikes you about Kay's poem? In what ways do you find it better and worse than reading a poem silently?






























            

          

          

        

Monday, April 21


          

        








By Deborah Guzzi






Photo credit: Gracey at morguefile.com





randomly I stare into

each reflective surface

forever pondering the

lines of age, pain and joy

each one a splendid testament

culled from a full life

teased endlessly, eternally

into distorted images

of the soul of me

never quite

seeing...I



surely, I am

not this shallow

only time can plane my cheek

insight my eyes to fade

turn the plumpness of lip to

crinkles of mirth

enlivening the gray

languishing in silver

forever seeing but parts of the

ecstasy I

reflect



Source: poetrysoup.com



You might have observed, through my use of color, that the first letter of each line, when read downwards, forms a word. This is a poetic form called an acrostic, and was used frequently in ancient poetry like the Hebrew book of Psalms. What is particularly clever about this piece is that the poet recreates the word backwards (or in mirror image) in the second stanza, reinforcing the sense of reflections.



Acrostics are a somewhat slighted form, in part because it's often one of the first forays into poetry writing for early elementary students. But as Guzzi shows, the form can be quite sophisticated in the hands of an experienced poet. Even within the confines of form, she has some striking sound patterns, like "culled from a full life" and "plumpness of lip."



What lines or images strike you?




a Rafflecopter giveaway









R: Reflections









Monday, April 21, 2014


Laurel Garver





By Deborah Guzzi






Photo credit: Gracey at morguefile.com





randomly I stare into

each reflective surface

forever pondering the

lines of age, pain and joy

each one a splendid testament

culled from a full life

teased endlessly, eternally

into distorted images

of the soul of me

never quite

seeing...I



surely, I am

not this shallow

only time can plane my cheek

insight my eyes to fade

turn the plumpness of lip to

crinkles of mirth

enlivening the gray

languishing in silver

forever seeing but parts of the

ecstasy I

reflect



Source: poetrysoup.com



You might have observed, through my use of color, that the first letter of each line, when read downwards, forms a word. This is a poetic form called an acrostic, and was used frequently in ancient poetry like the Hebrew book of Psalms. What is particularly clever about this piece is that the poet recreates the word backwards (or in mirror image) in the second stanza, reinforcing the sense of reflections.



Acrostics are a somewhat slighted form, in part because it's often one of the first forays into poetry writing for early elementary students. But as Guzzi shows, the form can be quite sophisticated in the hands of an experienced poet. Even within the confines of form, she has some striking sound patterns, like "culled from a full life" and "plumpness of lip."



What lines or images strike you?




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Saturday, April 19


          

        








Holy Saturday Mourning

by Sr. Genevieve Glen, OSB



The fisherman had aged, they saw, when dawn

at last broke through that endless night.  He had

no words to strengthen them, his bluster gone

to silence. One by one they came. Grief bade

them gather there. The shadowed room was clad

in memories. Furtive eyes sought out the spot

where He had stood.  The big man’s shame burned hot.

The One with whom he’d sworn to die was dead.

And he was not.



©2011, Abbey of St. Walburga, http://genglen.blogspot.com 








painting by Carl Heinrich Bloch



This poem shows us Simon Peter in the time following Jesus' crucifixion. All his hot-headed desire to create an uprising has been quashed. He is a revolutionary quelled, struggling to come to grips with what has gone wrong.



Knowing what we do about Peter's actions in the preceding days, I can only imagine the depth of his grief and his even deeper confusion. Peter adamantly opposed Jesus every time he spoke of his death. He attacked one of the guards who came to arrest Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He then followed to where Jesus was being held, hoping for news, but perhaps also staking out the place in order to try another violent rescue.



But bravery fails him. He denies Jesus, we're told. But perhaps there's some truth in his declaration: "I never knew the man." Because Jesus didn't turn out to be the fiery revolutionary many were hoping could come and overthrow Rome. As Peter came to grips with the truth of where his hopes really lay, he was devastated.



This Jesus wasn't going to foment a rebellion. He had another plan entirely. A completely insane one: To lay down his life.



Holy Saturday is a good time to sit in this space with Peter. To come to grips with the frailty of our plans and dreams. To let the wrong sorts of dreams die so that God's dreams for us in the world can be awakened.





Wishing you all a blessed Easter!



What about Peter's life and story resonates with you?




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Q: Quelled









Saturday, April 19, 2014


Laurel Garver





Holy Saturday Mourning

by Sr. Genevieve Glen, OSB



The fisherman had aged, they saw, when dawn

at last broke through that endless night.  He had

no words to strengthen them, his bluster gone

to silence. One by one they came. Grief bade

them gather there. The shadowed room was clad

in memories. Furtive eyes sought out the spot

where He had stood.  The big man’s shame burned hot.

The One with whom he’d sworn to die was dead.

And he was not.



©2011, Abbey of St. Walburga, http://genglen.blogspot.com 








painting by Carl Heinrich Bloch



This poem shows us Simon Peter in the time following Jesus' crucifixion. All his hot-headed desire to create an uprising has been quashed. He is a revolutionary quelled, struggling to come to grips with what has gone wrong.



Knowing what we do about Peter's actions in the preceding days, I can only imagine the depth of his grief and his even deeper confusion. Peter adamantly opposed Jesus every time he spoke of his death. He attacked one of the guards who came to arrest Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He then followed to where Jesus was being held, hoping for news, but perhaps also staking out the place in order to try another violent rescue.



But bravery fails him. He denies Jesus, we're told. But perhaps there's some truth in his declaration: "I never knew the man." Because Jesus didn't turn out to be the fiery revolutionary many were hoping could come and overthrow Rome. As Peter came to grips with the truth of where his hopes really lay, he was devastated.



This Jesus wasn't going to foment a rebellion. He had another plan entirely. A completely insane one: To lay down his life.



Holy Saturday is a good time to sit in this space with Peter. To come to grips with the frailty of our plans and dreams. To let the wrong sorts of dreams die so that God's dreams for us in the world can be awakened.





Wishing you all a blessed Easter!



What about Peter's life and story resonates with you?




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Friday, April 18


          

        








by Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)










inset from a medieval painting, artist unknown






The brown enormous odor he lived by

was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,

for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty

was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung.

Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts,

the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare--

even to the sow that always ate her young--

till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head.

But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts

(he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours),

the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red

the burning puddles seemed to reassure.

And then he thought he almost might endure

his exile yet another year or more.



But evenings the first star came to warn.

The farmer whom he worked for came at dark

to shut the cows and horses in the barn

beneath their overhanging clouds of hay,

with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light,

safe and companionable as in the Ark.

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.

The lantern--like the sun, going away--

laid on the mud a pacing aureole.

Carrying a bucket along a slimy board,

he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight,

his shuddering insights, beyond his control,

touching him. But it took him a long time

finally to make up his mind to go home.



This piece is an extended allusion to the biblical parable of the prodigal son, a story Jesus tells in the Gospels about a son who leaves home, squanders his inheritance and ends up in poverty, taking work as a swineherd, the worst possible profession for a nice Jewish boy. In Jesus' story, the son "came to himself" and decides to return home to reconcile with his family. This piece stays at that dark period before the decision is made.



The author Elizabeth Bishop (winner of the Pulitzer and the National Book Award for poetry) generally wrote poems that seem unrelated to her life, in contrast to her contemporaries, the "confessional" poets, including Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton and W.D. Snodgrass. Yet if you read about her life, you can quickly understand why she would choose to explore this particular Bible parable. Like the prodigal son, Bishop experienced a sense of dislocation. She lost one parent, then another. Was bounced among relatives in Nova Scotia and Massachusetts. Missed a great deal of school because of bouts of asthma. Though a New England native, she spent large chunks of her life in France and Brazil, made possible in part because of a substantial inheritance from her father.



Bishop's poem is a great example of literary borrowing that's quite common in poetry. You don't need to dream up narratives on your own to explore some aspect of human nature--you are free to take existing narratives and characters and explore them in your own way. 



What lines or images stand out to you? If you were to write an allusion poem, what story would you enjoy exploring and rewriting?





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P: A Prodigal









Friday, April 18, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)










inset from a medieval painting, artist unknown






The brown enormous odor he lived by

was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,

for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty

was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung.

Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts,

the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare--

even to the sow that always ate her young--

till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head.

But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts

(he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours),

the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red

the burning puddles seemed to reassure.

And then he thought he almost might endure

his exile yet another year or more.



But evenings the first star came to warn.

The farmer whom he worked for came at dark

to shut the cows and horses in the barn

beneath their overhanging clouds of hay,

with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light,

safe and companionable as in the Ark.

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.

The lantern--like the sun, going away--

laid on the mud a pacing aureole.

Carrying a bucket along a slimy board,

he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight,

his shuddering insights, beyond his control,

touching him. But it took him a long time

finally to make up his mind to go home.



This piece is an extended allusion to the biblical parable of the prodigal son, a story Jesus tells in the Gospels about a son who leaves home, squanders his inheritance and ends up in poverty, taking work as a swineherd, the worst possible profession for a nice Jewish boy. In Jesus' story, the son "came to himself" and decides to return home to reconcile with his family. This piece stays at that dark period before the decision is made.



The author Elizabeth Bishop (winner of the Pulitzer and the National Book Award for poetry) generally wrote poems that seem unrelated to her life, in contrast to her contemporaries, the "confessional" poets, including Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton and W.D. Snodgrass. Yet if you read about her life, you can quickly understand why she would choose to explore this particular Bible parable. Like the prodigal son, Bishop experienced a sense of dislocation. She lost one parent, then another. Was bounced among relatives in Nova Scotia and Massachusetts. Missed a great deal of school because of bouts of asthma. Though a New England native, she spent large chunks of her life in France and Brazil, made possible in part because of a substantial inheritance from her father.



Bishop's poem is a great example of literary borrowing that's quite common in poetry. You don't need to dream up narratives on your own to explore some aspect of human nature--you are free to take existing narratives and characters and explore them in your own way. 



What lines or images stand out to you? If you were to write an allusion poem, what story would you enjoy exploring and rewriting?





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Thursday, April 17


          

        








by Donald Justice (1925 - 2004)



Papier-mache body; blue-and-black cotton jersey cover.
Metal stand. Instructions included.   --Sears, Roebuck Catalogue






Photo credit: jeltovski at morguefile.com




              O my coy darling, still
              You wear for me the scent
         Of those long afternoons we spent,
               The two of us together,
    Safe in the attic from the jealous eyes
                 Of household spies
    And the remote buffooneries of the weather;
                         So high,
    Our sole remaining neighbor was the sky,
              Which, often enough, at dusk,
    Leaning its cloudy shoulders on the sill,
Used to regard us with a bored and cynical eye.





              How like the terrified,
              Shy figure of a bride
         You stood there then, without your clothes,
                  Drawn up into
         So classic and so strict a pose
      Almost, it seemed, our little attic grew
Dark with the first charmed night of the honeymoon.
         Or was it only some obscure
      Shape of my mother's youth I saw in you,
There where the rude shadows of the afternoon
         Crept up your ankles and you stood
         Hiding your s-x as best you could?--
         Prim ghost the evening light shone through.







Source: poets.org



An ode is typically an elaborately structured poem praising or glorifying an event or individual. Among English poets, Keats is considered the master of the form.



Justice, however, isn't glorifying something glorious. By writing an "ode" about a man's bizarre relationship with a dressmaker's dummy, he satirizes love poems generally. This is another instance of form/content dissonance that makes you pause, raise an eyebrow, and perhaps laugh.



What silly thing do you think would make a good topic for a satirical ode?




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O: Ode to a Dressmaker's Dummy









Thursday, April 17, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Donald Justice (1925 - 2004)



Papier-mache body; blue-and-black cotton jersey cover.
Metal stand. Instructions included.   --Sears, Roebuck Catalogue






Photo credit: jeltovski at morguefile.com




              O my coy darling, still
              You wear for me the scent
         Of those long afternoons we spent,
               The two of us together,
    Safe in the attic from the jealous eyes
                 Of household spies
    And the remote buffooneries of the weather;
                         So high,
    Our sole remaining neighbor was the sky,
              Which, often enough, at dusk,
    Leaning its cloudy shoulders on the sill,
Used to regard us with a bored and cynical eye.





              How like the terrified,
              Shy figure of a bride
         You stood there then, without your clothes,
                  Drawn up into
         So classic and so strict a pose
      Almost, it seemed, our little attic grew
Dark with the first charmed night of the honeymoon.
         Or was it only some obscure
      Shape of my mother's youth I saw in you,
There where the rude shadows of the afternoon
         Crept up your ankles and you stood
         Hiding your s-x as best you could?--
         Prim ghost the evening light shone through.







Source: poets.org



An ode is typically an elaborately structured poem praising or glorifying an event or individual. Among English poets, Keats is considered the master of the form.



Justice, however, isn't glorifying something glorious. By writing an "ode" about a man's bizarre relationship with a dressmaker's dummy, he satirizes love poems generally. This is another instance of form/content dissonance that makes you pause, raise an eyebrow, and perhaps laugh.



What silly thing do you think would make a good topic for a satirical ode?




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Wednesday, April 16


          

        








by Laurel Garver








Photo credit: o0o0xmods0o0o at morguefile.com



Yesterday

all my troubles seemed so far

across the street my best friend

or close enough stepped on her

gerbil squish

She was walking it on a leash

like a dog pretty dumb I think

probably she forgot everything else and

burst into Tomorrow

I love ya tomorrow you’re

only a day

around the block

the Bartelli boys who like to stick

crawly things into people’s lunches

bought the gerbil guts for 50¢ &

2 red rubber balls & a swirly

marble all stuffed into

her hand too late for me

to yell cooties she smiled toothy

and wiped scritch scratch

her bloody shoe in the grass.



Muddy-Fingered Midnights, p. 20.



I wrote the initial draft of this piece for a poetry class in graduate school. As you might guess, I was experimenting on a number of fronts here: interpolating song lyrics, breathless stream-of-consciousness style, tone/subject dissonance and finally, voice. You could say my choice was somewhat in reaction to the mop-pushing megalomaniac in my poetry class who loved to use allusions to the Gilgamesh epic, among other pretensions. Being around him made me want to write real, to get past all the grad school trying-to-sound-important BS. What could be less important-sounding than some silly kid story?



I worked from of a true childhood tale a high school friend had shared about one of her neighbors who thought it would be fun to walk her hamster on a leash, then inadvertently killed it. I vaguely recall that money had been exchanged to use the rodent remains for some ghoulish purpose.



My initial inclination for telling this had been to take a knowing tone, looking on this scenario with adult eyes. But it felt entirely wrong. I realized that if I was going to be true to this story, I needed to enter into the child world—seeing the neighbor girl as the kid I imagined she was, impulsive and apt to burst into song. I mined memories for details, like what the truly evil kids did for fun. Instead of 30 pieces of silver, the beloved pet is sold off for kid treasures—the sorts of things I admired from my parents' desk drawers or my siblings' closet floors. By using onomatopoetic words, I tried make the gore concrete but not sensationalized.



The title, by the way, refers to the lyric snippets that in the original, both included the word "away." But in this context, when we're small, our world shrinks. Troubles are across the street. Tomorrow is just around the block. Not quite away.



If you've always wanted to try poetry, but don't know where to start, dip into your well of memories, and not just the shiny-happy ones. It's in the sandbox we discover some of the startling truths about life.



What lines or images strike you? How might you experiment with stream-of-consciousness or tone/subject dissonance?











N: Not Quite Away









Wednesday, April 16, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Laurel Garver








Photo credit: o0o0xmods0o0o at morguefile.com



Yesterday

all my troubles seemed so far

across the street my best friend

or close enough stepped on her

gerbil squish

She was walking it on a leash

like a dog pretty dumb I think

probably she forgot everything else and

burst into Tomorrow

I love ya tomorrow you’re

only a day

around the block

the Bartelli boys who like to stick

crawly things into people’s lunches

bought the gerbil guts for 50¢ &

2 red rubber balls & a swirly

marble all stuffed into

her hand too late for me

to yell cooties she smiled toothy

and wiped scritch scratch

her bloody shoe in the grass.



Muddy-Fingered Midnights, p. 20.



I wrote the initial draft of this piece for a poetry class in graduate school. As you might guess, I was experimenting on a number of fronts here: interpolating song lyrics, breathless stream-of-consciousness style, tone/subject dissonance and finally, voice. You could say my choice was somewhat in reaction to the mop-pushing megalomaniac in my poetry class who loved to use allusions to the Gilgamesh epic, among other pretensions. Being around him made me want to write real, to get past all the grad school trying-to-sound-important BS. What could be less important-sounding than some silly kid story?



I worked from of a true childhood tale a high school friend had shared about one of her neighbors who thought it would be fun to walk her hamster on a leash, then inadvertently killed it. I vaguely recall that money had been exchanged to use the rodent remains for some ghoulish purpose.



My initial inclination for telling this had been to take a knowing tone, looking on this scenario with adult eyes. But it felt entirely wrong. I realized that if I was going to be true to this story, I needed to enter into the child world—seeing the neighbor girl as the kid I imagined she was, impulsive and apt to burst into song. I mined memories for details, like what the truly evil kids did for fun. Instead of 30 pieces of silver, the beloved pet is sold off for kid treasures—the sorts of things I admired from my parents' desk drawers or my siblings' closet floors. By using onomatopoetic words, I tried make the gore concrete but not sensationalized.



The title, by the way, refers to the lyric snippets that in the original, both included the word "away." But in this context, when we're small, our world shrinks. Troubles are across the street. Tomorrow is just around the block. Not quite away.



If you've always wanted to try poetry, but don't know where to start, dip into your well of memories, and not just the shiny-happy ones. It's in the sandbox we discover some of the startling truths about life.



What lines or images strike you? How might you experiment with stream-of-consciousness or tone/subject dissonance?

































            

          

          

        

Tuesday, April 15


          

        








If you find the idea of writing poetry completely intimidating, you might want to try out a creativity tool I rediscovered: magnetic poetry.



I recall magnetic poetry being the hot new thing back in the mid-1990s, usually sold in bookstore gift sections. Several local coffee shops near me kept cookie sheets coated with the small magnetized pieces of type you could arrange into forms of expression.



The challenge was to work with the words at hand and arrange them into something at least partially coherent. The truly patient would dig through the sticky bits to find just the right words. The impatient would sacrifice coherence. The guffawing teenagers usually left behind suggestive little ditties like this: white curve / in a window / moon rise / blush and run.



I picked up a new set of magnetic poetry at a flea market over the summer--the "romance" set, which I knew would have lots of fun additions to the two sets I already own. When we first got the set home, my daughter and I noodled around for a good forty minutes trying different combinations.



My creativity was spurred by three words that had come linked together on one of the perforated sheets: "slow," "velvet" and "dance."



Here's what resulted:





I noticed a few interesting things working in this medium. First, one tends to go light with using articles, because who wants to spend twenty minutes digging for an "a" or "an"? Second, odd combinations pop up all the time and can cause your subject and tone can shift dramatically as you compose. This piece shifted when the word "pleasure" caught my eye. I got thinking what a cliched concept it often is and let my imagination roam for new ways to conceive it.



If you haven't ever played with magnetic poetry, I highly recommend it as a warm-up tool. Seeing stacks of words randomly juxtaposed will stir your imagination in wonderful ways.



Have you ever played with magnetic poetry sets? If you were to take the words I used, how would you rearrange them?











M: Magnetic creativity









Tuesday, April 15, 2014


Laurel Garver





If you find the idea of writing poetry completely intimidating, you might want to try out a creativity tool I rediscovered: magnetic poetry.



I recall magnetic poetry being the hot new thing back in the mid-1990s, usually sold in bookstore gift sections. Several local coffee shops near me kept cookie sheets coated with the small magnetized pieces of type you could arrange into forms of expression.



The challenge was to work with the words at hand and arrange them into something at least partially coherent. The truly patient would dig through the sticky bits to find just the right words. The impatient would sacrifice coherence. The guffawing teenagers usually left behind suggestive little ditties like this: white curve / in a window / moon rise / blush and run.



I picked up a new set of magnetic poetry at a flea market over the summer--the "romance" set, which I knew would have lots of fun additions to the two sets I already own. When we first got the set home, my daughter and I noodled around for a good forty minutes trying different combinations.



My creativity was spurred by three words that had come linked together on one of the perforated sheets: "slow," "velvet" and "dance."



Here's what resulted:





I noticed a few interesting things working in this medium. First, one tends to go light with using articles, because who wants to spend twenty minutes digging for an "a" or "an"? Second, odd combinations pop up all the time and can cause your subject and tone can shift dramatically as you compose. This piece shifted when the word "pleasure" caught my eye. I got thinking what a cliched concept it often is and let my imagination roam for new ways to conceive it.



If you haven't ever played with magnetic poetry, I highly recommend it as a warm-up tool. Seeing stacks of words randomly juxtaposed will stir your imagination in wonderful ways.



Have you ever played with magnetic poetry sets? If you were to take the words I used, how would you rearrange them?

































            

          

          

        

Monday, April 14


          

        
















By Scott Cairns (1954— )



A little loam and topsoil 

is a lot. 

—Heather McHugh










Photo credit: ronmerk from morguefile.com 





A vacant lot, maybe, but even such lit vacancy

as interstate motels announce can look, well, pretty 

damned inviting after a long day’s drive, especially

if the day has been oppressed by manic truckers, detours, 

endless road construction. And this poorly measured, semi-

rectangle, projected and plotted with the familiar 

little flags upon a spread of neglected terra firma

also offers brief apprehension, which—let’s face it, 

whether pleasing or encumbered by anxiety—dwells 

luxuriously in potential. Me? Well, I like

a little space between shopping malls, and while this one may 

never come to be much of a garden, once we rip 

the old tires from the brambles and bag the trash, we might 

just glimpse the lot we meant, the lot we hoped to find.

.



Source: Philokalia: New and Selected Poems (Zoo Press, 2002)



As a country girl who has put down roots in an urban area, this piece resonates with me. Even a small patch of nature "dwells luxuriously in potential" --potential to bring a bit of beauty and respite for the weary, nature-hungry soul. I like that Cairns uses poetry to look past the now of "old tires," "brambles" and "trash" to see a glimpse of possible garden space. The transformative power of the imagination makes a little patch of littered land into "a lot"--in more sense than one, encouraging the reader to expand application to other wrecked spaces, be they landscapes or relationships.



What lines or images stand out to you?



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L: A Lot









Monday, April 14, 2014


Laurel Garver













By Scott Cairns (1954— )



A little loam and topsoil 

is a lot. 

—Heather McHugh










Photo credit: ronmerk from morguefile.com 





A vacant lot, maybe, but even such lit vacancy

as interstate motels announce can look, well, pretty 

damned inviting after a long day’s drive, especially

if the day has been oppressed by manic truckers, detours, 

endless road construction. And this poorly measured, semi-

rectangle, projected and plotted with the familiar 

little flags upon a spread of neglected terra firma

also offers brief apprehension, which—let’s face it, 

whether pleasing or encumbered by anxiety—dwells 

luxuriously in potential. Me? Well, I like

a little space between shopping malls, and while this one may 

never come to be much of a garden, once we rip 

the old tires from the brambles and bag the trash, we might 

just glimpse the lot we meant, the lot we hoped to find.

.



Source: Philokalia: New and Selected Poems (Zoo Press, 2002)



As a country girl who has put down roots in an urban area, this piece resonates with me. Even a small patch of nature "dwells luxuriously in potential" --potential to bring a bit of beauty and respite for the weary, nature-hungry soul. I like that Cairns uses poetry to look past the now of "old tires," "brambles" and "trash" to see a glimpse of possible garden space. The transformative power of the imagination makes a little patch of littered land into "a lot"--in more sense than one, encouraging the reader to expand application to other wrecked spaces, be they landscapes or relationships.



What lines or images stand out to you?



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Saturday, April 12


          

        








by Mark Strand (1934 —)



In a field

I am the absence






Photo by grtguru for morguefile.com



of field.

This is

always the case.

Wherever I am

I am what is missing.



When I walk

I part the air

and always

the air moves in

to fill the spaces

where my body's been.



We all have reasons

for moving.

I move

to keep things whole.



Source: The Contemporary American Poets. New York: New American Library, 1969. p. 330.



Spare and deceptively simple, this poem addresses the nature of reality. What is presence? What is absence? How does the universe fit together? What is my place in it?



What lines or images strike you?




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K: Keeping Things Whole









Saturday, April 12, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Mark Strand (1934 —)



In a field

I am the absence






Photo by grtguru for morguefile.com



of field.

This is

always the case.

Wherever I am

I am what is missing.



When I walk

I part the air

and always

the air moves in

to fill the spaces

where my body's been.



We all have reasons

for moving.

I move

to keep things whole.



Source: The Contemporary American Poets. New York: New American Library, 1969. p. 330.



Spare and deceptively simple, this poem addresses the nature of reality. What is presence? What is absence? How does the universe fit together? What is my place in it?



What lines or images strike you?




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Friday, April 11


          

        








by Angela Felsted








Photo credit: hotblack from morguefile.com



precisely when night fingers

brush the ankles of the cherry tree



precisely when a freckled

bullfrog starts its croon

up at the moon



precisely when the screams

of children fade into the pliant mud

when splashing rocks

peruse the river bottom made of pebble dots



the shadow of breath of dusk

exhales across the gilded ground

a silver cloud sent heaven bound

aches for mother, father sun,

tries to run



on red-striped wings

past the ring of phantom sky

above a canopy of trees

where star buds nest in humid leaves



their summer

wishes touch my hand

kisses trapped by molten sand



lit up glass

etched secrets in the withered grass



Source: Poetry Pact volume 1. Eds. Angela Felsted and Richard Merrill. Fairfax, VA: Jazzy Press, 2011.





This soundscape piece takes us to that magical twilight hour of summertime when the night comes alive. Felsted is a friend of mine from a poetry critique group whose work I enjoy very much, not only because she creates such evocative images, but also because of her sense of play. There's a little rhyme, but not too much; there's a little bouncy lilt, just enough. My favorite image of the piece is "star buds nest in humid leaves" and how it juxtaposes the celestial and horticultural to speak of the insect world.



What lines or images strike you?









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Muddy-Fingered Midnights by Laurel Garver
    





          Muddy-Fingered Midnights
      



          by Laurel Garver
      



Giveaway ends April 17, 2014.
          

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J: A Jar of Fireflies









Friday, April 11, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Angela Felsted








Photo credit: hotblack from morguefile.com



precisely when night fingers

brush the ankles of the cherry tree



precisely when a freckled

bullfrog starts its croon

up at the moon



precisely when the screams

of children fade into the pliant mud

when splashing rocks

peruse the river bottom made of pebble dots



the shadow of breath of dusk

exhales across the gilded ground

a silver cloud sent heaven bound

aches for mother, father sun,

tries to run



on red-striped wings

past the ring of phantom sky

above a canopy of trees

where star buds nest in humid leaves



their summer

wishes touch my hand

kisses trapped by molten sand



lit up glass

etched secrets in the withered grass



Source: Poetry Pact volume 1. Eds. Angela Felsted and Richard Merrill. Fairfax, VA: Jazzy Press, 2011.





This soundscape piece takes us to that magical twilight hour of summertime when the night comes alive. Felsted is a friend of mine from a poetry critique group whose work I enjoy very much, not only because she creates such evocative images, but also because of her sense of play. There's a little rhyme, but not too much; there's a little bouncy lilt, just enough. My favorite image of the piece is "star buds nest in humid leaves" and how it juxtaposes the celestial and horticultural to speak of the insect world.



What lines or images strike you?









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          Muddy-Fingered Midnights
      



          by Laurel Garver
      



Giveaway ends April 17, 2014.
          

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Thursday, April 10


          

        








by Laurel Garver (that's me)






photo by Edumigue for morguefile.com





Under a smooth moon

we watch fireworks

heave purple fluff

and spray a thousand blossoms

that petal-dance

down summer shadows

to where we cuddle,

flame-drunk, bliss blistered,

sighing, OH!

at the frantic pull

to soar away,

to be all light.



From Muddy-fingered Midnights, 2013. p. 44.



I composed this piece using magnetic poetry sets, and the image that got the whole thing going was "fireworks." I spread my collection of magnetic words across a tabletop and picked out any and every word that might connect to how fireworks look, sound, and feel either literally or metaphorically. I also thought about contexts in which one experiences fireworks and the emotion of those contexts.



Once I had a big stack of words, I got down to composing. Fluff needed a color modifier, and purple had a repeating vowel sound. Blister and flame bring to mind the fire of fireworks;  I wanted both burning terms to resonate with the romantic context, so I paired them with modifiers that give them a passionate twist. Many of my first choices weren't used; many of the strongest images needed to be contextualized, which meant digging for more words that would resonate with them.



What are your favorite tools for brainstorming and developing ideas? Have you ever played with magnetic poetry kits? 





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Muddy-Fingered Midnights by Laurel Garver
    





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          by Laurel Garver
      



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I: Independence









Thursday, April 10, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Laurel Garver (that's me)






photo by Edumigue for morguefile.com





Under a smooth moon

we watch fireworks

heave purple fluff

and spray a thousand blossoms

that petal-dance

down summer shadows

to where we cuddle,

flame-drunk, bliss blistered,

sighing, OH!

at the frantic pull

to soar away,

to be all light.



From Muddy-fingered Midnights, 2013. p. 44.



I composed this piece using magnetic poetry sets, and the image that got the whole thing going was "fireworks." I spread my collection of magnetic words across a tabletop and picked out any and every word that might connect to how fireworks look, sound, and feel either literally or metaphorically. I also thought about contexts in which one experiences fireworks and the emotion of those contexts.



Once I had a big stack of words, I got down to composing. Fluff needed a color modifier, and purple had a repeating vowel sound. Blister and flame bring to mind the fire of fireworks;  I wanted both burning terms to resonate with the romantic context, so I paired them with modifiers that give them a passionate twist. Many of my first choices weren't used; many of the strongest images needed to be contextualized, which meant digging for more words that would resonate with them.



What are your favorite tools for brainstorming and developing ideas? Have you ever played with magnetic poetry kits? 





Like this poem? Enter to win my collection!












  



    Goodreads Book Giveaway
  



Muddy-Fingered Midnights by Laurel Garver
    





          Muddy-Fingered Midnights
      



          by Laurel Garver
      



Giveaway ends April 17, 2014.
          

See the giveaway details
            at Goodreads.
          







Enter to win





































            

          

          

        

Wednesday, April 9


          

        








by Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)



If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may be certain that the illness has no cure.

—A. P. CHEKHOV The Cherry Orchard



  1  FROM THE NURSERY






Photo by damoiselle at morguefile.com





When I was born, you waited

behind a pile of linen in the nursery,

and when we were alone, you lay down

on top of me, pressing

the bile of desolation into every pore.



And from that day on

everything under the sun and moon

made me sad -- even the yellow

wooden beads that slid and spun

along a spindle on my crib.



You taught me to exist without gratitude.

You ruined my manners toward God:

"We're here simply to wait for death;

the pleasures of earth are overrated."



I only appeared to belong to my mother,

to live among blocks and cotton undershirts

with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes

and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.

I was already yours -- the anti-urge,

the mutilator of souls.





           2  BOTTLES



Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,

Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,

Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.

The coated ones smell sweet or have

no smell; the powdery ones smell

like the chemistry lab at school

that made me hold my breath.





3  SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND



You wouldn't be so depressed

if you really believed in God.





           4  OFTEN



Often I go to bed as soon after dinner

as seems adult

(I mean I try to wait for dark)

in order to push away

from the massive pain in sleep's

frail wicker coracle.





5  ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT



Once, in my early thirties, I saw

that I was a speck of light in the great

river of light that undulates through time.



I was floating with the whole

human family. We were all colors -- those

who are living now, those who have died,

those who are not yet born. For a few



moments I floated, completely calm,

and I no longer hated having to exist.



Like a crow who smells hot blood

you came flying to pull me out

of the glowing stream.

"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear

ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.





       6  IN AND OUT



The dog searches until he finds me

upstairs, lies down with a clatter

of elbows, puts his head on my foot.



Sometimes the sound of his breathing

saves my life -- in and out, in

and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .





           7  PARDON



A piece of burned meat

wears my clothes, speaks

in my voice, dispatches obligations

haltingly, or not at all.

It is tired of trying

to be stouthearted, tired

beyond measure.



We move on to the monoamine

oxidase inhibitors. Day and night

I feel as if I had drunk six cups

of coffee, but the pain stops

abruptly. With the wonder

and bitterness of someone pardoned

for a crime she did not commit

I come back to marriage and friends,

to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back

to my desk, books, and chair.





           8  CREDO



Pharmaceutical wonders are at work

but I believe only in this moment

of well-being. Unholy ghost,

you are certain to come again.



Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet

on the coffee table, lean back,

and turn me into someone who can't

take the trouble to speak; someone

who can't sleep, or who does nothing

but sleep; can't read, or call

for an appointment for help.



There is nothing I can do

against your coming.

When I awake, I am still with thee.





  9  WOOD THRUSH



High on Nardil and June light

I wake at four,

waiting greedily for the first

note of the wood thrush. Easeful air

presses through the screen

with the wild, complex song

of the bird, and I am overcome



by ordinary contentment.

What hurt me so terribly

all my life until this moment?

How I love the small, swiftly

beating heart of the bird

singing in the great maples;

its bright, unequivocal eye.



Source: poets.org



I hope you'll forgive the length of today's offering, because it's a powerful piece. Researchers have found a strong link between depression and creativity, so it's a small wonder that many writers and poets struggle with this illness. Many, like Sylvia Plath, take their own lives. This poet, though she struggled with depression her entire adult life, died of leukemia, not suicide.



Her snapshot approach with the stanzas is striking and worth emulating. When trying to tackle a large topic that has many faces, giving us facets rather than an integrated narrative is quite powerful. That she ends with a scene of finding tranquility and beauty (thanks in part to the medication Nardil, an MAOI) gives the piece a hopeful air. The "unholy ghost" of depression may come again tomorrow, but Kenyon is determined to keep fighting it.



What lines or images stand out to you?










H: Having it out with Melancholy









Wednesday, April 09, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)



If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may be certain that the illness has no cure.

—A. P. CHEKHOV The Cherry Orchard



  1  FROM THE NURSERY






Photo by damoiselle at morguefile.com





When I was born, you waited

behind a pile of linen in the nursery,

and when we were alone, you lay down

on top of me, pressing

the bile of desolation into every pore.



And from that day on

everything under the sun and moon

made me sad -- even the yellow

wooden beads that slid and spun

along a spindle on my crib.



You taught me to exist without gratitude.

You ruined my manners toward God:

"We're here simply to wait for death;

the pleasures of earth are overrated."



I only appeared to belong to my mother,

to live among blocks and cotton undershirts

with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes

and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.

I was already yours -- the anti-urge,

the mutilator of souls.





           2  BOTTLES



Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,

Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,

Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.

The coated ones smell sweet or have

no smell; the powdery ones smell

like the chemistry lab at school

that made me hold my breath.





3  SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND



You wouldn't be so depressed

if you really believed in God.





           4  OFTEN



Often I go to bed as soon after dinner

as seems adult

(I mean I try to wait for dark)

in order to push away

from the massive pain in sleep's

frail wicker coracle.





5  ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT



Once, in my early thirties, I saw

that I was a speck of light in the great

river of light that undulates through time.



I was floating with the whole

human family. We were all colors -- those

who are living now, those who have died,

those who are not yet born. For a few



moments I floated, completely calm,

and I no longer hated having to exist.



Like a crow who smells hot blood

you came flying to pull me out

of the glowing stream.

"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear

ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.





       6  IN AND OUT



The dog searches until he finds me

upstairs, lies down with a clatter

of elbows, puts his head on my foot.



Sometimes the sound of his breathing

saves my life -- in and out, in

and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .





           7  PARDON



A piece of burned meat

wears my clothes, speaks

in my voice, dispatches obligations

haltingly, or not at all.

It is tired of trying

to be stouthearted, tired

beyond measure.



We move on to the monoamine

oxidase inhibitors. Day and night

I feel as if I had drunk six cups

of coffee, but the pain stops

abruptly. With the wonder

and bitterness of someone pardoned

for a crime she did not commit

I come back to marriage and friends,

to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back

to my desk, books, and chair.





           8  CREDO



Pharmaceutical wonders are at work

but I believe only in this moment

of well-being. Unholy ghost,

you are certain to come again.



Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet

on the coffee table, lean back,

and turn me into someone who can't

take the trouble to speak; someone

who can't sleep, or who does nothing

but sleep; can't read, or call

for an appointment for help.



There is nothing I can do

against your coming.

When I awake, I am still with thee.





  9  WOOD THRUSH



High on Nardil and June light

I wake at four,

waiting greedily for the first

note of the wood thrush. Easeful air

presses through the screen

with the wild, complex song

of the bird, and I am overcome



by ordinary contentment.

What hurt me so terribly

all my life until this moment?

How I love the small, swiftly

beating heart of the bird

singing in the great maples;

its bright, unequivocal eye.



Source: poets.org



I hope you'll forgive the length of today's offering, because it's a powerful piece. Researchers have found a strong link between depression and creativity, so it's a small wonder that many writers and poets struggle with this illness. Many, like Sylvia Plath, take their own lives. This poet, though she struggled with depression her entire adult life, died of leukemia, not suicide.



Her snapshot approach with the stanzas is striking and worth emulating. When trying to tackle a large topic that has many faces, giving us facets rather than an integrated narrative is quite powerful. That she ends with a scene of finding tranquility and beauty (thanks in part to the medication Nardil, an MAOI) gives the piece a hopeful air. The "unholy ghost" of depression may come again tomorrow, but Kenyon is determined to keep fighting it.



What lines or images stand out to you?
































            

          

          

        

Tuesday, April 8


          

        








by Dana Levin  (1965— )








Photo credit: mimicry from morguefile.com



Through shattered glass and sheeted furniture, chicken

wire and piled dishes, sheared-off doors stacked five to a

wall, you're walking like cripples. Toward a dirty window,

obstructed by stacks of chairs.



And once you move them, one by one, palm circles through

the grime and cup your hands round your faces, finally able

to see through—



Charged night. Sheet-flashes of green, threaded with sparks,

the pale orange pan of the moon—



Finally, what turns the wheel: the moon ghosting a hole

through a rainbow, the rainbow's rage to efface the moon,

which the moon sails through slow as a ship, in the shape of

cross-legged Buddha...



Lotus-folded, a figurine. The kind you once found in the

Chinatown markets, for a dollar and a dime—



Saying you're dying, you're dead. You can withdraw from this

orbit of mirrors.



Source: poets.org



I was first drawn to this piece because of the way it engages with everyday objects and has such a lovely melodic flow of sound and rhythm--"pale orange pan of the moon."



But when it came to interpretation, well,  I admit I was rather at a loss for some time. It's easy to let these sorts of interpretive puzzles scare one off of poetry entirely. But some of the most interesting ideas have layers, and the best way to express them is through figures of speech including allusion and metaphor.



With that in mind, I examined the poem again, looking for recurrent images and themes, as well as references to larger ideas or works (allusions). A few recurrent images are of mess/ruin, night, and things that mediate our views (dirty window, mirror). I think the key to unlocking the set of symbols here is the Buddha figure, and what he represents.



My knowledge of Buddhism is limited to an undergraduate comparative religions course. But I do know that a core concept is the idea that this present world is an illusion and that to attain enlightenment, one must enter a state of oneness with the universal life in which there is no division, no individual. This piece is a meditation on finding enlightenment--understanding "what turns the wheel" (of Dharma) and knowing that "you can withdraw from this / orbit of mirrors." I'm sure far more could be said by someone who's well versed in the teachings of Buddhism. (If you are, please chime in).



I'm sharing this poem with you, and my rudimentary process for puzzling it out, to illustrate some important things about poetry. First, if you don't immediately "get" a poem, don't despair. Poets' networks of symbol and meaning often can be "decoded," at least a little, if you're willing to take the time. Second, it can be very helpful creatively to read outside your own intellectual and religious tradition. Levin's approach to expressing big ideas is an intriguing one.



How do you approach a piece of art that's initially not easy to understand? What's your take on this poem? Which lines or images stand out to you?





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G: Ghosts That Need Reminding









Tuesday, April 08, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Dana Levin  (1965— )








Photo credit: mimicry from morguefile.com



Through shattered glass and sheeted furniture, chicken

wire and piled dishes, sheared-off doors stacked five to a

wall, you're walking like cripples. Toward a dirty window,

obstructed by stacks of chairs.



And once you move them, one by one, palm circles through

the grime and cup your hands round your faces, finally able

to see through—



Charged night. Sheet-flashes of green, threaded with sparks,

the pale orange pan of the moon—



Finally, what turns the wheel: the moon ghosting a hole

through a rainbow, the rainbow's rage to efface the moon,

which the moon sails through slow as a ship, in the shape of

cross-legged Buddha...



Lotus-folded, a figurine. The kind you once found in the

Chinatown markets, for a dollar and a dime—



Saying you're dying, you're dead. You can withdraw from this

orbit of mirrors.



Source: poets.org



I was first drawn to this piece because of the way it engages with everyday objects and has such a lovely melodic flow of sound and rhythm--"pale orange pan of the moon."



But when it came to interpretation, well,  I admit I was rather at a loss for some time. It's easy to let these sorts of interpretive puzzles scare one off of poetry entirely. But some of the most interesting ideas have layers, and the best way to express them is through figures of speech including allusion and metaphor.



With that in mind, I examined the poem again, looking for recurrent images and themes, as well as references to larger ideas or works (allusions). A few recurrent images are of mess/ruin, night, and things that mediate our views (dirty window, mirror). I think the key to unlocking the set of symbols here is the Buddha figure, and what he represents.



My knowledge of Buddhism is limited to an undergraduate comparative religions course. But I do know that a core concept is the idea that this present world is an illusion and that to attain enlightenment, one must enter a state of oneness with the universal life in which there is no division, no individual. This piece is a meditation on finding enlightenment--understanding "what turns the wheel" (of Dharma) and knowing that "you can withdraw from this / orbit of mirrors." I'm sure far more could be said by someone who's well versed in the teachings of Buddhism. (If you are, please chime in).



I'm sharing this poem with you, and my rudimentary process for puzzling it out, to illustrate some important things about poetry. First, if you don't immediately "get" a poem, don't despair. Poets' networks of symbol and meaning often can be "decoded," at least a little, if you're willing to take the time. Second, it can be very helpful creatively to read outside your own intellectual and religious tradition. Levin's approach to expressing big ideas is an intriguing one.



How do you approach a piece of art that's initially not easy to understand? What's your take on this poem? Which lines or images stand out to you?





a Rafflecopter giveaway































            

          

          

        

Monday, April 7


          

        








Excerpt from Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words

by Susan Wooldridge






photo by Linzi, morguefile.com





I have a strong gathering instinct. I collect boxes, hats, rusty flattened bottlecaps for collages and creek-worn sticks to color with my hoard of Berol prismacolor pencils. When I was a kid I’d lie in bed imagining I was a squirrel who lived in a hollow tree, foraging for acorns, twigs and whatever it takes to make squirrel furniture.



Most of us have collections. I ask people all the time in workshops, Do you collect anything? Stamps? Shells? ’57 Chevys? Raccoons? Money? Leopards ? Meteorites? Wisecracks? What a coincidence, I collect them too. Hats, coins, cougars, old Studebakers. That is, I collect the words. Pith helmet, fragment, Frigidaire, Quarrel, love seat, lily. I gather them into my journal.



The great thing about collecting words is they’re free; you can borrow them, trade them in, or toss them out. I’m trading in (and literally composting) some of my other collections—driftwood, acorns and bits of colored Eater egg shell—for words. Words are lightweight, unbreakable, portable, and they’re everywhere. You can even make them up. Frebrent, bezoncular, zuber. Someone made up the word padiddle.



A word can trigger or inspire a poem; and words in a stack or thin list can make up poems. Because I always carry my journal with me, I’m likely to jot down words on trains, in the car, at boring meetings (where I appear to be taking notes), on hikes and in bed....



When I’m playing with words, I don’t worry about sounding  dumb or crazy. And I don’t worry about whether or not I’m  writing “a poem” word pool. world pool, wild pool, whipoorwill, swing. Words taken out of the laborious structures (like this sentence) where we normally place them take on a spinning life of their own.



Exercises: 




    

  • Toss words, say them, sing them, chant, notice and let yourself get excited about them 
    • 

  • Collect nouns and verbs especially. We want the heart and guts: blood, sweat and tears. We want the action: lure, slink, release, trickle, churn 
    • 

  • Label things strangely. Put lightning on a shoe, trigger on a stone. Label a car, spoon. This turns everything upside down and loosens us up. 
    • 

  • Pair verbs with nouns. You might wind up with a tarantula spin or table exiting the long room 
    • 

  • Collect words for things you love. Mix these with your verbs. 
    • 

  • Create a word ocean for your classroom 
    • 

  • Create your personal universe of language that includes at least one word that’s an important abstraction, like truth.
    • 


Source: Poemcrazy: freeing your life with words. Chapters 3 and 4.



If you were to start collecting words today, what are some favorites you'd add first? 





a Rafflecopter giveaway









F: Freeing Your Life with Words









Monday, April 07, 2014


Laurel Garver





Excerpt from Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words

by Susan Wooldridge






photo by Linzi, morguefile.com





I have a strong gathering instinct. I collect boxes, hats, rusty flattened bottlecaps for collages and creek-worn sticks to color with my hoard of Berol prismacolor pencils. When I was a kid I’d lie in bed imagining I was a squirrel who lived in a hollow tree, foraging for acorns, twigs and whatever it takes to make squirrel furniture.



Most of us have collections. I ask people all the time in workshops, Do you collect anything? Stamps? Shells? ’57 Chevys? Raccoons? Money? Leopards ? Meteorites? Wisecracks? What a coincidence, I collect them too. Hats, coins, cougars, old Studebakers. That is, I collect the words. Pith helmet, fragment, Frigidaire, Quarrel, love seat, lily. I gather them into my journal.



The great thing about collecting words is they’re free; you can borrow them, trade them in, or toss them out. I’m trading in (and literally composting) some of my other collections—driftwood, acorns and bits of colored Eater egg shell—for words. Words are lightweight, unbreakable, portable, and they’re everywhere. You can even make them up. Frebrent, bezoncular, zuber. Someone made up the word padiddle.



A word can trigger or inspire a poem; and words in a stack or thin list can make up poems. Because I always carry my journal with me, I’m likely to jot down words on trains, in the car, at boring meetings (where I appear to be taking notes), on hikes and in bed....



When I’m playing with words, I don’t worry about sounding  dumb or crazy. And I don’t worry about whether or not I’m  writing “a poem” word pool. world pool, wild pool, whipoorwill, swing. Words taken out of the laborious structures (like this sentence) where we normally place them take on a spinning life of their own.



Exercises: 




    

  • Toss words, say them, sing them, chant, notice and let yourself get excited about them 
    • 

  • Collect nouns and verbs especially. We want the heart and guts: blood, sweat and tears. We want the action: lure, slink, release, trickle, churn 
    • 

  • Label things strangely. Put lightning on a shoe, trigger on a stone. Label a car, spoon. This turns everything upside down and loosens us up. 
    • 

  • Pair verbs with nouns. You might wind up with a tarantula spin or table exiting the long room 
    • 

  • Collect words for things you love. Mix these with your verbs. 
    • 

  • Create a word ocean for your classroom 
    • 

  • Create your personal universe of language that includes at least one word that’s an important abstraction, like truth.
    • 


Source: Poemcrazy: freeing your life with words. Chapters 3 and 4.



If you were to start collecting words today, what are some favorites you'd add first? 





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Saturday, April 5


          

        








by Robert Lowell (1944-77)






photo by Sebastian Ritter, wikimedia commons





I chain-smoked through the night,

learning to flinch

at the flash of the matchlight.



Outside, the summer rain,

a simmer of rot and renewal,

fell in pinpricks.

Even new life is fuel.



My eyes throb.

Nothing can dislodge

the house with my first tooth

noosed in a knot to the doorknob.



Nothing can dislodge

the triangular blotch

of rot on the red roof,

a cedar hedge, or the shade of a hedge.



No ease from the eye

of the sharp-shinned hawk in the birdbook there,

with reddish-brown buffalo hair

on its shanks, one asectic talon



clasping the abstract imperial sky.

It says:

an eye for an eye,

a tooth for a tooth.



No ease for the boy at the keyhole,

his telescope,

when the women's white bodies flashed

in the bathroom. Young, my eyes began to fail.



Nothing! No oil

for the eye, nothing to pour

on those waters or flames.

I am tired. Everyone's tired of my turmoil.





Lowell's use of sound patterns assonance really makes this piece sing. Note the assonance (repeated vowel sounds), like the a in flash...matchlight and the oo in tooth / noosed. I also admire the ch, j, sh consonance repeated in the stanzas (blotch, hedge, sharp-shinned, reddish) and the textural interplay of dryness and wetness in the imagery.



What lines or images stand out to you?





Like poetry? Enter to win my collection!












  



    Goodreads Book Giveaway
  



Muddy-Fingered Midnights by Laurel Garver
    





          Muddy-Fingered Midnights
      



          by Laurel Garver
      



Giveaway ends April 17, 2014.
          

See the giveaway details
            at Goodreads.
          







Enter to win















E: Eye and Tooth









Saturday, April 05, 2014


Laurel Garver





by Robert Lowell (1944-77)






photo by Sebastian Ritter, wikimedia commons





I chain-smoked through the night,

learning to flinch

at the flash of the matchlight.



Outside, the summer rain,

a simmer of rot and renewal,

fell in pinpricks.

Even new life is fuel.



My eyes throb.

Nothing can dislodge

the house with my first tooth

noosed in a knot to the doorknob.



Nothing can dislodge

the triangular blotch

of rot on the red roof,

a cedar hedge, or the shade of a hedge.



No ease from the eye

of the sharp-shinned hawk in the birdbook there,

with reddish-brown buffalo hair

on its shanks, one asectic talon



clasping the abstract imperial sky.

It says:

an eye for an eye,

a tooth for a tooth.



No ease for the boy at the keyhole,

his telescope,

when the women's white bodies flashed

in the bathroom. Young, my eyes began to fail.



Nothing! No oil

for the eye, nothing to pour

on those waters or flames.

I am tired. Everyone's tired of my turmoil.





Lowell's use of sound patterns assonance really makes this piece sing. Note the assonance (repeated vowel sounds), like the a in flash...matchlight and the oo in tooth / noosed. I also admire the ch, j, sh consonance repeated in the stanzas (blotch, hedge, sharp-shinned, reddish) and the textural interplay of dryness and wetness in the imagery.



What lines or images stand out to you?





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          by Laurel Garver
      



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Friday, April 4


          

        








Arranged by Annie Dillard (1945 —)

from Mikhail Prishvin, Nature’s Diary, 1925






Photo by messy cook at wikimedia commons





How wonderfully it was all arranged that each

Of us had not too long to live.  This is one

Of the main snags—the shortness of the day.

The whole wood was whispering, “Dash it, dash it . . .”



What joy—to walk along that path!  The snow

Was so fragrant in the sun!  What a fish!

Whenever I think of death, the same stupid

Question arises:  “What’s to be done?”



As for myself, I can only speak of what

Made me marvel when I saw it for the first time.

I remember my own youth when I was in love.

I remember a puddle rippling, the insects aroused.



I remember our own springtime when my lady told me:

You have taken my best.  And then I remember

How many evenings I have waited, how much

I have been through for this one evening on earth.



Mornings Like This: Found Poems.  New York: Harper Perennial, 1996. 1.





Today's poem comes from a poetic genre that unapologetically makes borrowing its raison d'être [reason for being, a very handy French phrase when you want to sound cosmopolitan :-)]. As the byline says, this piece is "arranged" by the living poet Annie Dillard. The raw material from which she built the piece, however, is someone else's writing. This kind of poem is called "found poetry"



Found Poetry, as the Wikipedia article  defines it, is "a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning. The resulting poem can be defined as either treated: changed in a profound and systematic manner; or untreated: virtually unchanged from the order, syntax and meaning of the original."



Found poems, in other words, take other people's texts and jiggers them into poetry, either by simply altering the line breaks and such, or by mashing together snippets. 



This is clearly one of the least intimidating types of poetry to try yourself. Gather and cobble, and voila, poetry.



Is this something you'd be willing to try? Where might you find inspiring source material? 











D: Dash it









Friday, April 04, 2014


Laurel Garver





Arranged by Annie Dillard (1945 —)

from Mikhail Prishvin, Nature’s Diary, 1925






Photo by messy cook at wikimedia commons





How wonderfully it was all arranged that each

Of us had not too long to live.  This is one

Of the main snags—the shortness of the day.

The whole wood was whispering, “Dash it, dash it . . .”



What joy—to walk along that path!  The snow

Was so fragrant in the sun!  What a fish!

Whenever I think of death, the same stupid

Question arises:  “What’s to be done?”



As for myself, I can only speak of what

Made me marvel when I saw it for the first time.

I remember my own youth when I was in love.

I remember a puddle rippling, the insects aroused.



I remember our own springtime when my lady told me:

You have taken my best.  And then I remember

How many evenings I have waited, how much

I have been through for this one evening on earth.



Mornings Like This: Found Poems.  New York: Harper Perennial, 1996. 1.





Today's poem comes from a poetic genre that unapologetically makes borrowing its raison d'être [reason for being, a very handy French phrase when you want to sound cosmopolitan :-)]. As the byline says, this piece is "arranged" by the living poet Annie Dillard. The raw material from which she built the piece, however, is someone else's writing. This kind of poem is called "found poetry"



Found Poetry, as the Wikipedia article  defines it, is "a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning. The resulting poem can be defined as either treated: changed in a profound and systematic manner; or untreated: virtually unchanged from the order, syntax and meaning of the original."



Found poems, in other words, take other people's texts and jiggers them into poetry, either by simply altering the line breaks and such, or by mashing together snippets. 



This is clearly one of the least intimidating types of poetry to try yourself. Gather and cobble, and voila, poetry.



Is this something you'd be willing to try? Where might you find inspiring source material? 

































            

          

          

        

Thursday, April 3


          

        








By Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919 —)












Photo by Quinn Dombrowski, wikimedia commons







Constantly risking absurdity



                                             and death



            whenever he performs



                                        above the heads



                                                            of his audience



   the poet like an acrobat



                                 climbs on rime



                                          to a high wire of his own making



and balancing on eyebeams



                                     above a sea of faces



             paces his way



                               to the other side of day



    performing entrechats



                               and sleight-of-foot tricks



and other high theatrics



                               and all without mistaking



                     any thing



                               for what it may not be







       For he's the super realist



                                     who must perforce perceive



                   taut truth



                                 before the taking of each stance or step



in his supposed advance



                                  toward that still higher perch



where Beauty stands and waits



                                     with gravity



                                                to start her death-defying leap







      And he



             a little charleychaplin man



                                           who may or may not catch



               her fair eternal form



                                     spreadeagled in the empty air



                  of existence



This piece is what's called ars poetica, "art of poetry," a poem that explores the nature poetry as an art. Here Ferlinghetti compares a poet to a tightrope circus performer or one of the fearless welders who assembles the beams in high rises. 



The way the lines are precariously balanced on the page further reinforces the ideas Ferlinghetti is exploring, visually recreating the balance pole tightrope walkers use.



What lines or images strike you?




Like poetry? Enter to win my collection!










  



    Goodreads Book Giveaway
  



Muddy-Fingered Midnights by Laurel Garver
    





          Muddy-Fingered Midnights
      



          by Laurel Garver
      



Giveaway ends April 17, 2014.
          

See the giveaway details
            at Goodreads.
          







Enter to win















C: Constantly Risking Absurdity









Thursday, April 03, 2014


Laurel Garver





By Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919 —)












Photo by Quinn Dombrowski, wikimedia commons







Constantly risking absurdity



                                             and death



            whenever he performs



                                        above the heads



                                                            of his audience



   the poet like an acrobat



                                 climbs on rime



                                          to a high wire of his own making



and balancing on eyebeams



                                     above a sea of faces



             paces his way



                               to the other side of day



    performing entrechats



                               and sleight-of-foot tricks



and other high theatrics



                               and all without mistaking



                     any thing



                               for what it may not be







       For he's the super realist



                                     who must perforce perceive



                   taut truth



                                 before the taking of each stance or step



in his supposed advance



                                  toward that still higher perch



where Beauty stands and waits



                                     with gravity



                                                to start her death-defying leap







      And he



             a little charleychaplin man



                                           who may or may not catch



               her fair eternal form



                                     spreadeagled in the empty air



                  of existence



This piece is what's called ars poetica, "art of poetry," a poem that explores the nature poetry as an art. Here Ferlinghetti compares a poet to a tightrope circus performer or one of the fearless welders who assembles the beams in high rises. 



The way the lines are precariously balanced on the page further reinforces the ideas Ferlinghetti is exploring, visually recreating the balance pole tightrope walkers use.



What lines or images strike you?




Like poetry? Enter to win my collection!










  



    Goodreads Book Giveaway
  



Muddy-Fingered Midnights by Laurel Garver
    





          Muddy-Fingered Midnights
      



          by Laurel Garver
      



Giveaway ends April 17, 2014.
          

See the giveaway details
            at Goodreads.
          







Enter to win





































        

      












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City dweller, word nerd, Indie film enthusiast and incurable Anglophile. Professor's wife and mom to a young adult daughter. Follower of the Good Shepherd, who is faithful when we are faithless. My poetry and fiction explore the places where heart and soul are tested and growing up truly begins.




I'm also a freelance editor who has been editing professionally since 1991. How can I help you make your manuscript shine? Click my "editing services" tab to learn more












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"A lot of engaging starting points for any writer that will inspire you to write."



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You can face a blank page with confidence when you use these prompts to warm up, beat writer’s block, develop and maintain a writing habit, change up your routine, start a new project, experiment in a new genre, deepen parts of an existing story, or overcome burnout.





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