The prompt for today was to write a nine-line poem. I could choose any form I wished or use a free form verse. I chose a Balassi Stanza where it looks like this:
Rhyme scheme: a. a. d. b. b. d. c..c. d
Syllable count:.. 6. 6. 7. 6. 6. 7. 6. 6. 7
Of course, I chose this form mainly because Balint Balassi is Hungarian. Also, I am taking a crash course in music theory right now, so the poem reflects the terms swimming in my head.
theories
rhythms all frenetic, cadences authentic and deceptively half there. appalachian folk tunes, maqam modes that commune and pulse with joy and despair. musical collision, lydian precision-- complexity that ensnares.
Lately I have been reading through the Poetry Foundation website like a novel. Sometimes I search a theme, sometimes I just read through the site recommendations.
By doing this, I have discovered some amazing poets who were previously unknown to me, and I have also discovered some interesting forms of rhyme and meter.
I experimented today with a rather unusual rhyme scheme in an eight line stanza. It’s been so refreshing to take time each day and write. I’ll tell you, it does something good for my soul.
Never stop dreaming big dreams, friends—it’s the only way you’ll ever attain them.
Dreamers
On small boats, through the long canals, they came settling in the lowlands, digging ditches building dykes and drains, trying hard to tame the water running uphill. They resolved to change their thinking; new habits evolved and soon sleek dwellings began to appear great in hope and greater in scope than fear until the gleaming wheat claimed their riches.
Tell me why it is that hordes of locust love to swarm in the warm, wet month of May. Sudden rain like the mind keenly focused, calls and corrals a throng of living things. And so folks lived like paupers on shoe strings eating barley grass and growing green beans while listening to the constant humming of water flowing and tymbal thrumming. None too soon, the greedy beasts flew away.
And then more dreamers came, some in sleek boats skimming through the canals, seeking reprieve from the mundane and stale in hull-less oats; some carting a lifetime of hopes and dreams in broken barges with leaking seams. But come they did with courageous fervor, to be farmer, builder, and observer— full of faith, hope, and the power to believe.
I took an old prompt and did some stream of consciousness writing. Interesting the things that hide out in our sub-conscious.
I started with a list of eight words and a task. Being a (sometimes over) achiever, I relish the accomplishments of tasks. So I set about this challenge with gusto.
As I have often said, poetry is one of the more uncontrolled writing options. Deep inside of each one of us, there are feelings and thoughts that we seldom give voice. Too often we bury how we really feel in exchange for what is expected of us to feel, or we respond how we are expected to respond by our circle of family and friends.
These words, and perhaps the book attached to the words, brought out some feelings buried just beneath the surface. I have spoken and written before about my complete disgust with platitudes. Too much of my childhood was spent listening to them in sermons or from well meaning members of that religious community. This poem reflects those feelings.
You can try this kind of stream of consciousness writing, too. I highly recommend everyone journal in some way. For me, it can be as cathartic as a good therapy session. (Sorry Kelly.)
Here is what you can do:
Grab the closest book. Go to page 29. Write down 10 words that catch your eye. Use 7 or 8 of those words in a poem. For extra credit, have 4 of them appear at the end of a line.
My word list included these gems:
Supersaturated Concede Let go Strong shouldered Wayward Empty Need Achieve
Once you have gathered your list of words, see what they say to you and put your pen or pencil to the paper or your fingers to the keyboard and start writing! I hope you enjoy the process as much as I did.
Let It Go
Suck up the sorrow like a sweet slurpy through a straw, head resting in hands as if to catch the pain. Let go. Empty yourself of need.
Go on, give in, concede body mind and spirit to the Spirit— It is the Lord’s will after all. He is Sovereign over our pain;
we are supersaturated in the spirit and strong-shouldered; we are weak-kneed, walking wayward. We are walking in the true light;
Let go. Empty yourself of need go on, give in—concede body mind and spirit to the Spirit. It is the Lord’s will after all,
for God is in control, sister; and he will never give you more than you can bear. You can trust him with all your heartbroken pieces.
You need to trust in letting go and letting God. No one else but God. But you see, I stand here alone, in pain, and straining to maintain
any remnant of dignity. How? Tell me, how did we believe all of the crazy platitudes undermining good common sense?
How is grief less of a burden thinking that it is for our best, believing that God allowed this pain for our growth and his pleasure?
I let go of sorrow, let go of dignity in heaving sobs with incoherent words that say just how much I don’t understand.
I stand up, cry out, stamp my feet shout out loud how ruthless and cruel life can be. I don’t shout at God; I acknowledge the suffering
and let it go. I breathe out and release the pain; but when I can’t, I concede. There isn’t always a reason—don’t suck in, let go.
Photo Credit: Thanks 🙌 and shoutout to ShengGeng Lin.
Ok so… my dearest Tracy Jo told me that my writing has been rather dark lately. It’s entirely possible. I write to lay the darkness down in the light, and once the light hits it, it’s no longer darkness.
I dunno, though.
Maybe she’s right about too much, even if I do consider it a good thing.
Maybe I just need some magic in my ordinary days. A little “boost” in the form of a beverage. A little boost in the form of being with friends and family. Don’t we all need that kind of boosting after the crazy year we’ve had?
I’m hoping to have a summer filled with little boosts from family and friends. Maybe I’ll even follow some of the recipes in this poem to boost the magic the extra mile.
Magic in the Ordinary
Two ripe strawberries on the vine bubbling champagne one sugar cube Santé!
Three frothy fronds of dill one fresh cucumber a splash of gin Skål!
One yellow pineapple amber rum a squeeze of orange Salud!
Red bell peppers a handful of cilantro Don Julio Blanco Tequila ¡Al centro!
Valentine vodka a bit of ginger beer one squeeze of lime Prost!
A few drops of Angostura bitters rich ruby port a dash of orange curaçao Saluti!
A wee bit of superfine sugar two ounces of cachaca freshly squeezed lime juice Saúde!
Dark black coffee a tip of Teeling Whiskey fresh whipping cream Sláinte!
Photo Credit: Thanks 🙌 and a great big shoutout to Chilli Charlie
This particular writing challenge was to write a poem that stretches my comfort zone with line breaks. Well, this poem stretched my comfort level with many things.
At first I thought perhaps I’d write a poem with very long lines, or maybe one with very short lines. Or a poem that blends the two? Who knows what that might look like? I vacillated between all of these ideas.
Maybe breaking apart lines to emphasize (or de-emphasize) sounds or rhymes, or creating a moment of hesitation in the middle of a thought might be the way to go.
My method was to read several different poems, and then I began to write. Every poem and its process brings out some different part of myself. Even the story poems that are outside of my personal experience have a piece of me woven into them.
Before posting this poem, I was reading the story of a sweet friend who has deconstructed and reconstructed the faith and religion of her youth. I could totally connect with all that she shared.
For each one of us the process is different, but I hope for each one of you that you love and live near the edge of the world with gusto.
Dry Bones
She loved
near the edge of the world with gusto if not lunacy. she chose unity with herself.
She lost her vision from living in the darkness— the rose colored glasses foggy from flashes of light.
A ray of hope in no man’s land she teetered on the edge of the cliff. The sedge a sign
of her dry bones. the moon rose unbidden, nearly hidden by love.
She loved wild and reckless— in the light no danger of flight— I think.
The poetry challenge I place before you today this: I’d love for you to try writing a lune.
A lune is a sort of English-language haiku. While the haiku is a three-line poem with a 5-7-5 syllable count, the lune has two different options.
The first option for a lune is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable count. The second variant is based on word-count instead of syllable count. This means the poem still has three lines, but the first line has five words, the second line has three words, and the third line has five words again.
I chose this latter form to write my poem. Today I give you a Septet of Lunes. Try your hand at it and share it in the comments. I look forward to reading your take on the lune.
dinner on the deck
the cardinals always come-- strutting red coats, snapping seeds in a single crunch.
the dark eyed junco hops tentatively to feed, nervously glancing side to side
the chickadees flit over lightly with great decorum landing lightly on the feeder.
sparrows hide in the bushes waiting their turn, hanging out in patient packs.
the house finch dines together with the others-- sparrows, chickadee, cardinal and junco.
when the blue jay plows in to feed, the sea of birds part;
but the noisy starlings arrival clears everyone out-- iridescent bullies chasing away friends.
Being completely accepted and loved is something that most humans desire. When you find that person who gathers you in, who pulls you together when the world is pulling you apart, you hold on to them.
If you haven’t found your person, my hope is that you do. And if you already know who your special person is, reach out and gather him or her to yourself.
Maybe it’s a sibling or parent, maybe it’s a friend or spouse. Whoever it is, hold on to them tightly.
Tell them how much you appreciate them.
Remind them how grateful you are for their presence in your life.
The Gathering
You gather all the pieces of me— You gather all the dark places, You gather all the light places, You gather my fears and beliefs.
You weave them together and prove our souls are made of the same cloth. Let’s not forget this, You and me, we find beauty in one another.
When the quiet crumbling comes (and it always comes) we simply move in closer to each other; we gather our single-soul cloth
and drape it to cover us both. We gather underneath the weight— we gather all of our pieces— and we hide in one another.
Since today was my first “official” day of summer vacation, I decided to do a free write of sorts. I combed through my notes, I read poetry, I scoured some essays, and I made lists of solitary words that sounded good to my ear. As I did that, I began to group random words together to form phrases that I thought sounded pleasing when read aloud. This process took some time, but it was worth the effort because at the end, I had a pretty lengthy list of words and phrases from which to choose.
Then I let the Poetry Faerie take over my imagination. I arbitrarily chose words and phrases from my list and started writing my poem. While this seems so very random, something magical always seems to happen.
As the poem emerged, a pattern of eight syllable lines and quatrains began to take shape. I stood, slack jawed as always, in wonder as to the poem that emerged. Somehow, in the writing process, an idea unfolds and a poem takes shape out of nowhere.
I can honestly say, this process always amazes me. I can also honestly recommend this crazy method to anyone who thinks they cannot write.
It works.
Every time.
Trust me. You won’t regret trying it. Let me know if you do. 🙂
Good Graves
Unthinkable suffering happens in spurts—seasons turn and shadows sustain the night like mourning songs bellowing sorrows to the stars.
Come morning, fresh-washed and brilliant, I no longer believe in babes or bathtubs or the heady hum of brass bugles rousing the sun.
I play in the dry dust behind the barn and near the water jar and wash my soul clean as a voice whispers: You no longer believe.
My wandering soul has found rest under the distant black gum tree, who flashes fiery and fulgent in the humid heat of summer.
I’m not sure how to preface this poem. It’s funny how writing “overtakes” me, and some things just write themselves.
In saying that, I don’t mean to oversimplify the process—as though the writer is some kind of medium just repeating what the “writer spirit” says. This poem took me the better part of a full day, and I rewrote it completely three times—crossing out words, changing rhyme scenes, rearranging the form. It was a poem birthed in struggle.
And yet, the poem chose to be born from my pen. It wasn’t a topic or prompt or something that I was told to write about.
This process of writing everyday has been cathartic for me. Since I borderline on OCD whenever I commit to doing something, there is a certain compulsion now to write everyday.
Quite frankly, I’m loving this compulsion. It feels freeing even as it commits me to a task. Crazy, huh?
With all that said, this poem is dedicated to a long time family friend who lost a daughter eight years ago this week. The heartbreak never ends.
In her own words, “No matter how many years go by, our arms never forget the babies we are no longer able to hold.”
Gone Girl
I laid my weary bones in the spot where your heart beat for the last time; I wondered at the peaceful sky— how life has been such a hard, hard climb.
Life works out that way at last— the present lives in tandem with the past.
My eyes cried tears dried up by grief as I danced to the tune of woe like a puppet poised on a string moving in ways I didn’t know.
Life works out that way at last— the present lives in tandem with the past.
The past isn’t past until we say, but I don’t know what you need now. You exist in all who loved you— I feel the soul lingers on somehow.
Life works out that way at last— the present lives in tandem with the past.
Yes you are with me though you’re gone— in everything, it’s you I see. I feel your presence in my life song, casting a sweet spell over me.
Life works out that way at last— the present lives in tandem with the past.
Happy Father’s Day to all the Pops, Dads, Daddies, Papas, Papis, Babas, Role Models, Mentors, and Step Wonders!
Today is Father’s Day, and so naturally I wanted to honor my dad. My Pops was hands-down the best dad on this planet for me.
I chose a new-to-me form called a “pantoum” (a Malay form from Indonesia) because pantoums are about memory and usually compare the present to the past in some way.
Pantoums are made of quatrains of any meter (though syllables are typically regular between stanzas), have no set rhyme scheme, and are really dependent on their repetition of whole lines.
The repetition looks like this: The first stanza A B C D
Second stanza B E D F
Third stanza E G F H
Fourth stanza A I C J
The pantoum carries this continuous pattern until, typically, it ends with lines A and C repeated in the last stanza. (For my pantoum this was the fourth stanza)
Poetry, Ponderings and Possibilities 