|
Free Updates
Navigation
Categories
| November, 2009 (7) |
| October, 2009 (13) |
| September, 2009 (12) |
| August, 2009 (11) |
| July, 2009 (20) |
| June, 2009 (16) |
| May, 2009 (13) |
| April, 2009 (42) |
| March, 2009 (19) |
| February, 2009 (13) |
| January, 2009 (17) |
| December, 2008 (15) |
| November, 2008 (31) |
| October, 2008 (18) |
| September, 2008 (13) |
| August, 2008 (22) |
| July, 2008 (23) |
| June, 2008 (18) |
| May, 2008 (25) |
| April, 2008 (47) |
| March, 2008 (15) |
| February, 2008 (14) |
| January, 2008 (14) |
| December, 2007 (15) |
| November, 2007 (24) |
| October, 2007 (41) |
| September, 2007 (33) |
| August, 2007 (36) |
| July, 2007 (48) |
| June, 2007 (9) |
|
Search
Archives
| | Sun | Mon | Tue | Wed | Thu | Fri | Sat |
|---|
| 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | | 29 | 30 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |
Blogroll
Writing Resources
|
 Monday, March 30, 2009
Interview With 2008 Poetic Asides Poet Laureate Sara Diane Doyle
Posted by Robert
Quick note: I plan on sharing the complete rules, how-to's, advice, etc., on the 2009 April PAD Challenge tomorrow right here on the blog. There's no special registration required--so just check back in tomorrow to get the full scoop on what's expected.
*****
Okay, so one of the cool things about the 2008 April PAD Challenge is that I was able to select a Poetic Asides Poet Laureate. It was a tough decision last year, but Sara Diane Doyle shared some truly great poems through the month. See the announcement (and read some of here April poems) by clicking here.
She even shared a new poetic form with the group after the challenge was over called The Roundabout. You can check out that poetic form by clicking here.
Anyway, she recently let me interview her to see what she's been up to and to share advice with poets new to the April PAD Challenge.
*****
What've you been up to since being named the 2008 April PAD Challenge Poet Laureate?
You mean besides enjoying life in Colorado? Well, I've spent the last year mentoring teen writers, including challenging them with a 12-week poetry project last fall. In November, I wrote a novel with National Novel Writing Month. As of January, I've been focusing on submitting my work, both poetry and prose, to markets.
Who (or what) have you been reading recently?
In 2008, I read 100 books, so I had the chance to read a lot of great writers, including: N.M. Kelby, C.S. Lewis, Alice Hoffman, Madeleine L'Engle, Jane Austen, Garth Nix, and Billy Collins. This year, I'm taking it easier. My current favorites are Jim Butcher's Dresden Files, and my favorite poetry collection of the last few months is Billy Collins' Ballistics. Much of my reading time goes to reading the writings of the teenagers on the forum where I mentor.
How did you manage to write so many good poems throughout the month of April last year?
I don't have a secret recipe, if that's what you're asking! But I know that the more I'm thinking about poetry, the more I'm reading it and writing it, the better I seem to get. So being able to read the poems others were posting helped--it kept spurring me on to better poetry! Also, having the prompts helped a lot. Normally, I have one good poem every so often, largely because I wait to be hit with a great idea. But having a starting point helped get those ideas going. I also tried my hardest to find a different angle on the prompt each day. For example, on day one, when the prompt was to write about "firsts," I saw many poems about first love, first kiss, first child, etc. So I said to myself, "what is a first no one else has written about yet?" That's how I came up with the idea to write about the first time I donated blood. I love to find the tiny, hidden subjects. And if it makes anyone feel better, I had some real clunkers last year--they STILL make me cringe when I read them. So don't try to write 30 amazing poems, write 30 good poems and some of them will be amazing.
Any big plans or goals for 2009?
My goal this year is to get published. So I'm sending out submissions of both poetry and short stories on a regular basis. I'd also like to finish my current novel. And maybe learn another language. I like to have fun goals, and some that I know I can reach with a little effort. Unreachable goals aren't helpful at all.
What's the best piece of advice you've ever been given? And by who?
There are two that vie for first place. The first was "celebrate rejection." My high school creative writing teacher, Mrs. Warner, made this a huge part of our class--she threw a party for the first rejection slip, and really taught me how to embrace the more negative part of the writing life. Rejection is part of the writing business, and if you can't deal with it, or if you take it too personally, it's going to kill you. So I celebrate every rejection I earn--earning a rejection means I'm putting my work out there, and that's how I will get published.
The second is from one of my favorite authors, Jodi Picoult. Her advice: "You can't edit a blank page." That statement has gotten me writing more times than not. A blank page can be intimidating, and I know how easy it is to give into the white space. Sometimes, we are afraid for writing crap, afraid of what will come out, afraid it will be true, etc. But we can't do anything with that fear. We can't edit it, we can't cut out the bad parts, we can't make it better. But if we are willing to write, to fill the blank page, then we can move forward. Most writers aren't brilliant in the first draft. We all have to just get the words down. Once we've done that, it's much easier to make things better!
Do you have any advice for the poets who are entering the 2009 April PAD Challenge?
Yes! Get up and read the prompt early each day. Get it into your head. Then take some time to see it from all sides before you write. Some days, an idea will jump out right away, but some days it might take until nine at night. Don't be afraid to let the idea brew for a while! Pull out all the old tools you were taught in grade school: alliteration, meter, imagery, similes, metaphors, symbolism. Put them to good use. Try some new forms, even if the prompt doesn't call for it. I often use www.shadowpoetry.com as a resource, they list all sorts of poetic forms.
Then, just write. Get it out. Remember, you can edit it later.
And most of all, have fun! I had a blast last year, and I'm looking forward to this year's prompts. Let your friends and family know what you are doing, let them read some of your work. Be excited about poetry! Poet Interviews | Poetic Forms | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Challenge 2009 | Poetry Craft Tips | Poetry Prompts | Poets
Monday, March 30, 2009 3:21:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Sunday, February 15, 2009
AWP Update & More!
Posted by Robert
Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry News | Poetry Publishing | Poets
Sunday, February 15, 2009 1:46:36 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)
|
|
 Friday, October 24, 2008
NaNoWriMo for Poets? PAD Challenge for November?
Posted by Robert
Okay, we're getting closer to November, which for some writers of fiction means it's getting closer to NaNoWriMo time. (Btw, NaNoWriMo translates into National Novel Writing Month.) There are would be novelists lining up to attempt writing 50,000 words or more during the month of November. There's even a NaNoWriMo website you can visit to check out this phenomenon at www.nanowrimo.org.
Anyway, that's all fine and good for those who write fiction. But what are the poets who don't write fiction supposed to do during November? After all, their fiction writing pals are all busy cramming 50,000 words into their laptops and hard drives.
I'm thinking it might be a neat idea to try writing a poem a day in November with the view of trying to have the makings of a chapbook heading into December. If there's enough interest, I would challenge myself and others to write a poem-a-day (as we did in April). I'll provide a prompt-a-day as well to try and help get the poetic juices flowing each day, but you can decide to follow or ignore the prompt as you see fit. After all, our main goal would be to have 30ish poems at the end of the month that you can then try turning into a chapbook submission (or heck, I guess you could self-publish, if that's the route you want to take).
I can tell you now that I won't have the time to highlight poems (as I did in April). But if there's enough interest, I will definitely work to do the prompt and poem each day. So, if you're interested in taking part in such a challenge with me, please let me know in the comments below this post. General | Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry News | Poetry Prompts | Poets
Friday, October 24, 2008 5:22:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Monday, June 23, 2008
Exclusive Interview With Poet Joseph Mills
Posted by Robert
A-ha! Here’s an interview with a poet who participated in the April PAD Challenge and wrote his first ever sestina as a result. As Joseph Mills, author of Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers (Press 53, 2008), comments, “It was smart of you (meaning me, of course) to put that towards the end since by then we were invested in finishing.”
In recent years, Mills has published two collections of poetry through Press 53; the other collection is Somewhere During the Spin Cycle (2006). With his wife, Mills has also put together two editions of A Guide to North Carolina’s Wineries (John F. Blair, 2007). It seems only natural that Mills’ knowledge of wine-making and poetry would create its own poetic blend.
Here’s a favorite poem of mine from Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers and originally published in North Carolina Literary Review:
“Aging”
To speak of a wine’s future
is to speak of our own desires,
how we hope as we age
that we’ll become more
harmonious, less acidic,
that our tannins will mellow.
We recognize right now
we have a burst of flavor,
an energy, a liveliness,
but also a harshness
which later may soften
until we’re more balanced,
more approachable,
easier to appreciate.
Hold onto us;
we believe
we’ll get better.
What are you currently up to?
At the moment, I’m working on a novel set in “Carolina Wine Country” and a young adult novel that deals with the nature of time. I’m also drafting a sequence of poems about my mother’s dementia and other work for my third poetry collection tentatively entitled “Love and Other Collisions.”
So, what led to an entire collection of poems about wine?
In the last half dozen years, my wife and I researched and wrote two editions of A Guide to North Carolina’s Wineries. As we traveled the state, talking to winemakers and winery owners, I found myself with material that wasn’t appropriate for the guidebook, but that I was interested in exploring and using. I wrote a few poems dealing with wine, and they appeared in my first collection of poetry, Somewhere During the Spin Cycle. The wine poems kept coming, and once I had more than a dozen I realized that there would be enough for a collection, and that this would give the volume a nice coherence. Eventually I wrote well over a hundred and then culled the best.
Do you think of yourself as writing for poets who enjoy wine or for wine lovers who enjoy poetry?
For the guidebook, I had a clear audience in mind--people interested in touring or at least learning about the state’s wineries. It’s nonfiction with a straight-forward purpose. For poetry, however, I never think of an actual audience. I write for myself. I work on a poem, and I try to shape it as best as I can. Sometimes I’m not satisfied with it, and I shelve it. Sometimes I’m satisfied enough to consider sending it out for publication which is a way of both inspiring me to work on it more and, once it’s sent, having it out of my sight for a while. Even with publication in mind, however, I don’t imagine an audience, someone actually reading it. I learned a long time ago that when you publish poetry, you shouldn’t expect any kind of response. If you do, you might be waiting a long time.
I hope the book appeals to more people than a Venn diagram middle of poetry lovers and wine lovers. In fact, maybe it will get people more involved in both. My brother, who is a teetotaler, has told me that the poems make him want to drink wine, and my wife likes to say that it’s “poetry for people who think they don’t like poetry.”
In your collection, you use specialized terms, such as "thief" and "angel's share." Do you feel jargon helps the writing process?
I love the specialized language of a field when it is in some way metaphorical. For example, the “angel’s share” refers to the evaporation in the barrels. I find this thought-provoking as opposed to technical language like “thirty inch cartridge filter housing.” I’m interested in the language that’s evocative rather than intimidating or limiting.
Jargon can sound pompous and it can obscure, but the specialized vocabulary of almost any field can be fun. On a film set, when you “cheat” something, you’ve set up an unnatural relationship, moving things too close together, so that it will come out on the film looking right. I find the term fascinating. In music, there’s a chord called “the devil’s interval” which is a terrific phrase.
Religion seems twisted into the wine. Do you find that writing about both religion and wine is a natural?
Because of the nature of grape-growing--the seasonal cycle of pruning and rebirth in the vineyard--and the way wine involves a transformation of grapes, even people who aren’t religious tend to use spiritual language to talk about it. Since what I love about wine are the stories, and historically wine has been an element in so many religions, it’s probably inevitable that I would write about the relationship at least a little.
Who are your favorite poets?
I love the work of John Ciardi, James Wright, and Philip Levine. Billy Collins consistently delights. There are poems by W.H. Auden, Margaret Atwood, Elizabeth Bishop, Randall Jarrell and Gary Snyder that I have returned to dozens of times over the years. I’m a fan of “The Writer’s Almanac” because I like reading just a poem at a time, integrating it as part of the day, and having its selection be a surprise. (It’s why I like the shuffle feature of my iPod.)
What are your favorite wines?
The ones I drink with my wife and with family and friends. The joke in our household is that we only “cellar” wines that we don’t like. If we like it, we drink it. The second part of the joke is that there are only two bottles in the cellar.
One piece of advice for other poets: What is it?
Consider it a life’s work. After twenty years, I’m finally writing poems that I think reward attention. I hope in the next twenty years, I’ll learn to write poems that hold up. And in the twenty years after that…
You write a little bit at a time, consistently, and it adds up, and the work improves. I’ve often had the experience of discovering a way to finally revise a poem that for years hasn’t been quite right or how to use a few lines or ideas that I have squirreled away long ago.
Finally, you're stranded on a deserted island and can only have 3 things with you: What are they and why?
My wife. She’s the only person I know that whenever we leave each other, I immediately want to call her up and see when we can meet. Plus it would finally be a chance for us to have an island vacation together. I would take our two kids, but they would probably get bored, so how about my iPod with a solar charger. It not only has thousands of songs, but also audio books and lectures on subjects that interest me, such as Mark Twain and the Civil War. I also would want a writing utensil that would work until we were rescued and something to write on. Wait, that’s two, isn’t it. Can we consider “a writing package” one item? How about an incredibly durable solar powered laptop? But, then I wouldn’t need the iPod, so what about a guitar with indestructible strings? That’s it: wife, laptop, guitar.
*****
For more on Joseph Mills, check out his Web site at http://www.josephrobertmills.com/.
Here are some of his poems available online from New Works Review:
* "The Thief"
* "Release"
*****
If you're a poet or publisher interested in an interview on the Poetic Asides blog, read more here.
Poet Interviews | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Craft Tips | Poets
Monday, June 23, 2008 7:10:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
Day 22 Highlights
Posted by Robert
On Earth Day, I asked poets to write either a poem about nature or industry; many poets chose to write about both. Here are the ones that caught my eye.
*****
A Haze over Holland
A haze over Holland
looks yellow and gray.
It comes from machines
of this modern day.
Those noisy leaf blowers,
plus busses and trains;
They all make their noises
and spew smoke like rain.
The brooks that are babbling
speak to no ear.
And the whispering winds
we no longer hear.
Loud honking geese
fly unnoticed, it’s true.
Long gone is the quiet
creation once knew.
So out to the country,
a day trip, I’ll take.
I’ll bask in the sunshine
where life’s not so fake.
I’ll listen to bird calls;
hear rustling leaves.
From the haze over Holland,
I’ll have my reprieve.
Sue Bench |hd_ultra_96AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
"Rantings of City-Folk"
I care about the Earth
and all that is in it
I really do realize
our only home is this planet
But out lives are much easier
with modern convenience
Technology improved
from the way we lived once
No longer a candle
or oil it need be
A flick of a switch
for incandescence to see
Forget the horse and buggy
or a ship to sail by
Cars go much faster
and planes let us fly
If you truly miss me
a phone is all you need
Better than waiting days on end
for a letter to read
I know the air is harsh
and the water is muck
And we do so much worse
just to save a buck
But I rather like living
in my city today
And I really wouldn't have it
any other way
Chris Granholm Jr. |chris7baAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Oasis
Western Texas is a desert
so I shouldn't have been surprised
to see a herd of seven camels
in a field near the highway.
But I had only seen camels
in the zoo and at a live nativity.
I held the image close to me
on the long drive home
with the broken A/C
and the fuel tanker overturned
on the interstate, blocking all lanes.
We, and about a thousand other cars,
took the back roads, clogged them
with our impatience, traffic crawling.
Staff members from the nursing home
next to the road ferried out
cups of water to passengers
mired in sweat and road grit.
As the cool liquid passed my lips,
I thought of camels, seven of them,
their field impossibly green.
Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
"Earth Day ‘08"
On the very first Earth Day
my first college girlfriend and I
helped plant trees on the campus.
We were naïve enough to believe
that putting a few saplings in the ground
would help save the planet.
We didn’t do enough – big enough,
hard enough, soon enough.
Now the future is a gamble,
but everyone is going green
because it’s very chic
and a hot-button business.
I did my part today –
walked to the supermarket
instead of taking the hybrid,
but forgot my reusable canvas bags.
Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net
*****
Desert Seagull
Swirling hawk over man-made lake
Seagull of the desert
Dipping and diving
Looking for a single tasty fish
Ever vigilant in his watch
He is master of his domain
Water, land and sky
Satisfied to be soaring now
Looking for just one
Day’s worth of sustenance
Content to live only for today
And let tomorrow take care of itself
Tonya Root |booklet dot geoAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Where is the Nature
Not in the lilacs beginning to bud
nor in those three rose tulips--
not in the leaves of the Japanese maple
beginning to unpleat themselves
like small hands made of feathers--
not in the plum blossoms that litter the ground
like yesterday's leftover snow--
not even in the ravine
where moss climbs the tree trunks
in shadows and paves the road a brilliant green.
You'll find no wildness here, unless
you can spot the possums, raccoons--
unless you can see the belly of the coyote
who comes out only at night.
Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
So easy
To get spooked on the lake,
Where deep water meets the bank,
Not near the houses with their sand beaches
Sloping into clear water where matted weeds
Support the squawky little birds that like
To walk on them, not there, but in the brown murky
Water near Leu Gardens where thick ogre fingers reach up
To rake the bottom of the canoe. And when
I look down, their ragged sleeves of moss
Give them so much life that I flinch,
Even knowing they are only
Dead tree branches.
Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
Nature's Kaleidoscope
Butterflies, ladybugs, bumblebees,
Lend color to the sky like a kaleidoscope.
Hush and hear the hummingbird
Adding his melody to the evening sounds.
Soon the sky will be filled with the twinkle
Of fireflies flitting about.
Living creations on a miniature scale
Painting a moving canvas if we but pause to observe.
Dragonflies, moths, and cicadas too
Wear their camouflage to blend in.
As they move the patterns change
Never the same view but always beautiful.
Iris Deurmyer |mfumcyouthAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net
*****
Naming
"and then awakening naked
to be tattooed by the rivers"
---Pablo Neruda
Rivers all leave their mark
as easily as ink---
your pink flesh stamped
blue-green forever,
colors shifting in the sunlight
turning muddy brown
when your mind
is troubled with grief.
The pain of the rivers' needle
will never fade. Each prick,
10,000 tiny stabs, will all
prove unique, seperate pains
& while you lay beneath the stars
rubbing the place they claimed,
the rivers will call to you
& you will remember their many names.
Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
As I drive
rays of sunlight
seep through
gray, indifferent clouds.
Soothed by
my passenger's Jamaican lilt
I ask,
where are you from.
St. Mary's.
It's a lil country town.
It's quiet.
No chasing after
ten o'clock.
There
you wonder
where it is.
I dream of
sitting on sandy shores
as blue see-through water
laps at my toes,
with a plate of
green bananas
and callaloo
balanced on my knees.
Will you ever go back home
to live,
I ask.
No, he says.
We all say
we will
but we don't.
I suddenly close
the windows
as smoky air
leaks in.
I clear my throat
trying to expel
the odor
of progress.
Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Chance Encounter
They were there as we rounded the bend
on the highway, myself not driving so I
had the chance to glimpse them for a
second and turn my head to the right
And the wonder I never quite got
over from seeing their delicate brown
bodies suddenly dart across my vision
filled me with amazement and fueled
my every breath as if watching them
were powering my soul.
Nibbling on the tender grass shoots
their heads down and close to the
earth I felt an intruder in their world.
Heedless of the speeding cars passing
them they dined on their favorite dish.
Dozens crowded the two spaces gathering
together from their hiding places during
the day to appear at twilight as if in a
dream holding still like a Seurrat painting.
Their eyes weren't visible from the road, but
I remembered close up eyes innocent and
startled staring at me in horror from past
encounters and prayed no eager young fawn
would venture too far off the grass into the
incoming traffic. Nature needs a boundary
to survive these days.
Barbara Ehrentreu |lionmotherAT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
SPICE RACK
These days, my clean mugs and dinner plates
spend their drying time in a chrome dish drainer
that glints with pride at its airy and streamlined efficiency,
and where my belts once flopped over the rod,
now they hang, subdued,
on a maple rack near the lightswitch.
There’s a silver basket for soap
stuck with suction cups
to the back corner of the shower,
it is so easy to get clean,
and I’ve wound the hose into respectable coils
on a keeper by the spigot out back.
Little by little, I’m replacing the clunky
ordinariness you left with good design a lá Target.
I can find the paring knife, my spices are all in a rack
and there’s no one home to cook for.
Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu
*****
Nature
I stepped outside
into a spring
so alive
I could feel
my pupils shrink.
JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Spring in the Fred Meyer Parking Lot
So what if the keys are locked in the car,
it’s warm sitting on the hood in the spring sun
and the cherry trees are blossoming, pink popcorn
petals waft by in the breeze, scattered like confetti
on the sidewalk.
The smell of fried chicken permeates
the air, a crow flies by with a French fry
in it’s beak, dusky sparrows peck at weeds
coming up through the pavement, the AAA man
arrives but we are in no hurry.
Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
A Cold Spring
Every year it’s a scheduled surprise
How fast the buds take their leaf shape
From tiny nub to eager crumpling
Of green ready to photosynthesize.
Too fast, as it turns out, this time-
After a cold winter, a colder spring
(It seems)-the pummeling breeze
Snaps the seedlings at their tethers,
The sparrows pretending to be plump,
But only full of frosty air and feathers,
And the pale leaflets hang from meager
Branches while the tiny ice balls
Flail and fall.
Hope Greene |hopeAT NOSPAMhopegreene dot com
Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Monday, June 23, 2008 4:17:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Thursday, June 05, 2008
Day 21 Highlights
Posted by Robert
That's right! I have not forgotten there are still 10 days of highlights left from the April PAD Challenge--well, actually, 9 days after this one. :)
For Day 21, I asked poets to write a "snooping" poem where they take some overheard conversation and work into a poem. Here are the highlights.
*****
Listening to Life
As I passed by the
corner booth in the
all-night diner I heard
the girl say "be sure to
be on time" and he said
"I will be but you be sure
to have the bathtub filled
with spaghetti" and for the
first time in my life I realized
that adventures I didn't understand
were going on all around me.
Alfred J Bruey |ajbrueyAT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
The Properties of Imaginary Space
Balloons in pink and green
rest still by the fronds of time
the emergent behavior of aliens
is not that of predation
in the constrained dynamics
of the way things are.
But the conversation moves on
and those in its wake
blink and wonder
when the coffee will be drunk
and whether the square root
of negative one is of any consequence
to the niche we fill.
Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com
*****
Quien sabe?
Who knows?
I pick up a bit here
a bit there
(Isn't that what Tonto said
just about every week
to the Lone Ranger?)
what else did she say?
Quien sabe?
Poco a poco
Little by little
living in Mexico
has gotten through my
stiff United States
psyche so I can
be happy
poco a poco.
Ni modo.
No dice
it translates in my
Spanish English
English Spanish
dictionary
but what they mean is:
oh well
that's how it is
ni modo
Poco a poco
we pack to leave
Quien sabe
when we shall return
Ni modo
this not knowing.
Kimberly K |kekinserAT NOSPAMmac dot com
*****
What a Week
Don’t they think we know anything?
These kids say four-twenty like it’s
Some secret code known only to Gen-Y.
The snickers they think go undetected
Don’t.
Why, I haven’t gone to work on four-
Twenty since Columbine; I haven’t flown
Since before nine-eleven,
Since Katie was born.
They may find amusement in that
Holiday that Hallmark forgot,
National Pot Smoking Day,
But those of us who catalog
These things think of
Hitler’s birthday, Waco,
Columbine. Knowing the eerie
Play of anniversaries, we hold
Our breaths—
At least one day until Earth Day arrives.
When our world goes green,
We don’t plan to dry it and
Keep it in a Ziploc.
Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
*****
The Pope's in Town
"Where are my papers?"
asked the lady with the wild eyes
who came to court with a sitting stool
to make sure her son, his many voices
making chaos in his head, gets a fair hearing.
But it's never fair,
not for her golden-hair boy,
held at Rikers for brandishing a knife
at a Starbucks in Midtown;
not for her,
and the class she'll almost certainly fail
because she can't keep her notes straight,
or finish the tests,
or keep track of papers.
Nor is it fair, during this glorious
springtime in Manhattan,
(did you hear the Pope was in town?)
the magnolia trees blooming on Fifth Avenue,
the crowds wildly waving flags
for the man in white,
who has a surprising look of delight
on his stern face,
that she must go home without her son.
"Where are my papers?" she asks the lawyer,
who tries to be patient,
knowing she can't save her son, nor can he.
ann malaspina
*****
Overheard Conversation/Mom and My Brother
“Did you try to see him?” I heard her ask,
and I think she was nervous. “Once. He
chased me away with a shotgun. Told me to
get off his property.” I’d heard them talk before
about my brother’s real father, not the name
on the birth certificate, but the husband
of her sister. They were divorced now, and
he lived on a small patch of land in a small
trailer. “Did he know who you were?” I don’t
know if they even remembered I was in the
back seat. “Yeah. I told him. He didn’t care.”
I sat in silence, like I had so many times as
a kid. “Well, you tried.” But here I was, an
adult and still sitting on the outside, “Yeah.
I tried at least. All I can do,” listening in.
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Behind the Register
Lines form at all the cashiers.
Naturally my friend and I
Pick the wrong one
We’re next but the young cashier
Is busy flirting with the male cashier
To her right
The merchandise sits on the
Counter like a purchase mistake
That no one wants
“Ooh, I just got a paper cut.
Do you think it’s going to bleed?”
She asks the male,
Batting her eyelashes. Her nails are
Bent over the tops of her fingers
Like my dog’s claws
“Well, they don’t always bleed,”
He says. She lifts the afflicted finger
In the air and
Bravely rings up our purchase
All the while pushing at the
Cut. “Oh I know
It’s going to bleed and I hate
Blood. “If it bleeds,” he says,
“You can leave early.”
She smiles and deftly places the aging
Item in a bag, staples the receipt, and
Hopes for blood.
Sara McNulty |smcnultyAT NOSPAMsi dot rr dot com
*****
“Hon, have a dime?’
She hiked up sagging hose,
pink lines snaking up brown arms,
and as she bent over
her skirt bunched in the back
and her mouth split open
into a snaggled-tooth grin
and a crooked cackle that floated
over the low roar of vendors
hawking, “turkey wings
two bucks each” and “get your
dry roasteds here.” The man,
austere in grey pinstripes,
black wingtips, and a frown,
stepped ‘round her cairns
of blue plastic and brown paper
and rolling malt empties,
shaking his head with a “no money,
sorry”, fingering his back pocket
as he stood in line for a Mary
Mervis roast beef special.
Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Coming Together
Gleeful Guy starts gathering them around.
“Com ‘ere, come ‘ere, come ‘ere…”
“See how comfortable these chairs are
when you *first* sit in them?”
He spins, leans back,
gleaming at the gathering cubical lemmings.
“Are you kidding?”
a nerdy lemming responds
bumping Gleeful Guy aside
to maniacally type away.
“Check out this video of a pole dancing class
that ends in a chick fight!”
“I’ve got one now,”
says the Blonde, sliding between them,
easily taking over. Then she
frowns, stares, sighs.
“Okay; that’s impossible.”
“Did you forget something…again?”
Pole Dancing Guy, dripping with sarcasm.
“She’s just twitterpated,” Gleeful Guy jumps in
thinking he’s chivalrous.
“Poor thing,” Disdainful Dame says
watching,
arms folded,
entranced by the whole thing anyway.
“Where is everybody?” the Boss’s voice rings out.
“I got an urgent message.”
Workers scatter like cockroaches,
caught
under sudden, harsh,
unexpected light,
while a distant voice says
“What do you mean you’re going on vacation?”
Rox |babayagaAT NOSPAMbaymoon dot com
*****
Did something crawl into you too
You watch
The bird
On the wind
Soaring
High above the world
Looking down
On the ones it passed
On it’s way up.
You see the butterfly
Emerging from it cocoon
And taking flight
And the caterpillar
Crawling into its nest
Of silken fibers
Ready for its transformation
And you see the worm
Chewing its way
Into the heart
Of the peach
Hiding, destroying, corrupting
And you
You are that worm
Or did something
Crawl into you too?
Anahbird |anahbirdAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
You’re Not My Friend Anymore
The good morning song
is interrupted by fatal words
proclaiming the dissolution
of friendship between
one five year old and another.
In Kindergarten, solidarity
is a tenuous proposition
hinging on simple acts:
the reclaiming of an offered toy
a decline to share fruit roll ups
or the choice to sit next to
someone else.
Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net
*****
Why Can’t I
But, why can’t I stay home with dad
“Because I said No”
I promise not to drive him mad
I don’t want to go
Grandma’s so boring
Besides, when she gets mad
she starts ignoring
Why can’t I stay home with dad
He’s more fun
I promise not to be bad
anyway, I’m not the only one
Dora, Misery and Wojo
get on his nerves
I don’t want to go
If I promise to be good
I’ll bet if you ask him he would
Go ask him, betcha’ he’ll say yes
I won’t just be good, I’ll be the very best . . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 4/22/08
Rodney C. Walmer |wasitchuAT NOSPAMoptonline dot net
*****
“We’ll have some kind of opening something. Something will happen.”
Something doesn’t tell me anything.
Something could be one thing or nothing.
The world is full of somethings.
But please give me something, anything.
Everything is a something.
And something could be anything.
So please give me something that’s not anything.
And I’ll be able to figure out what the heck that something is.
It could be everything.
Something will happen?
I know something will happen!
But that something could be anything.
That something is everything.
If that something is nothing, that’s something.
I need to know if that something will be nothing.
I need to know if that something will be one thing or another thing.
I need to know if that something could be everything.
KP |kerritothepointAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
HAWAIIAN EARRING
He spends his days developing
theories of of geometic topology, his nights
playing video poker and occaisionally
his wife coaxes him to step
out of the darkness to pour wine for guests
he won’t look directly in the eye.
“I’d do that,” he says of walking
the length of the Appalachian trail,
not to prove himself against the distance
or immerse himself in wildness, but
for the routine, to get up each morning
knowing you will walk thirty miles,
the only way is forward.
Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu
*****
My trip to Phoenix was a disaster
I got this present for you in Sedona
This little bead of a bone cat that sleeps
Trimmed in rough polymer paint
With whiskers of black and cheeks of peach
a little old 96 year old woman makes these.
You can do with it what ever you want
I just used the string to get it to you
My daughter was mean
Said I was repeating myself
Said I couldn’t watch her children
I’m not trustworthy
I finally told her
“Bite me”
Barbara Torke |sparkyspiderAT NOSPAMkaycee dot net
*****
mystery prize
we are being
led on a leash
all the way
to the back
of our cracker-
jack mailboxes
sniffing through
the sweet
and finding
it's just nuts
we are waiting
for the check
that balances
out distress; the economy
has gone
broke or broken
this supposed
free money, dangled
hopes and paper
above the masses
"is it the key
to controlling
all of mankind?"
we are fish
bound to find
the hook, wormless
the price
of lives and gas
is a series:
games greater
than equal-to
and less-than signs
let us wait
patient as dominoes
for the finger
to tip us right
over
k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
OVERHEARD CONVERSATION
Normally I'm not a nosy person,
but sometimes I can't help but snoop.
The other day I couldn't resist,
listening in on your private conversation.
You were telling your friend about,
how you're cheating behind my back.
I even heard you laughing because,
you believed I would never find out.
You may think that you're very clever,
but here real soon you will realize,
how a scorned woman gets revenge.
Darla Smith |writer_darlaAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Symphony
“I want a piece of quiet,”
you order, just like you order
a turkey sandwich on rye.
So I’ll try to pull out
the piece of quiet, right next
to the slice of serenity.
But my body resists the lock
of stillness—my toes tap,
my fingers drum, I click my pen
in time with the music
I hear in my head.
When you look up, I freeze,
waiting for another reprimand.
But you smile and wink,
“Oh, I love the sound of you.”
Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
'Cause Here's the Thing
All you have to do is look interested
I'll babble on about things that might
seem uninteresting to you,
And I'll be completely oblivious.
'Cause here's the thing,
Nobody's more interesting than me
I'm in to everything you're not.
I'll interrupt interesting conversations
you're having with someone else
'Cause here's the thing,
I never learned social grace
I was too wrapped up in myself
to notice there are rules
Social rules that one learns by doing
'cept I never do it, so don't blame me
'Cause here's the thing,
You'll only know me for a short while,
And in that time some nugget of wisdom
or truth may sneak out of my mouth
It might take you a while to figure out
'Cause here's the thing,
Something I say will stick in your head
And as you roll it around in there, a
light bulb will come on
And you'll actually learn something from
the experience
Justin M. Howe |howefitzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Thursday, June 05, 2008 1:53:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Wednesday, May 21, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Awards Ceremony
Posted by Robert
It's been 3 weeks since the end of the April PAD Challenge. I hope everyone's continued writing regularly since the end--even if that only means a poem or two per week. After all, that's part of the challenge, I think, is turning writing into a regular (or, at the very least, semi-regular) routine. Based off the participation in the Wednesday Poetry Prompts, I'd say many of you are still keeping at it.
The challenge involved more than 400 poets who posted at least one poem during the month and more than 4,000 total poems. My current records show that more than 120 poets actually completed the April PAD Challenge through the blog. Anyone who thinks poetry is dead should not visit Poetic Asides during the month of April, because they'll experience severe culture shock. And for that, I thank all of you.
So anyway, I named the 2008 Poetic Asides Poet Laureate earlier this morning: Sara Diane Doyle. To see the official announcement and read some of the poems she posted to the site, just click here.
In addition to the 2008 Poetic Asides Poet Laureate, though, there are a few other special mentions I would like to make.
The Most Prolific Poet Award is actually a tie between Rodney C. Walmer and Iain D. Kemp. The two actually seemed to have become friends during the month, swapping poems and music. I'm not sure who posted more poems (I can't count that high), but they both surely surpassed 100 poems each.
The Poet Most Likely to Write About a Comic Supervillain Award goes to Kateri Woody, who not only wrote about the Joker throughout the month of April but also inspired several poets to write about the Joker's foil Harley Quinn. Way to stick with it, Kateri.
The Most Hated Poetry Prompt Award goes to Day 28's write a sestina prompt.
The Most Loved Poetry Prompt Award goes to Day 28's write a sestina prompt. Apparently, poets feel passionately one way or the other on this prompt--and poetry should always be about passion, right? (Now I'm gonna get flooded with reasons why poetry should not always be about passion, huh?)
*****
For the final award, join me in congratulating the 120+ poets who completed this April PAD Challenge. They are (in no particular order):
Alfred J Bruey; Anahbird; Angie Bell; Diane Mowery; Rebecca; Roxanne Nicholson; Bonnie; Tonya Root; Lori; Barbara Tzetzo Gosch; Salvatore Buttaci; Corinne; Christa R. Shelton; John H Maloney; Carol A Stephen; IleanaCarmina; Cathy Sapunor; Carol Boudreau; Cheryl Wray; Chris Granholm Jr.; Carla Cherry; Connie; Lisa McMahan; Carol Brian; Liza; Linda SW; Amanda Selset; Beth Browne; Bonnie MacAllister; Bruce Niedt; Devon Brenner; Don Ford; Don Swearingen; Emily Blakely; Earl Parsons; Justin Evans; A.C. Leming; Jeanette J. McAdoo; Genta; Sue Bench; Deb Hill; Michelle Cooper; Justin M. Howe; Iain D. Kemp; k weber; Margaret Fieland; January G. O’Neil; JL Smither; Yoli; Joannie Stangeland; Joe; Kate Berne Miller; Kimberly Kinser; Christine Kephart; KP; Kevin; Mike Padg; Karen; LindaTK; Kateri Woody; Lyn Sedwick; lynn rose; LBC; Khara House; Laura Hoopes; Monica Martin; Elizabeth Keggi; Lin Neiswender; Barbara Ehrentreu; Laurie Kolp; Linda Brown; Linda Hofke; Lorraine Hart; Omavi Ndoto; Marcos Cabrera; Matthew Abel; Susan M. Bell; Maria Jacketti; M. Schied; Michelle Hed; Mike Barzacchini; M J Dills; Robin Morris; Judy Stewart; Jolanta Laurinaitis; Sarah; Nancy; Patti Williams; Bill Kirk; Rosemary Nissen-Wade; AlaskanRC; Sarah; Maureen Sexton; Sara Diane Doyle; Shirley Ann Tracy; Satia; Sally DiUlus; Sharon Ingraham; Shana; Renee Goularte; Callan Bignoli-Zale; Dee IKJ; Sheryl Kay Oder; Marcus Smith; SaraV; Barbara Torke; Lyn Michaud; Kriss; Paige; Sara McNulty; Suzanne Poor; Tad Richards; halfmoon_mollie; TaunaLen; Judy Roney; Teri Coyne; Susan Reichert; Terri; Jay Sizemore; Virginia Snowden; Rodney C. Walmer; Victoria Hendricks.
Congratulations to all of you! My month/year/decade has been made by your amazing commitment to this challenge--as well as your crazy praise that will have me blushing until the 22nd century rolls around.
All finishers will receive an award to place on their blogs, sites, etc. (created by our magazine design team). In addition, they'll receive these cool certificates of completion (created by our book design team). I'd like to thank both design teams for volunteering their time to this poetic cause.
(If your name was not among the finishers and you think it should've been, just send me an email at robert.brewer@fwpubs.com with the subject line "Where's my name, yo?" I'll be sure to work with you to get your name properly listed.)
*****
Okay, so after you get done congratulating each other, everyone should head on over to the Poetic Asides group at http://forum.writersdigest.com and share your thoughts on the challenge, the awards, and anything else.
Oh yeah, and remember: I'll be answering questions in the Poetic Asides group tomorrow from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. (EST) if anyone's got questions about poetry, publishing, etc. I'll be sharing my advice with any who show up. See you there.
*****
And one more time: Thank you all sooooooo much for participating in the 2008 Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge! See you all next year--when I offer up 30 straight days of sestinas (just kidding--or am I?). Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry News | Poets
Wednesday, May 21, 2008 4:27:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
Sara Diane Doyle Named Poet Laureate of Poetic Asides
Posted by Robert
Before getting into this post, I want to say that the April PAD Challenge is not about competing as far as the quality of poetry is concerned. It's very simply a challenge to write one poem per day for the 30 days of April. If all goes well, you'll have 30 (or more) poems more on May 1 than you had on March 31.
Also, as part of the spirit of the challenge, it's assumed that the poems submitted for the April PAD Challenge are all either first or very early drafts of poems. So please don't worry yourself over who is or who is not highlighted each day and/or any other type of spotlighting of certain poets. Nothing done here should be done in a competitive way. Instead, everything should be cooperative. After all, we are (or, at least, we should be) a community of poets trying to help each other succeed.
That said, I want to congratulate Sara Diane Doyle for being named the 2008 Poet Laureate of Poetic Asides. There were many poets shortlisted for this honor, but after going through all the days' poems several times, it became apparent that Sara deserves this year's honor.
The honor is purely symbolic. Sara receives no compensation (sorry Sara) and is not expected to do anything specific (after all, she's not receiving any compensation). But my hope is that she will do her part, in whatever small way, to spread the poetic gospel--both online and off (no pressure intended, of course, Sara).
So anyway, please join me in congratulating Sara--and maybe next year one of you will be the next Poetic Asides Poet Laureate. In the meantime, I'm going to include a few of my favorite poems from Sara during the challenge.
Mischance
The doorbell rings just as the phone starts to buzz and the kids run through the room, voices shrieking on high. The dog joins the chorus and she shakes her head as she watches the words that were almost a poem sail quietly out the window.
*****
How My Memory Behaves
Like aged lovers, too many years together, we bicker over the details. I learned long ago you have your faults, but joined as we are, I can't grudge them.
We take walks down that proverbial lane and you dawdle, you lollygag, you stop to smell a flower that looks familiar but you won't tell me the name. And when I call you to my side with a question, sometimes your eyes glint--impish elf!-- and you withhold. Other times, not so proud, you pull the answer from a dusty shelf. But my favorite times are the ones when you close your eyes, you know you knew once upon a yesterday, but can't for the life of you recall when. Later, you'll wake me from sleep, eager, smiling, to give the answer to a forgotten question.
We will grow old together-- sit on the swing swaying forward and back, back and forwards again, laughing at how much we can't remember.
*****
Muse
At three p.m. I push back the silk eye mask that shelters my delicate eyes from harsh daylight. I've left my charge to wade the early hours of the day alone, unguided, uninspired. After a quick tossle of my auburn curls, I start my daily stretching routine--poke the fantasy still ten chapters away from completion, poke the short story idea she still hasn't put to paper, poke the poem, the one about the plum, that she just can't figure out.
My workout complete, I lounge on a velvet chaise and eat cold grapes until she calls for my aide. I sip wine as she pounds her head and the keyboard-- a slave to my whims.
*****
Explanation
Forgive the laughter-- it bubbled up from my toes and spilled out over my lips and had nothing to do with your coming in. Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry News | Poets
Wednesday, May 21, 2008 1:38:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Monday, May 12, 2008
Day 20 Highlights
Posted by Robert
On Day 20, I asked you to write a Love poem. And the sparks started flying immediately. There's no better way to start a week than with a little love, so without further ado.
*****
Helping Hands
It would be better to think
you were made for me
a custom order
handcrafted to please
those hands that have held babies
carried groceries
and tarped roofs
were just praciting
for that day in the yard
when you reached out
to steady me
and keep me from falling
Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
After the Whole Day
Let me feed you
cheeses on a plate.
Let me roll for you
raviolis of gorgonzola,
swirled in a cream sauce
with walnuts, tarragon.
See how the water simmers.
See how the windows steam.
Let me serve you a salad--
frisee and pear,
delicate curls of pecorino,
a whisper of truffle oil.
I have in my kitchen
scallops to sear,
chicken to roast,
and a medley of roots
tossed with oregano, balsamic,
and then a little lemon tart.
When you come home
with the sound of the saw in your ears
and mahogany dust in your hair,
let me pour you a glass of Champagne,
let me take your hands
and lead you to the table you made.
Let me feed you, fill you.
Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
My Mistake
Tentative touches cannot explain
how much you've actually
changed me.
Long, light strokes down
a make-up smeared cheek
try to tell you that
I care.
Finger tips pressing lasciviously
into firm thighs attempt
to get you to realize
that I do want you.
It was a mistake to try and
send you out of my life -
to try and hide the fact
that I do, love you.
It's too late for me to
try and take that back;
to un-tell you that I can't
have you, have these
feelings.
But I can try to win back
your favor, your desire
with the slightest whisper
of a kiss on your painted mouth,
promising much more than
words ever could.
Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu
*****
One Incarnation of Love
cleans the litter-box,
cackles, wakes me up with
political commentaries,
of a world pregnant
with entropy, a blue rose with warts.
Good love is a mentholated powder
on the prickly heat of this world.
Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
I Miss My True Love
Once again, dear, you’re on the road.
We’re separated by miles and highways,
But linked by cell.
Several times a day, we’ll talk,
But the other half of the bed tonight
Will stay cool, empty, and neat.
I should be used to kissing you goodbye
By now.
But I’m not.
I want you to come home, kiss me good-night,
And lie beside me till I hear the reassurance
Of your warm breathing,
The rhythm of your sleep,
The sure, sweet, safe knowledge
That you are here
And always will be.
Karen |kphillipsoAT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
Awaken
The Man in the Moon knows.
He stays up past dawn
To watch us.
The morning doves
Nest near our window
For inspiration.
And daffodils
Bow in our direction,
Accepting the warmth.
While the world
Is aware of
Our love,
We are oblivious
To all but
Each other.
Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
How to Write a Love Poem
Choose an iambic vessel for your pleasure
An octave and sestet for good measure
A dash of onomatopoeia will suffice,
Boom Boom,’s too much, but pit-a-pat is nice.
Ask for my heart. Surely I’ll recognize
Synecdoche and give the rest as prize.
Love, dove; strife, life—use no rhymes so cliché;
Choose simplest words for what you have to say.
Give love its legs, you must personify
A living thing, but do not let it die.
Don’t mix your metaphors, but be direct
Use similes as well that may reflect
A view of love by what it most resembles
And spice it up with literary symbols.
But don’t dare use the least hyperbole
If you want to get within a million miles of me.
Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
*****
Tell me Saturday,
Monday, Wednesday afternoon;
Tell me riverside,
Mountain, desert canyon, sea.
Lover, tell me – and soon, soon.
ck |kephartceAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
Sweet apple blossoms
and succulent plums
sit tired and spent beside us
on a now stained picnic
blanket. And you lace
flowering white in my hair
as the pulpy red hearts
disappear across the grass.
And we wrap ourselves in sheets
of light and hold each other
firmly by the core.
And the sun sinks into universal dawns
as you whisper those
plum somethings in my
blooming ear.
Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
The volume could be lower.
Silence would be best.
Tonight the History channel
vies with ESPN. World War II
echoes around me as I try
to write a love poem, today’s
poetic aside.
Serious tones announce German attacks.
Next voices rise with excitement:
the 76ers have won a NBA game. Innings pass;
76,000 men are taken prisoners.
I think love is here
in this rented room,
in the words I do not speak,
in the poem I don’t write.
Beth Camp |bluebethleyAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
I’d Like To Take You To Dinner
At the Rockin’ Comet Diner
the waitresses wear t-shirts
that say, “Nothin’ could be finer,
than this Carolina diner,”
and we sit at a small chipped table
crowded with condiments
and a dented napkin holder.
You order liver and onions,
I get fried green tomatoes and fried okra
because this a Southern diner, after all
and Southern food is all about fried,
but we skip dessert,
which might have been banana pudding,
partly because we’ve eaten enough
and partly because we can’t wait
to get home.
Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com
*****
In Tent
Bluejays riot in the campsite:
s'more debris, hot chocolate powder
and apple peels overlooked in last
night's rush to bed are their morning
feast.
Eventually we will
have to open the zipper,
get up and clean up
the table.
Let's just lay here for now
remembering our own discovery
and content.
Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Green Lakes
I wore the sunburn on the back of my neck
like a badge. Earned from an hour spent
in a paddle boat, on that lake. That lake.
The bacteria makes appear it green, the sign said.
A glacier compelled by invisible forces,
carving into the soft pre-history earth,
made it deep. And the sunfish swimming
just below my floating body, made me scream.
You laughed pulling me to you.
I said i hated you, for not telling me it was there.
Your face found the curve between my neck and shoulder.
My feigned fury dissolved into the water.
Days like that, never last forever.
Crystal Cameron |crystalclouded731AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
geese bring the
spring time
back with them
their V across
the sky ripping
winter in pieces
with them comes
earlier dawns
later sunsets
rising of sap
blood courses faster
there are those
who would waste
these hours
but in your company
they seem all too
short I watch you
more through the
honey light and
feel my heart swell
and open like
the buds of
lilacs that
wave behind you
in our window
halfmoon_mollie |tamsinAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com
*****
The Awakening
I wake to the curve
of a familiar hip,
draped with a swath
of modest sheet…
nakedness reveals all
and sometimes that is too much,
in the morning light
this baring of body and soul.
And filtered through the
blinds, horizontal punctuation marks
of last night’s encounter
are reminders of spent love.
You turn,
the sheet slips away
and in the first rays of
consciousness
I know why I am here.
anne |atkrakAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Lust and Exhaustion are lovers,
they stay up all night, every night
it’s like being young again, only
they are not. Lust drives to work
in the early morning light, moon
sharing the sky with the rising sun,
too tired to see straight, thinking
half of what I’m feeling isn’t love,
it’s sheer exhaustion: The gritty eyes,
the illusion of floating off the ground,
the champagne bubbles in the chest.
Back in her apartment, Exhaustion
rolls over in her sleep, smiling.
Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Monday, May 12, 2008 2:43:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Friday, May 09, 2008
Day 19 Highlights
Posted by Robert
On Day 19, I asked you to write a poem about a memory of yourself that you personally could not remember. For instance, something from early on in your youth, from blacking out because of drinking or medication, or from just having a horrible memory, I guess. I used some anecdotes from my youth and something I said in my sleep, for instance.
The poems you came up with were awesome. There's always so much honesty and passion behind these poems. And they ran the gamut--from terrifically funny to terrifyingly tragic.
*****
Four lives before age six
I recall reaching
For the orange cup.
But don’t remember
How the bleach burned
Going down my throat.
I see the storm door
In my mind’s eye.
But don’t remember
Going through it
arm first.
And I see the pavement
Pass inches below
My nose,
But don’t know how
The car door opened.
And I don’t remember
Falling from the
Second-story balcony.
But still feel the cool grass
Beneath my broken shoulder
Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Night Terrors
When I was a little girl,
One night I awoke
On the kitchen table
Beside the salt and pepper shakers.
My mother tells me
I used to dive bomb
Out of my crib,
That she could not build
High enough walls to cage me.
If anyone nears my eye
With a finger or brush,
I immediately recoil and tear.
My mother tells me I ran
Directly into her extended finger
Around the age of three.
I retell this forgotten story
As my mother stabbed me in the eye.
My father made hamburger
Of my fist as I placed my hand
In greased pan. Sometimes I wake
With heated palms. I would later dream
That my sister was cooking our mother
And our mother was still talking to us.
But the oddest of all memories
Is a white dress hovering
In the linen pantry mirror,
And my mother asking me
Why I was in the closet that night.
Bonnie MacAllister |bmacallisterAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
*****
The Last Time I Leaned out a Window
It was one of those New York days
when steam rises from the sidewalk.
Warm air, oppressive as a wool blanket,
drifts through the open window.
I hear barking in the courtyard
six floors below. I climb
on the sill, lean out the window,
stare at the snarling dogs.
Large hands pull me back,
turn me over a cotton-clad knee
and, for the first and last time,
spank me.
Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com
*****
The Recipe
You tell me
I recite recipes
in my sleep.
Last night
I was out of tomatoes.
You asked
crushed? or chopped?
I replied
get out of the kitched.
Shannon Rayne |shanpidAT NOSPAMshaw dot ca
*****
Humble Beginnings
What Mom remembers is that
on the day of my birth,
since I was the fourth child,
I came very suddenly and
she barely made it the fourteen miles
to the hospital.
She didn’t have time to
wash up the hand-me-downs so
she had to bring me home in
a tattered sweater.
She always felt bad about that.
Dad remembers that I was born
on the first day of squirrel season,
and he kept falling off a stump
from being so sleepy
from staying up all night.
When my children were born
I tried to tell them more interesting
stories about their births.
Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Retribution
My forty year old son
reminds me of the time
after supper
I threw the dishes
and broke most every one
because I was angry
at his father
over something
he did/didn’t do
three years before
I divorced him
and the reason
he remembers
after all this time
is because he still
thinks it’s funny
that my only comment
was “At least
they were dirty.”
Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
*****
Grandpa
There are bits and pieces of memory
Hands groping
Touching a little girl
That was me.
There are bits and pieces
That still today
Torture the woman
That is me.
The bits and pieces
He left behind
Are still mine
Even though he is dead.
patti williams |pwilliamswriterAT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
Banana Shoes
I am six years old in the picture,
sitting astride a tortoise,
twice my size.
I guess it was a petting zoo
and I am grinning with delight.
My mom says that after she snapped
the picture,
with the old Polaroid camera,
the tortoise caught sight of my yellow
sneakers and thinking it was a tasty
treat, tried to take a bite.
I don’t remember any of this
but the creature’s head was at least
as big as mine,
her mouth much wider
and I guess I should be glad
I still have both feet.
Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com
*****
A Moment in Time
Three years old and riding on a
Subway with my mother. Cane seats worn
And shredding, women complaining of runs
In their nylons which catch on stray strips
They tell me I was a `pincher’ in my
Toddler years and Mom never knew
When it would happen or who the
Victim(s) would be or how they would take it
Mom and I sit in seats facing others, men
All wearing hats and reading newspapers
But then, a group of nuns in full habit sit down
“Who are those funny ladies?” I yell
I had never seen a nun before, and
Demanded an explanation. Impatient with
Mom’s apologies to the women in black and white,
I launch out of my seat, over to the nuns and pinch their knees.
Sara McNulty |smcnultyAT NOSPAMsi dot rr dot com
*****
Memory Forsaken
(For the Cousin Never Known)
The photo black and white
sepia-stained at the crimped corner,
me laughing, snug on Auntie's hip
a bag of taters and her, not twenty,
bouffant hair, pursed lips and puppy-sad eyes,
evoke dreamy deja-vues of distant toddler-hood
in her mother's house: the creaking staircase;
packing boxes of books - Honey Bunch
and Bobbsey Twins – closet cached
under summer-hot eaves; the cuckoo clock
that magically played the Batman theme;
the sun slanting into the dormered room
each morning; cider-tinged orchards
and shiny buckeyes to collect; chipmunks skittering
over lichen-lacquered stone walls;
the cool dank cellar of glittering glass,
jars of relish and ‘maters hiding half-full bottles
of gin; the scent of sadness creeping round corners
hushed and still; Auntie weeping, always weeping,
for a daughter she will never know,
holding me instead. Holding me.
Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Past and Present
I call my older sister, figuring she’d know.
“Tell me a story about myself I’ve never heard.”
She’s helping her son with homework.
“When you were two and I was ten
I got mad at mom and ran away with you.”
“Why’d you take me?”
“Didn’t want to leave you with them. I liked you.”
She tells her son she’ll help him in a minute.
“So I got some graham crackers and a diaper
and propped you up in the back of the wagon.
Mom knew. I went all the way to the stop sign
and around the corner. Far enough
so mom couldn’t see.”
“Why’d you come back?”
“I realized I couldn’t take care of both of us.
Besides I’d made my point.” She laughs.
In the background I hear her son say,
“I’m getting out the graham crackers.”
Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
*****
Cigarette Machine
My mother and grandmother loved to tell stories
of my precocity, how I could read as early as three –
or so they claimed. They said they realized this
when I’d go with them to the cigarette machine
and pick out each brand – Winstons, Chesterfield Kings,
Camels, Pall Malls. Maybe it was just pattern recognition –
the Pall Mall package, for example, was almost solid red –
but they claimed it was proof of early genius..
No doubt, I’d even help them get their favorites –
they slipped coins in the slot and I pulled
the glass-knobbed lever that released the package
with a "ker-chunk" to the bottom tray. Maybe I made
faces in the mirror – all cigarette machines had mirrors,
I’m not sure why. They were everywhere – in the diner,
the bus station, the office, the bowling alley. It was cool
and sexy to smoke – the crewcut man with the skinny tie,
the platinum blonde in shirtwaist and pearls, sharing
a cigarette break. Even doctors smoked on TV.
My grandmother died of lung cancer
about eight years ago, a smoker almost to the end.
My mother died not long after. If only I had the power
to see the future then, instead of the power of early reading,
I’d stop their hands before the coins went down
and the Pall Malls or Winstons came out.
Instead, I went on reading like some prodigy.
I never quite lived up to that.
Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net
*****
A Sudden Stillness
She told the story until
I felt sure I remembered it
from some space between lifetimes,
my kicks inside her wet womb
before storytime with her first graders.
'Once upon a time' and I lay still,
listening to the tales unfold,
was still again as a baby with croup,
pain carried on the wings of 'once upon'
into the late rainy night.
She was Mnemsyne, divine lover of Zeus;
I was her child-muse, being gifted these sacred
stories, yet to be scribed, my feet motionless,
my heartbeat a mere breath in the wind.
Pris Campbell |camprisAT NOSPAMbellsouth dot net
*****
Coma
There are moments
But not often minutes
When I see. It is possible to
Be awake, but
Only with great effort
Or none.
The joy of life
Is incompatible
With the business of being alive.
My cherry tree is about to bloom
It is fully awake
Its only sound is a sigh
Of disappointment as I walk by.
Gratia Karmes |glk222AT NOSPAMtds dot net
*****
Jenny and the Pine Tree
“We always get a spruce pine
for Christmas,” Mom repeats,
then tells the story of when I,
pre-school-aged and already in trouble
at daycare for biting other bratty kids,
stood in front of the Christmas tree
for a picture with my even-tempered little brother.
I took a step back, and one of those spiny branches
reached out and pinched my neck.
More startled than hurt, I turned around
and bit that horrible little branch,
then yelped and let go when it had the nerve
to poke the roof of my mouth.
Angry, I bit that stupid tree again.
JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Friday, May 09, 2008 2:34:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Day 18 Highlights
Posted by Robert
There is no connection: That is the line I asked you to use in writing your poems on Day 18. It was a line that'd been rolling around in my head for awhile, though the context is totally lost on me now. As it should be. It's amazing how one line can go so many different directions.
Finding the connection in these poems is as simple as the line I asked you to use, but outside of that there appears to be no connection. (Hahahaha--yeah, I know. Bad joke.)
*****
:“mutually exclusive dinner party invitations”:
Between her old self
and her new self there is
no connection
anymore They sit on opposite
sides of the room They
sleep in
separate beds
They eat dinners in silence and rarely
call company to
toast their exclusive successes Between
the two of them
there is little room
for change Maybe someday
But for now there is no
connection
Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
FALSE LOVE
There is no connection between them anymore
False loving glances are exchanged across the table
for the sake of the children
The excuse they use to stay together
But the children see them sleep in different places
and overhear the muffled arguments at night
The tension between them chokes and suffocates
the life out of all those that come into their presence
but they continue hiding behind strained smiles
and forced affectionate rubs on the back
a piece of each of them dies everyday
knowing that life would be better apart
but it's so much easier to play the role
than to accept the truth that lies in their hearts
Christa R. Shelton |c_writesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
A Reason
“Why did this happen? I haven’t been a bad person.
I’ve lived a good life.” There had to be a reason for
what the doctor was telling me. Cancer didn’t just
happen. There had to be a reason.
“I assure you, there is no connection between the
type of life a person has lived and cancer. You haven’t
done anything wrong.” His words flew past me, over
my head. All I heard was “cancer.” In my mind, that
was the only word that counted.
I looked back at the previous 40 years, trying to
locate the point in time where I had gone astray,
walked off the right path, jumped the tracks. I
wasn’t a perfect angel by no means, but cancer?
“I used to shoplift. Maybe that’s it.” I had to find
a reason. “I cheated on a test in high school. Wasn’t
very nice to that Jenkins girl.” He reached out and
patted my hand. “Listen to me, there is no connection.”
There had to be a reason.
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
The Myth Is
there is no connection between
lollipops and pumpkins,
skyscrapers and hovels,
terrorists , saints,
the aliens that abduct
and those that intervene in angel garb:
not smithereens of a chaotic big bang –
or the fuselage of a big kahuna-deity’s
ark smashed to puzzle pieces –
but string theory, the divine quipu,
waiting to be read, quarks
to unravel, embroider,
or hang by in ignorance,
for the science and god, one,
that we have yet to touch.
Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
Well-connected
Scientists are up in arms
at the speed of global warming.
Environmentalists shake their heads,
no one will heed their warning.
A ten-year window is all we have
until the point of no return.
"To hell with that", say executives,
"We've got tons of coal to burn".
Our planet cries "Stop it now
before everyone gets hurt".
Lobbyists still earn their keep
while politicians hit pay dirt.
Industry must motor on
til it hits that intersection
marked "Turn back before it's too late",
and "It's OK. There is no connection".
Joe |joemackinnonAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
Schism
How can you say there is no
connection from the crow's glistening
wing to the night that flies
away at dawn. No link
between the winter wind
and the hard sweep of grief,
no coupling between the bell
and the waves of its ring
in an empty courtyard?
How can you know there is
no chain pulling taut
the distance between tears
and the ocean--or, say,
Antarctica, the mountains and shelves
of ice, the white blindness held
together by cold until weight
or melt makes them calve,
fall apart with a roar
that echoes in your blood,
that binds you, even in sleep,
to more than one ending.
Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
Even Teachers Get to Have Fun Sometimes
---------------------------------------
Today in class one of my students, not
knowing how to start an English essay asked,
How is the past an indicator of the future?
I am a history teacher, and as you know,
teachers know everything. We have no life
outside of school. In fact, some of us
live in our classrooms, pulling our Murphy beds
from beneath the chalkboard, shower up
in the denizens of the faculty lounge. Her logic
in asking me was, shall we say, inspired.
Trying to act the clown, or just to see her face
I replied as straight as I could, There is no
connection, no way to tell from one day to the next
what is going to happen. I pause before adding,
Haven't you ever heard of Chaos Theory?
This is the part I always like best, when they
ask themselves if they heard me right, decide
if they can trust what I have told them.
Sometimes, they catch on right away, think back
to the beginning of the year when I told them
about Heraclitus, how you can never step
into the same river twice, how all things
are connected. Then their smile comes
and they know the real answer is yet to come.
That's when I know I have them, know when
they are going to really listen, give this whole
school thing at least one more shot, let in
just a little more light into the cave and
dust down the shelves of their minds.
Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Proximity
I'm walking down French Road
and I see a familiar vista -
up there, to the south of me,
a miniature mountain rises
(we Uticans call it Crow Hill),
a mountain crowned with trees,
four of which stand out
like the straight spikes
of a truncated stegosaur.
There is no connection
between them and the rest
of the little oak forest
that's been standing there
for a hundred years or more.
It's like something sudden
and completely unplanned -
like a wicked windstorm,
or a minute meteor,
or an errant bulldozer -
just so happened to pass
through that small space
and thus forever changed
that fractional footage
of Oneida County landscape.
Whatever it was, it left
the dwellers of this valley
with a place that radiates
that sort of bizarre beauty
that throws the futile
humdrum claptrap of life
into relief and makes you say,
"Well, I guess maybe things
aren't so awful after all"
as you look up at those four trees,
thinking of how close they might be.
Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
In Rio de Janeiro,
a pregnant woman throws up
for the second time today.
In Perth,
unable to sleep, a boy watches rain drops
snake down his bedroom window.
In Cambridge,
two teenage girls kiss
under a blooming dogwood for the first time.
In Palo Alto,
a computer crashes as a student
tries to save the final version of her thesis.
In Cairo,
a woman cleans her kitchen
in preparation for her mother-in-law's visit.
In Bucharest,
a man on a bicycle is knocked into a ditch
by a small truck that doesn’t stop.
In Kawagoe,
a man holds his granddaughter in his arms
and feeds her a bottle of milk.
In Reykjavik,
an old woman dies while drinking her afternoon tea,
which spills across the front of her blouse.
There is no connection.
JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Special Information Tone
I learned the annoying, ear-piercing,
three-toned chime that sounds on the phone
when there is no connection,
is called a SIT code.
Three sharp pings, aptly called
SIT, command the listener
to wait for special information.
But those three notes, the ones I hear
several times a day, always
make me jump.
I hang-up before hearing the message—
I already know the number is disconnected
because you no longer live there.
And you didn’t tell me goodbye
because there is no longer a connection
between you and me.
Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Even then
Even when there is no connection
Even when it rains like slate
Even when you can’t smell anything
Even when your legs stop working
Even when you can’t find work
Even when someone you love dies
Even when you loose a favorite earring
Even when you can’t breathe
Even when your car breaks down
Even when someone is mad at you
Even when the fridge is empty
Even when the birds wake you at four AM
Even when people are rude
Even when you have a headache for three days
Even when
Even then
beauty suffuses every molecule
Even then
your smile restores me.
Jacquie Wareham |wareham dot jacquieAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
THERE IS NO CONNECTION
“Don’t be so stupid -
there is no connection
between butterflies
and typhoons,”
she exclaimed.
The child went quiet
and hung his head.
A great sadness
fell on the school
after that
and things
were never the same.
Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Wednesday, May 07, 2008 3:13:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Day 17 Highlights
Posted by Robert
Before we get into the highlights: I'm going to be posting the Wednesday prompts here on the blog starting tomorrow. Let the good times roll!
Also, the community is buzzing along in the Poetic Asides forum at http://forum.writersdigest.com. It's free and easy to sign up and start talking with your fellow poets.
*****
As far as the highlights, we're up to Day 17 now, which was to write a poem in the third person--with the subject open to whatever. The poems you wrote were great, great, GREAT!!!
They're provided below.
*****
Virtual Reality
She leans forward half off the couch
twisting the Wii remote,
using different muscles than when
she makes her bed or plays her flute.
AiAi or MeeMee or YanYan
roll across the screen
in plastic protective bubbles
racing across the dessert
or the jungle or a volcano
always to the rainbow-circled goal.
Yesterday she realized she was
steering the half-eaten pizza slice
in her hands while watching
someone else play the game.
“I should be able to beat this world
this afternoon,” she declares
as she powers down
and heads off to seventh grade.
Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
*****
Parting
Her pink platform sandles click
on the stone path as she rubs
legs shaved smooth for her lover's
delight. She smiles to herself,
drives home through the summer
night while the man in the moon
hangs by a silver thread halfway
down the sky, Her lover
washes the sheets, then drifts down
to the bar for a last draft ale with
the guys who hang out on the corner.
The next day he buys a jeep,
dark green, detachable roof,
packs it full of bits of
a soon to be former life, then
leaves without saying goodbye.
Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com
*****
The Lurker
They call him the ‘lurker’
He slinks door to door
His feet are so greasy
They slide ‘cross the floor
She tries to ignore him
To hint that she’s working
But he hangs like a vine
He keeps right on lurking
He looks out her window
He mindlessly yaks
He sneaks peaks at her chest
He touches her slacks
He’s hard to get rid of
He won’t go away
‘ oh please, let the phone ring,”
she silently prays.
There’s no easy way
To get rid of this jerk
Cuz it seems he gets paid
By the hour to ‘lurk.’
Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu
*****
In the Dairy Aisle
Some people long for what they can't have,
but she feels a little guilty
because she doesn't much want
what she can't abide.
Tempting--so many delectable flavors.
She has tried them all, but not even
strawberry cheesecake or coconut cream pie
could entice her now.
It's supposed to be good for digestion,
but something always holds her back--
that bite, the tang
of live and active cultures.
She admits it. She hates yogurt.
Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Pride Don’t Pay the Rent
He leans to the left as he walks to the desk –
scoliosis, he tells the worker –
it bent his spine like a green twig.
Back in the day, he was a drummer,
did a lot of gigs in the Sixties, even
sat in with Miles once in the Village.
Played Newport in '68, Montreux in ’72.
"You must be proud of all that," the worker says.
"Pride don’t pay the rent," he replies.
He still wears a beret, his striped shirt
is neat but faded. White stubble
dusts his dark chin. The worker
peppers him with questions,
then pushes some papers across the desk.
The jazzman signs them
with an arthritis-gnarled hand.
"It must be hard to ask for help,"
the worker says, trying to be sympathetic,
"after all you’ve done in your life."
The jazzman stands, pushing himself
up on his cane, and says, "Yeah,
but the worst part is, I’ve lost the rhythm."
Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net
*****
Up Up and Away
He thought he was pushing her
The way she wanted to be pushed,
Sometimes going under the swing to give it
That extra umpphh--
So it was a complete surprise when she
Fell off, out, crying--Daddy why
Do you want to hurt me?
Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
Southwest Story
I.
She was surprised
When Orlando showed her his cast.
He told her that Monday
He’d been in a coma.
His father and he rode on motorbike,
Over the hood of a car.
Orlando swore he’d never ride again.
His father is still in the hospital.
II.
After school, Rakeem tried to juggle apples,
He’d bite them and expel the juice.
Kaihla flipped them like flags,
Manipulating hands unbalanced.
The teacher allowed the two
A contest of push ups.
Each boosted arms,
Jutting up with breaths.
III.
Something told her to speak in the third person
When describing Ulea,
The little girl who clamored protests
Constantly for little reason,
No girl could pierce her more.
She thought of them on the subway
When the old, blue-eye African man
Asked her if her school had tennis courts.
She wondered how her kids would thrive.
Bonnie MacAllister |bmacallisterAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
*****
The Reluctant Politician
He didn’t want to run for office
But he wanted to be elected
So he campaigned and he
Lost but he filed a protest
And paid for a re-count and
This time he won by eight votes
And he was sworn in
And the next week he resigned
From office because he said
He just wanted to prove
That he could win.
Alfred J Bruey |ajbrueyAT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
Angola
Unshod hooves thud and tamp
against the metal chute.
“Huuurrrraaaahhhh” echoes
as the weight of the parasite
settles on his back. A violent
shift left, the weight lifts
then settles. Ears flap and
horns strike the bars of the
chute encasing him as he
shakes his head, angry now.
“Bzzzzzz,” and the barrier
disappears. Two tons of
Brahma bull shoots forward.
Tail swivels as he jackknifes.
His attempt to throw the felon
successful a mere five seconds
into the Angola Prison Rodeo.
A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
The Wife or Sooner or Later
He couldn’t wrap his mind around
the idea that she was gone. The door
wasn’t opening, no matter how long
he stared at it. She wasn’t coming
home. He kept thinking that sooner
or later she would realize her mistake.
Sooner or later she would return, tell
him how sorry she was, then cook
his dinner. She would have to go to
the grocery store first. The cupboards
were nearly bare. And he’d sat in front
of the TV every night, listening to his
stomach growl. Sooner or later, she would
have to come back to take care of him.
Someone had to.
Sooner or later.
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Mischance
The doorbell rings
just as the phone
starts to buzz
and the kids run
through the room,
voices shrieking on high.
The dog joins the chorus
and she shakes her head
as she watches the words
that were almost a poem
sail quietly out the window.
Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
THIRD PERSON POEM
She picked up her camera
walked out to the garden
photographed every flower
and leaf
she could see.
Hours went by
noticing colours
shades, patterns
light and shadows
tiny insects
she didn’t know the names of.
She felt the warmth
of the sun
through her shirt
and noticed pictures
in the clouds.
Then she returned
to the house
and saw
what she’d almost forgotten –
the opened bottles of pills
by her bed.
Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au
*****
At the Boat Show
Fuzzy newspaper photograph
taped to her refrigerator.
They might be her nieces
or just two random girls
with their dad,
at a boat show.
From the blur, only the redhead
whose hair color caused so much
family confusion is visible.
The only recognizable feature.
Not the brother or sister,
uncle or niece for sure.
Tiffany B |tbullenAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Beach Day
They were sitting on the shore
making castles in the sand
never seeing the two sharks
that had stopped by to play
a game of 'chase the people from the water'
there was sadness in their eyes
as the people trampled by
crushing their dreamhouse
in their wake of fright
And the sharks swam away
laughing merrily
with joy and glee
another beach day
interupted.
Sarah |safbail_2writeAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Photographic Memory
Sitting in the parked car in the dark after turning off the engine, the rain hammering on the roof, she rolls down the window and smells cedar, woodsmoke, wet earth. She leans her head back and closes her eyes, seeing the six-point buck by the side of the road, his eyes just beginning to film over, the possum dragging it’s crushed back legs into the bushes, baring needle-sharp teeth in a grimace, a dead garter snake slowly turning itself inside out, the ladder of its spine laid bare by the steady work of slugs.
She wasn’t there when they put her father on life support, didn’t see him blackened and bloated, lungs breathing, heart beating but no longer there. She wasn’t present when they finally turned off the machines and stood around his bed in the silence, released. She doesn’t have the image all the rest of her family carries, staining their memories forever. She can see him now, on the deck of the Alaskan ferry, eyes squinting into the sun, binoculars around his neck, hat brim turned up, laughing.
Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Tuesday, May 06, 2008 3:25:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Sunday, May 04, 2008
The Copyright Symbol and Your Submissions
Posted by Robert
During the PAD Challenge, I noticed quite a few poets including either the word Copyright or the copyright symbol--a C inside a circle. While I understand the fear of someone stealing your work and may have even done that with my own fiction and poetry earlier on as a writer, I want you to know you don't need to include those markings, especially when you're submitting your poetry to journals and magazines to be published.
Reason #1: People don't tend to steal other people's poems. It's just not profitable AND if someone were so inclined, they would steal the poem whether you include the symbol or not. Once you set your writing down in fixed form, it is protected by copyright. But after more than 8 years working on Writer's Market, I have yet to hear of a case where an unknown poet has to take his or her poetry copyright case to court. (Of course, saying that, I do realize that there's a first for everything. For more info on copyright, go to http://www.copyright.gov/).
Reason #2: Adding the copyright symbol does not increase your chances of getting published. There is no editor who sees the copyright symbol attached and thinks, "Yay! We've got a copyright symbol; let's get this issue out now!" In fact, it often hurts your chances, because...
Reason #3: Adding the copyright symbol to your submission marks you as an amateur and as a poet who is paranoid that the editor will steal your work. While an editor would still accept exceptional work from a poet who includes the word Copyright or the copyright symbol, be aware that those markings will distract most editors from reading your work--even if just the tiniest bit.
So that's my practical advice about including the copyright symbol and/or the word Copyright. It doesn't decrease your chances of having your work stolen, but it does increase the chance your work won't be accepted. So, why do it? Advice | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Publishing
Sunday, May 04, 2008 1:42:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Thursday, May 01, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Wrap Up
Posted by Robert
Thanks to all of you, the April PAD Challenge was a phenomenal success. In fact, I think there's no way around making this an annual event moving forward. You can't even know how honored you've all made me feel throughout the entire month, and I'm thrilled to see that a supportive community has developed.
To keep that community going, I asked WritersDigest.com editor Brian Klems to set up a Poetic Asides specific group in their forum located at http://forum.writersdigest.com. If you have an account, just log in and click on the Poetic Asides link. If you don't have an account, it's super easy to create one--and it's totally F-R-E-E (and it don't even cost you any money). I have a welcome message up for the group, but you can begin your own topics and start chattering away. I'm sure there will be some crossover between the new forum group and the blog moving forward, too.
Also, on that main forum page, you may notice there are genre-specific critique groups in Critique Central. One of those groups is labeled poetry, and that's where you, umm, can critique, umm, poetry. Yeah, pretty obvious, I know.
*****
As far as the blog and prompts, I've decided I will continue to do prompts, though not at the breakneck pace of one each day. I'm planning on providing a prompt each Wednesday throughout the year--figuring there's no better way to get over the hump of the workweek than a little prompting and poeming. I hope that'll be a good pace for everyone until next April.
*****
I'm considering the possibility of critiquing one poem per week. More info on this later. But stay tuned--and prod me if I seem to forget about it.
*****
The Poet's Market newsletter is going to make a comeback starting later this month. If you wish to receive the free monthly e-mail newsletter, you can sign up at www.poetsmarket.com.
*****
On May 21, plan on attending the Poetic Asides 2008 April PAD Challenge awards ceremony--at this blog. I'll be recognizing those who completed the challenge, as well as some extra nods and pats on the backs and such.
Plus, at that time, I'll also be handing out awards to poets. Those who completed the challenge will be able to receive one or both of two awards: one is a badge that the magazine design group put together for poets who want to put the award on their blogs and/or Web sites (to show that you completed the challenge); two is a certificate that the book design group is working on that you can print up and tuck away somewhere safe (or proudly frame and display).
*****
On May 22, I'll be answering poetry questions all day somewhere in WD forum. More details to come on this as the event approaches.
*****
Okay, this post is long enough now, I guess. Let me know if you have any questions, concerns, comments, etc. And again, thank you so much for being so awesome!
Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry News | Poetry Prompts | Poets
Thursday, May 01, 2008 3:42:12 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
Day 16 Highlights
Posted by Robert
On Day 16, I asked you to write a poem with a twist at the end--something I was calling the "Alfred Hitchcock" poem. I was really impressed with the results and the creativity.
Here are the highlights.
*****
Wanted:
Roommate willing to share the rent,
the bills, the responsibility; to
put the dishes in the dishwasher,
not the sink; to fold socks together,
rathering than ranting when one
disappears somewhere between
the closet floor and the laundry room.
Said person should be willing to
share the remote control, ESPN
balanced with the Food Network,
to carry on conversations
when required, to keep your thoughts
to yourself at all other time,
and to know the difference between the two.
Since the place is already furnished,
you won't need to bring anything
but your own clothes, your own books,
and, of course, your car.
I'm taking mine when I leave this place.
If he asks, just tell him I sent you.
Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
*****
"My Precious Angel"
The pillow still holds your scent
I can close my eyes
and feel the heat from your side of the bed
I spy a strand of your beautiful brown hair
and I can almost imagine
your soft doe eyes
looking back at me
Why did I have to kill you last night?
Chris Granholm Jr. |chris7baAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
DOING IT
Some people do it every day.
Some do it not at all.
My aunt she does it all the time,
Some do it near the wall.
Some friends of mine, they shut their eyes.
Some friends they say don’t worry.
Some friends tell me it’s not so bad,
Just do it in a hurry.
My Gramma did it day by day
A hundred times moreover.
My mother did it only when
Her family would come over.
I feel naughty, though, to do it not,
Shame cast upon my head.
For I kick myself come evening time,
When I’ve not made my bed.
Vanessa O'Dwyer |sheswede99AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Wandering Hands
I slide my hand down your back
I grope and fumble
But you remain quiet
Just giving slightly to my touch
My sneaky fingers glide around
Your bottom and I’m fumbling once
More. But you are passive
C’mon c’mon, give it to me!
Finally I’m on my knees
I drag your leg away
My hand searching for the
Treasure you withhold
I just don’t believe it
I was sure you’d give it up
But, sofa, if you haven’t goy my keys
Then where the hell are they?
Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es
*****
The aliens came today.
We were surprised
as they brought us
a message of peace
and love and then
told us how it would happen.
Our lives were wrong,
they said.
We must live like they did
and then used force to
show us.
For your own good they said.
We want to help
they said.
Help from them I cannot
need or want
So I held my head high
and they said it
would be better if
I didn't.
But I stood against
and as I saw the crater
in my chest
My last words were
"Go back to Earth."
Matthew |matthewabelAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
I Am Just Not A Party Animal
When we arrive, Hiro greets his pals, each in coat and tails. They rush excitedly to each other; I am ignored. With a sniff and toss of the head, my date abandons me for a drink.
It’s awkward standing here alone.
Just like junior high school mixers.
But in minutes, I run into Kathy from Curtis Park, and Nancy, and Carlo. We socialize loudly above the din; turns out we’ve got much in common.
Too soon, Hiro’s had too much. I drag him, howling and whining, to the car.
He doesn’t want to leave the dog park. Tonight, neither do I.
Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
The fire was beautiful.
It burned with ferocity,
frightening me a little -
I didn't want us to catch.
You smiled and vowed to
protect me. We shared
a glass of red wine as
we settled down to snuggle
and watch the fire. You
kissed my neck and told
me you love me. I smiled
and we turned back to the fire.
Wonder where that snotty witch will live now?
Monica Martin |lilmunkey2369AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
"Art on the Line"
Warm wind
Birds singing
My favorite lavender chiffon blouse
Fluttering in the breeze
Assorted vibrant colors
Billowing on the clothesline
Spring is here,
Warm days
Cool nights
my collage of beautiful colors
are dry and
must come down
Alas, the lavender blouse
Is gone,
Perhaps
the wind took it
Sunday morning
A new day,
Brilliant sunshine
Reflecting off the grass
And warming the tar driveway
next door
There is John, my neighbor
Jaunting out to
Retrieve his paper
He is stunning
In my lavender chiffon
Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu
*****
Watching
"Every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be
watching you." ~Sting
When I first noticed you noticing me
I didn't think too much about it.
I didn't think I was your type,
a wife and mom of thirty something years.
But then I turned the corner and
I could still feel your eyes on me.
Staring, penetrating, unnerving.
I fumbled with my purse, and
glanced around furtively,
hoping to see something or someone else
that may catch your interest, but
I was all alone and your eyes never left me.
My hands shook, without reason.
I tried to pretend you weren't there,
to act normal and hope you'd go away.
But you inched closer, ever closer,
eyes roaming everywhere, searching.
I knew you wouldn't find whatever it was
that you were looking for, but still
you made my skin crawl and my nerves squirm.
I walked quickly away from you and out the door,
although I had done nothing to warrant your attention.
Maybe you were bored that day, or maybe you just
take your job as store security much too seriously.
Lori |brightiiizAT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
"The Proposal"
His brown eyes showed serious affection
and he popped ‘the question’ as we stood
beneath a large old tree. We’ve been friends
for years now, at least three, but my parents said
more time was needed. I wondered if
they saw something that I didn’t and felt
it best if their recommendation were heeded.
Back beneath the large old tree the matter
was solemnly discussed and he and I concluded
that one more year would not be too tough.
By then we would both be six, quite old enough.
Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
Tom
“Are you coming to bed, Darling?” you call
toward the bathroom door. I will soon,
Darling, but let me gaze upon you first,
study the way you remove your glasses,
carefully replace the bookmark in your novel,
and stretch to set them on the nightstand
before clicking off the lamp. The smell
of the jasmine outside the window surrounds
your image, making you seem even more delicate.
I watch the way you smile so sweetly
while you snuggle down into the warm blanket
that outlines your legs. I’ll be there soon, Darling,
the next time you forget to lock this window.
JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
I can’t believe your cheekiness,
Your lack of disrespect.
You’re certainly the flakiest
Coquette I ever met.
With Manolos and Guccis,
You skirt cut up to here -
Originals by Pucci,
And your lack of underwear;
Might get you adoration
And a night of random sex.
Your brain is on vacation
And your mother asks “what’s next?”
I’m absolutely done with you
You sneaky little tart
You’ve made my life a total mess,
You broke my boy friends heart.
M J Dills |mjdillsAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
The geese are chasing the people away
from their eggs, down by the river.
The lawn is a beautiful shade of summer green
decorated with romantic iron benches.
Look at the Hollyhocks showing their hues of
sky, and blush, and sun.
The day is open, flowing wide toward forever
and I’m so glad you came to visit.
Cobblestone steps guide the way back to the patio
which delivers its closure.
The electroshock therapy is going well
please come to see me again.
maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
“Unfinished Work”
She sits in the easy chair
Directly in front of the roaring fire
Reading my rough manuscript
She says can we have a late dinner
I want to finish this
I want to find out what happens at the end.
Oh you don’t want to do that I say
It’s not ready…I’m not ready.
Don’t be silly she says
Don’t be so damn insecure.
I watch her read
I’m beside myself
I’m not ready for her to…
For me to…
I’m on the last chapter she says
Just give me a few more minutes
This couple you wrote about
She’s so strong and he’s so…weak.
Just keep reading I say
As I gather strength
And move in behind her
Wanting more than ever
For her to be finished.
Oh my God she says as she turns to look at me
I think he’s going to kill her!
Marcus Smith |sleeperdesuAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
It’s not brain surgery
I can’t believe
They don’t
Put me under.
All that cutting
And slicing.
So close to
My brain.
I saw the
Diploma,
But I’m not
Impressed.
Just another
Butcher with
A sharp
Instrument.
I hate haircuts!
Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Thursday, May 01, 2008 3:12:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Wednesday, April 30, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Day 30
Posted by Robert
So this is it: the final prompt of the April PAD Challenge. We've made it; we've made it. I'd be sad that it's all over, but I think in some ways we're only beginning. (For more on that, check back tomorrow when I do the April PAD Challenge Wrap-Up.) Today, I want you to finish your poem, thrust your open hands high in the air, and say, "Go me! I did it!" (Or something to that effect, I understand that poets can be a reserved bunch--so maybe a simple smirk and fist clench will do the job just as well.)
The main thing is to realize that you accomplished something great in participating throughout the month. After all, you should now have 30 (or more) poems to play with and revise. But here I am trying to stall on the final prompt of the day--not wanting this month to end. :)
And today's prompt is probably predictable if you go back to Day 1's prompt, which was about beginnings and firsts. Day 30's prompt is to write a poem about endings, finishes, finales, etc. Because we've reached the end: great job!
Here's my poem for the day:
"Saturday night in Clifton"
After an evening of perspiration and secondhand smoke inhalation, the lights turn on as men with SECURITY written across their backs herd us out into the street. We're pumped up; we still want more (encore! encore!); but the planet continues its mad spin. So I twist myself out of the loitering mob and sneak down a side street-- head buzzing with the crush of mosh pit memories, the push and pull of sweaty strangers united for music adoration. For a moment, I feel everything is possible, but then an overwhelming sadness washes over me: the vacuum between then and now. I walk until I come to a sign that reads: KEEP MOVING. So I do.
Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts
Wednesday, April 30, 2008 2:34:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
Day 15 Highlights
Posted by Robert
Wow! On Day 15, I offered two prompts for Tuesday. And an overwhelming number of you wrote a poem for each prompt. Some of you even went well beyond that. I'm guessing it's because of the prompts themselves: one prompt was to write about taxes (it was Tax Day here in the U.S.); the other prompt was to write an insult poem.
In addition to writing about taxes, I also gave the option of writing about deadlines in general. And as the insult poems came in, a subgenre of Joker-Harley Quinn insults developed (thanks to Kateri Woody). I'm not going to pick favorites, but I have to admit that Bruce Niedt's ROBOT INSULTS had me rolling, especially since I can imagine the synthesized voice of a robot delivering the insults. Very, very funny.
As usual, I'm blown away by the level of participation--both in terms of quantity and quality. After only 15 days of highlighting, I've highlighted more than 100 poets at least once already. My head is spinning at that stat alone. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for making my month by participating in this challenge.
And now, I'll just shut up and provide the day's highlights.
*****
One Sided
You call me to see how I am doing
Or so you say
But then I hear about not only how you’re doing
But how your children are doing
What they’re doing
Why they’re doing it
And how many problems they deal with
And I hear about their children
Your neighbors and their children
The problems with their health
And your health and your medicine
The top twenty reasons why
You’re too busy to see me
On and on it goes
I’m tempted to put the phone down
And finish what I was doing
To see if you’d notice I was missing
If this conversation was a tennis game
I’d be pummeled by all the balls
I’d be a mass of little round bruises
Do you really care how I’m doing?
Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
A Smart Remark
Don't you give me no lip,
Not that you don't have
some to spare.
A clown's got nothing
on you.
Next time you make
a smart-ass remark,
try to live up to
the "smart" part,
since you've got the
"ass " covered.
Something you do best.
Joe |joemackinnonAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
Belly
Hello Belly in my lap
What are you doing here
At first you looked so big,
I mistook you for my rear
Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu
*****
A Love Letter
This is not meant
as insult, not a smear,
a sneer or a kick,
just the truth
in the way that I see it.
Don't get all bent,
I'll make it unsent,
with any luck
you won't see it.
Your mouth, though cute,
runs off like a shot,
obnoxious and hot,
and your voice
it does grind
an impossible shrill,
it's a wonder to me
I've not reached my fill
of the noise that you spill.
And I've said it before,
I'll say it again,
it's not an insult
but a quaint little truth,
those eyes that you have,
they're as crooked as sin,
I once thought them effectionate,
but that was the gin,
I believe if I look
in just the right light,
I can see how they turn
and cross with each other,
but that's not vanity,
your sorry attempts
to look at yourself,
I call it frustration.
With a nose like a tuba,
there's no way you'll spot
yourself in a crowd
with eyes that won't meet.
But let's not be hasty,
you know I prefer pasty
when searching complexions
you get my affections.
Oh, you know that I'm kind,
and quite crazy for you,
with that little mind,
there's not much you can do
so forgive me my insults
and love me complete,
you're lucky to have me
I'm terribly sweet.
Kevin |kevintcraigAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
Insult Poem
I love your gown by Vera Wang
But did it only come in blue?
I think your color’s clearly red
The teal looks much too dark on you.
And that new hairstyle’s all the rage
Although it makes your face so thin
The way it curves around your cheeks
It plays up your receding chin.
The shoes are sexy on your feet
I’m glad you didn’t go for flats,
Except the cutouts at the toes
Do make them look so very fat.
The flab that hangs down from your arms
Is really only slightly there,
A jacket would have hidden it,
But never mind, leave your arms bare.
The tan you have, is it for real
Or is it from a tube, or spray?
It really doesn’t matter much,
It’s sort of orangey either way.
You look the height of elegance
No one would guess you’re in your prime
Your party sounds quite lovely, dear
Do go and have a lovely time.
Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
*****
Insult Poem
Wow, an insult poem
that’s just not my style
when someone offends me
I just look at them with a face of stone
then I simply smile
I usually try not to let negativity
control what I have to say
anger clearly has no relativity
to what’s happening in my day
I am sure it’s well known
that when one lets anger in control
even just for a poem
one loses sight of the picture as a whole
and focuses instead on the fury
often by doing things in a hurry
Who to insult
well, I just don’t know
there are many I would not mind to offend
it seems as the world turns, the list will grow
would be nice to put an end
to some of them, and their meaningless show
guess that sounds violent
certainly that’s not how it’s meant
I just want some to learn the err of their ways
so that perhaps we can all have better days. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 4/15/08
Rodney C. Walmer |wasitchuAT NOSPAMoptonline dot net
*****
"Mad Love"
It's not that I don't love the way
that your nasally, high pitched
caterwauling of 'Puddin'
greets me everytime you see me.
It's not that I don't love the way
you throw yourself at me at speeds
the freaking Flash would appreciate
whenever I'm not looking.
It's not that I don't love the way
you interrupt my work with propositions
in unflattering nightwear, complete
with 'Harley' sound effects to boot.
It's not that I don't love the way
you hang off of my every last word,
or how easily convinced you are
to do what any peon says.
It's not that I don't love the way,
you so desperately, needily, want me
to love you back - even though
you know that I'm just using you.
It's not that I don't love you,
I just can't.
Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu
*****
Settling the Matter
I think you'll agree that it's useless
to argue about who is the rubber
and who is the glue.
People often point out
my resilient qualities
and my springy disposition.
And your handshake
that one time, if you recall,
was quite sticky.
I know you had just been
kneading fresh bread dough,
but that is beside the point.
Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
My insult poem (for the youngest among us):
An overcoat spoke to a coat of paint.
He said with conviction and little restraint:
"I cover a woman who wears a nice blouse."
"So what?" cried the paint, "I cover her house!"
(Toad Pizza poem #246 of 1,567)
Bill Toad of Toad Pizza |infoAT NOSPAMtoonutsproductions dot com
*****
Deadlines
make me panic
make me freeze
make me want
to do my laundry
run my dishwasher
count the ceiling tiles
anything but write
deadline pressure
delay and fret
until the
last
possible
moment
and then submit
then there’s
the whole
word count issue
don’t even
get me
started on that
TaunaLen |taunalenAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
INSULT POEM
your face is a dry river bed
with furrows wide and deep
your nose is warty and hairy
you snort while others sleep
your hair is sharp and wiry
with barbs made out of nits
your arms are big and saggy
we won’t even mention your …
chest
your intestines growl and grunt
you surely don’t have a heart
your back is pimply and rounded
and your hips are metres apart
your stomach reaches your toes
and your thighs could never part
your bottom’s as big as two mountains
you’re a very ugly old …
woman
Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au
*****
Insulting Sylvia Plath
We teenage girls all loved
a good suicide story. Belt noose,
waterlogged lungs, gas ovens,
The Bell Jar was our how-to
if we should want to push through
and blast a grand exit, though we never
did. We didn’t have to. What counted
was knowing we could have, if we dared,
this one small bit
of self-defeating agency.
But Plath was a poetic copout,
my teacher insisted, playing cheap, the tired
old trope of the lovely girl longing
for daddylove. Enough
with the depression, the pitymongering,
he said, look at Diane Wakowski
who showed us that at least
the world still has oranges in it.
But what teenage girl doesn’t feel
she’s got too little, or worse, too much
from Daddy? He’s an unreachable
shore, and we’re swimming till we drown,
either way. I like oranges, too, but
their sweetness is immaterial
when what you really want is not
daddy’s love so much as his power,
to grasp your tender life in your own hands.
Tria
*****
freshman deadline
date circled
topic chosen
followed by
late nights
researching
at the library
(insert panic attacks here)
piles pile up
notes piled between books
piled between more books
(insert lack of sleep here)
rough draft drafted
revised and cut
then final finalized
tuned in to wait
(insert
dread
regret
and
hours of second guesses)
for a grade
(and wishing
I had used
spell check)
satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
ROBOT INSULTS
He’s as dumb as an Atari 2600.
You couldn’t find your parallel port with both appendages.
She has a sensory receptor panel that could stop a chronometer at 6.75 meters.
The LED’s are on but there’s nothing contained in the housing.
He’s not operating with a full hard drive.
I wouldn’t network with you if you were the last compatible modular unit on the planet.
Go interface yourself.
Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net
*****
To the Joker, Love Harley
Yes, I hang on your every word,
laugh at your antics, throw myself
at you every chance I get.
And you think it’s all for the
nonexistent promise of your love,
your affection.
You fool.
While you spend your time trying
unsuccessfully to get rid of your worst
nightmare, the dark one, the one who
haunts your world, both waking and
dreaming, I take it all in. I watch and
learn. I know, one day, my chance
will come. What you think is a kiss
of passion, will be a kiss of death. The
death of your world, your mind, you.
I will take over.
It will all be mine.
And I will be so much better,
than you could ever hope to be.
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Tax Relief, Tax Return
I'm an accountant's daughter,
so April 15th was always a holiday at my house.
My dad would re-materialize -
he'd stop staying out 'til six in the morning;
he'd stop spending so much time
with those overflowing piles of clients' files
and start challenging me
to Scrabble scrimmages and Monopoly matches,
he'd sit down to read the stories
I typed out for him on our old IBM 386,
and our miniature golf season
would at long last have its opening night.
But even now I'm grown and a hundred miles away,
I still think of Tax Relief as Father's Freedom Day.
Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Insult:
Two poets met at a pub
and after a ‘few’, their words began to rub
#1: I don’t like your assonance
#2: Well your misuse of tropes is quite flagrant
#1: Why don’t you take your iambic foot out of your mouth
#2: No wonder you can’t make a rhyme, your brain went south
The barkeep slammed down his fist and said, “I’ve heard quite enough”
Then the poets parted wondering why he had to be so gruff
Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
Mad Love, Part Deux
It's not that I don't feel the pain
when your cackling laughter
goes on and on and on
every time you *think* you’re funny.
It's not that I don't feel the pain
at your pathetic double-crosses
as if green hair and a whoopee cushion
makes you the boss o’ me or somethin’.
It's not that I don't feel the pain
when you ignore all my propositions
to think about how to defeat Bats
without killin’ yourself.
It's not that I don't feel the pain
of you ignorin’ every smart thing I say,
or how stupid you are to think
I’ll come back to feed the hyenas.
It's not that I don't feel the pain
that you can’t stand,
like every other typical guy,
that I can be good as you.
It's not that you don’t love me,
Puddin,
but bein’ great on my own’s the
worst insult I could give.
Rox |babayagaAT NOSPAMbaymoon dot com
*****
Lifelines
These days no one asks for a daily report
to tally my accomplishments,
and I have no targets to hit, no papers due, no deadlines to meet.
There are no diners waiting for eggs-over-easy,
no coffee to pour,
no fish to fry,
no melons on the brink of spoiling in the truck I don’t drive.
There are no toddlers to lead through circle time, no envelopes to stuff,
I don’t have to chair the meetings I don’t attend, and
I am strategically planning for nothing in the coming six months.
I can spend the morning scouting nearby neighborhoods
for blossoming dogwoods and the first of the iris,
or lose an afternoon watching herons return to
their awkward roosts in the tops of tall trees.
Whenever I want, I can learn Italian, read those books piled by the bed,
practice the violin or take up Tai Chi.
And I will.
Just as soon as someone comes along and gives me a deadline.
Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu
*****
Taxing, 1985
It must have been unseasonably warm
in my small midtown room, a year
before I met Howie on Third Street
who wore thick glasses and didn't blink
at last minute taxes. Instead, I spread
numbers out on my bed until they swam
like fish, skittered like the cockroaches
cha-cha-ing in the kitchen. I inflicted
upon myself long division, multiple
multiplications, decimal places proliferating,
always adding up to something different,
always the same: not enough. Hours
after sunset, I came to some truce
of sums, carefully wrote in the boxes,
on the lines, and signed. Then I entered
the evening, went down to the thirties
where the big main branch of the Post Office
bloomed in the darkness, gold light spilling
from its windows and doors like exotic petals,
like portals to some ancient paradise,
and people streamed toward them
from all directions. Swept along in that current,
invited into that bright inside, I handed
over my envelope. Released,
I walked back down the wide stone stairs,
lifting ever lighter with relief, the city
opening into the April night.
Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Wednesday, April 30, 2008 2:22:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Tuesday, April 29, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Day 29
Posted by Robert
Yay! So many of you have made it past the sestina! And I'm still alive, though I'm sure many of you no longer consider me your friend. ;)
It's nice to put in a very tough exercise every so often (don't worry, the final two days should be a little more relaxed). In fact, with the weather getting so nice around Southwestern Ohio the past week or two, exercise (the physical kind) has been big on my mind.
Way back in March, I must've known I'd be in an exercising mood, because the first "Two for Tuesday" prompt is to write a poem about exercise. For most people, you either love it or hate it. If you do exercise regularly, it would be interesting to know whether you do it for the end result (that is, good health, a trim physique, etc.) or the process itself (just because it feels good to move).
Prompt #2 is a little more open-ended for people who don't have any emotions whatsoever attached to exercise. For this prompt, I want you to write a poem in the 2nd person.
Here's my poem of the day (combining the two prompts into one poem):
"How to go running on an August morning"
Start off with some stretches. Do your legs first, then your arms. Walk to your starting point and begin with a light jog. Let your muscles and lungs ease into a rhythm. Focus on keeping your wrists and hands slack. Relax your shoulders and bottom lip. After the first mile, lengthen your stride while keeping your breathing balanced. Listen to the birds. Keep your head straight. Relax your shoulders, your hands, your bottom lip. Focus on your next step, not on the finish line; stay within yourself. After the fifth mile, pull off your shirt. Feel the sun on your skin as it begins to warm the earth. Imagine you are winning a race. Imagine someone is only a few steps behind; lose that person. Relax your shoulders but keep up a fast pace. Do this through the finish line.
Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts
Tuesday, April 29, 2008 2:39:13 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
Day 14 Highlights
Posted by Robert
On Day 14, I asked you to write a poem with the title "This is how (blank) behaves" where you fill in the blank and go from there. Many people wrote about their hearts, their minds, their pets, and two people even wrote about Mr. Monk from that one TV show that I've never seen, though I've always thought it looks very interesting.
Enjoy the highlights.
*****
How Colorado Spring Weather Behaves
This April weather behaves
Like some mysterious stranger
Not willing to let you know
Who he is or what he’s up to.
Or like a naughty kid
Having a temper tantrum
With thunder and lightning one minute,
Sleeping peacefully with sunshine the next,
Then mischievously tricking you into
Thinking it will warm up soon, then it snows.
Or like an over-motherly mother
Telling you to put your sweater on,
The next moment telling you to take it off.
Or like a brooding teenager
All gray clouds one minute, sunshine the next.
Or a flirtatious tease
Urging you to come out and play in the sunshine
When there’s work to be done indoors.
Or like an irritating boss or teacher
Whose mind seems set to spoil your fun when
You try to have a picnic, but the blustery
Wind blows your plates and cups away.
This spring weather behaves like a schizophrenic,
Many personalities all wrapped up into one.
Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
How my Pen behaves
About thirty seconds after I’ve finished staring
at an indistinct spot roughly four feet seven inches from
the end of my nose and twenty million light years from reality my pen starts to move all by itself it seems, a spider-scrawl runs out of control back and forwards across the page faster than my eye can see much faster than my brain can think so I know it’s not me that’s in control and could write anything it could write prose or verse or worse combine the two
in something new that isn’t either and can’t be both cos that’s just wrong and sometimes it makes sense but even then I can’t read a damned thing when it’s finished and it’ll take three times as long to type out as it did to write
sometimes its gets a-musing which is amusing (sometimes) about philosophy and stuff like the meaning of life or Liff (which is a funny little book) like how or why
clever people would put household pets in metaphysical boxes and ask people whether they are in there or not, they should know, it’s like refrigerators
that’s the same thing, light on light off. Sometimes it turns out my pen has penned a stream of drivel and I’m glad it’s not my fault but I am scared that when I next open the fridge
I’ll have just killed somebody’s cat…
Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es
*****
How My Computer Behaves
Like a stubborn child,
my computer won't respond
when I click the mouse.
It's chomping away at
those binary bits, strings
of ones and zeroes
flickering faster than
my fingers can type,
turning on and off
and on again,
while I continue to click,
grind my teeth,
and swear.
Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com
*****
How My Left Ear Behaves
It doesn't, never has, there is
no use in trying a hearing aid
or cochlear implant or anything
else exciting science might dream up
because there is no nerve
within to transmit sound
so at concerts and ballgames and
when my husband revs up the
lawnmower motor, I have just
the right one to protect
and pamper, be extra nice to
and avoid damage; but
the "bad ear" gets treated
like a boring party guest.
If I ask you to sit on my
left at dinner one night, it might be
because I want to tune you out.
Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
How My Genes Behave
Cancer coarses through my bloodline.
And where we all once stood tall-
as anxious and eager as newly
planted trees, reaching out
with tiny arms to be cared for
and lifted up by Mother Nature-
we are now half of who we were.
When I was born I remember light
and life but then the divorce
epidemic struck. All the men fled
to drugs and death and the women
were too young and thin
and could hardly carry
milk in their breasts.
Someone twice-removed died
in the South, falling off a cliff
on a lawnmower. My grandfather was shot
by his ex-wife's new boyfriend. An uncle
tried to live by heart surgery
but then died of disease
in his blood.
The addiction to medication, self-help
and drink caught on early
for depressed cousins and brothers. Some
caught up in a cycle of sobriety
and relapse. Some of them
will die peacefully
in their sleep.
How sickness and the end
of everything
finds us while we are trying
to get through a day
destroys me with anger. But
anger is a disease with which
I refuse to live.
Leigh-Evelyn Martin |leightakescareAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
How Waldorf Salad Behaves
In its creamy bed of mayonnaise and sugar
and lemon juice
The crisp apples bite back at stalks of celery
and walnuts
Crunching with delight the flavors blend
to make a most delectable impression
maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
How My Cat Behaves
She naps in the hall
I peek around the wall
She sees me
I duck back and hide
And she comes prancing
Around the corner
To find me;
The excitement
Of a three-year-old
Dancing in her eyes!
Anahbird |anahbirdAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
How My Hips Behave
As I was growing up
I put my hands on my hips
Loved the way the roundness
Would feel
And when the children
were babies
I’d swing them on my hips
Just to hear them squeal
Oh, how my hips
behave
They swell
With each sweet I eat
So I sway them
to tantalize
each man I meet
On future nights
they will cradle
my love to sleep
And during each day
He’ll think of me
rave about, and crave
the way my hips behave.
Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
How my hands behave
Watching them work
is like discovering
a new species
at the ends
of my arms,
strange and curious,
like some form
of blind sea anemone
escaped from the depths
of the ocean
and attached itself
to my wrists
while I slept.
They seem restless
atop these warm keys,
nervous and twitching
between typing these words,
wanting to curl around
the cold comfort
of a bottle
and the familiar
movement of embracing
numbness.
Often it seems
as though they move
independent of my mind,
idly twisting a lock of my hair,
scratching an itch
I didn’t realize was there,
bunching into fists
or stretching,
popping knuckles
to relieve the stress
of arthritic over-use,
searching the contents
of my jacket pockets,
tracing the contours
and textures of a Zippo lighter,
wiping the gunk
out of my sleepy eyes,
or digging the extra skin
out of my inflamed ears.
They must love my beard,
for I find them there
most often
tangled in the coarse
black and gray,
massaging the jaw-line
of my stoic face,
probably sick
to death
of having nothing better
to touch.
Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
How Canadian Geese Behave
Eight thousand feet up.
Fifteen hundred miles a day.
Sixteen hours at a time.
The lead bird takes the brunt of the wind,
making the flock 70% more efficient.
When he tires, another takes his place.
If two flocks meet, there isn’t a standoff
or a board meeting or a coup, they merge
seamlessly and keep on flying.
When a goose is injured, a few comrades
stop flying and stay until it gets better.
They mate for life.
They honk, my pastor says, not to toot
their own horn, but to encourage each another.
He urges us to honk a little more.
Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
*****
How Plastic Wrap Behaves
Like your embarrassing Uncle Mike,
it clings to everything you don't want it to,
especially your fingers.
And no matter how hard you try,
it refuses to hold onto the important things,
lets go, calmly watches them slip
from its grasp.
Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
How my lusting eyes behave:
Green like grapes cut in half,
forty and flashing they haven’t forgotten
how it felt to gaze
Into blue, brown, hazel pairs.
so on introduction
they move of their own accord
not to lips or face or brown, red, black hair, no hair at all,
but that third finger on the left hand
with its circular symbol of rebuff.
Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu
*****
How My Memory Behaves
Like aged lovers, too many years together,
we bicker over the details.
I learned long ago you have your faults,
but joined as we are, I can’t grudge them.
We take walks down that proverbial lane
and you dawdle, you lollygag,
you stop to smell a flower that looks familiar
but you won’t tell me the name.
And when I call you to my side
with a question, sometimes
your eyes glint—impish elf!—
and you withhold. Other times,
not so proud, you pull
the answer from a dusty shelf.
But my favorite times are the ones
when you close your eyes, you know
you knew once upon a yesterday,
but can’t for the life of you
recall when. Later, you’ll wake me
from sleep, eager, smiling, to give
the answer to a forgotten question.
We will grow old together—
sit on the swing swaying forward
and back, back and forwards again,
laughing at how much we can’t remember.
Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
How the Bird Behaves
I saw a bird go flying,
Flying through the air,
Riding on a morning breeze
Without a single care.
He glided through the sunlight,
Landed on a tree,
Pulled a song out from his heart
And chirped the melody.
I stood beneath the branch,
Admiring him there,
When the happy singing bird
Put droppings on my hair!
Damn, bird!
Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Tuesday, April 29, 2008 2:17:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Monday, April 28, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Day 28
Posted by Robert
I was distressed to read the following message in the comments for yesterday's prompt this morning:
Doubt I can finish the month...spent the last 24+ hours in ICU after my husband suffered an accident. Had to be airlifted to a city 3 hours away (40 min. by air) Will get back and follow the rest of you once I am able to be home for a while. It has been a great month celebrating poetry.
Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
Please send some goodwill Emily's way; as you can probably tell from her comment, her husband's accident sounds very serious.
*****
Maybe Emily's horrible situation will put things into perspective for today's challenge, which may very well be the hardest poem of the entire month for many. Today's prompt is to write a sestina. (If you need a subject, you can write about catastrophe or loss or hope--to mirror the news above.)
So, what is a sestina? For those who have a few minutes to spare, please go to the following link: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/Sestina6x6339+Thats+Math.aspx. Once there, you can read up about what a sestina is and can be.
For those in a hurry, here's the basics on the sestina:
* It's a poem consisting of 7 stanzas.
* The first 6 stanzas have 6 lines; the final stanza has 3 lines.
* There are only 6 end words to each line throughout the 39-line poem.
* They rotate in the following pattern:
1-End Word 1
2-End Word 2
3-End Word 3
4-End Word 4
5-End Word 5
6-End Word 6
7-End Word 6
8-End Word 1
9-End Word 5
10-End Word 2
11-End Word 4
12-End Word 3
13-End Word 3
14-End Word 6
15-End Word 4
16-End Word 1
17-End Word 2
18-End Word 5
19-End Word 5
20-End Word 3
21-End Word 2
22-End Word 6
23-End Word 1
24-End Word 4
25-End Word 4
26-End Word 5
27-End Word 1
28-End Word 3
29-End Word 6
30-End Word 2
31-End Word 2
32-End Word 4
33-End Word 6
34-End Word 5
35-End Word 3
36-End Word 1
37-End Words 1 and 2
38-End Words 3 and 4
39-End Words 5 and 6
Usually, the best strategy is to pick out 6 words you think you can have fun with and that are probably somewhat flexible in how you can use them (this includes modifying a word here and there--like changing "cold" to "clod" to fit your purposes). Maybe throw in a word that is a little unique--if you really want to challenge yourself. And remember to have fun.
Here's my sestina for the day:
"On the fly"
I am a big fan of eating Lemonheads,
little yellow spheres tasting like a kiss
on a summer day while sitting on a bench
and enjoying the words of some expert
on how to be true and love me tender,
maybe while watching the birds fly
overhead and swatting away a fly
or two. That is, I think Lemonheads
are worth more than they're tendered
in convenience stores. How do you kiss and put a price on it? I'm no expert,
but I'm also not some dime-store bench
warming philosopher. I can bench
my weight in mistakes and open flies,
because I've always been one to expect
the need for a Plan B. That is, Appleheads
taste even better and led to my first kiss
in a long time--and at a very tender
moment. Maybe I'm just too tender-
minded. Maybe I should sit on the bench
of whatever court decides good kissing
practices. Maybe I should check my fly
before starting any hot talk on Lemonheads.
Maybe I should leave it to the experts.
After all, they are supposedly the experts
for a reason, right? I wonder if they tender
a smooch for the same price as Lemonheads.
I wonder if they set some kissing bench-
mark and expect us all to hit it on the fly,
just something we do without thinking: A kiss
on the cheek counting as much as a kiss
with tongues is blaspheme, whether experts
declare or not. One needs wings to fly
or we'd all slingshot crazy and turn into tinder--
a bright flaming star, a burning bench
where once I enjoyed eating my Lemonheads.
And the Lemonheads will always lead to kisses
on hot benches with or without the experts
to approve the tender moment of wanting to fly. Personal Updates | Poetic Forms | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Craft Tips | Poetry Prompts | Poets
Monday, April 28, 2008 3:35:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
Day 13 Highlights
Posted by Robert
With Day 13's poems, I got the best of both worlds: poetry and music. I asked you to write a poem that's inspired by a song or lyrics from a song. Most of the music that inspired you was already known by me, so I found myself often humming the songs as I read your poems. Lots of fun, for sure.
Anyway, have fun reading (and humming) the highlights.
*****
Southern Paradise
Inspired by Song in C by Cary Hudson
“…takes a swig of whiskey
And decides
He says boys
This here’s parardise”
The smell of catfish frying in the hot oil
Hushpuppies bubbling up to the top
Fills the night air with a heavenly aroma
Making the men hungry.
The beers iced down
Getting colder and colder,
Better and better
Making everybody thirsty.
Jimmy Ray picks up his guitar
Plays a song about his dog.
Some of the men want to tear up
But don’t.
They shake their head instead
Grab one of those cold beers,
Some a nip of whiskey.
Because most of them knew that dog.
Songs like that cut straight to the matter,
No doubt about it.
Jimmy Ray picks up the pace a bit,
Plays a song about his truck, the girl that left him.
The men really like that one.
She was such a bitch.
The night goes on
Them sitting around the fire
Cooking up good food
Playing songs about life
Enjoying their southern paradise.
patti williams |pwilliamswriterAT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
Going Home
Inspired by "Blue Bayou"
(Roy Orbison & Linda Ronstadt)
The ancient Cyprus stand patiently.
Their branches, gnarled with age,
draped in tattered gray shawls of moss.
Gators float lazily in the sluggish pools,
waiting for dinner to swim by.
Catfish snuggle into the muddy creek bottom,napping in the heat of the day.
Here and there a sunbeam slips through the dark green canopy.
The small shack is dark..listing slightly on it's wobbly stilts.
It is afternoon on the Bayou.
Quiet, sleepy, waiting...for me to come home.
Glenda Widger
*****
Luckiest
“I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong, that I know I am… the luckiest.” –Ben Folds
I feel like I'm apologizing more and more
these days for the past I treasure, but,
I'm sorry that I defaced public property
to propose. I'm sorry I thought the best
way to explain how you've affected me
was to write a poem about erosion (you).
I know it may not've been the most tactful
approach to a proposal, calling you erosion
then graffiti-ing up Balboa Park that Thursday
when Nepalese police shot labor strikers
entering Katmandu, and the Solomon islands
rioted deep into the night, but you said yes.
The only explanation for the Nepalese
and the small island's full-scale riots I can figure
is that we offset the global equilibrium, somehow,
with the weight of exuberancy I carried
as we walked to the Prado, engaged.
We left the world slightly off-balance.
And I couldn't help but feel a little jealous,
when Ben Folds claimed to be the luckiest,
when the backyard was dimmed to table-candle
light, and we swayed to the music, half-dancing
and half just feeling the world rushing us toward
tomorrow, and the next day and the next day,
and I swear, it'll take an icepick lobotomy to remove
that moment from the tight clutches of my brain.
So don't even think about it, Ben,
that song belongs to me now.
Zebulon Huset |zebulonhusetAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
3 AM
"It was 3 AM when I heard the sound"
Jonathan Coulton-"The Big Boom"
By the time we heard the sound
it was already too late.
We knew that more were bound
to suffer Michigan's fate.
In the mindless din of screams
and stray car alarm peal
we watched as the stuff of dreams
brought a nightmarish ordeal.
The rising of the sun
just made the sight more appauling
as we heard that one by one
all of the cities were falling.
Now forced to move by night,
just one thing is understood.
We've all given up the fight,
hope is now gone for good.
John H Maloney |callentureAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
“Peace Train”
(“Now I’ve been smiling lately, thinking about the good things to come; And I believe it could be, something good has begun.” Cat Stevens)
Dad and I sang it in the car,
on the way to school,
every morning.
And, as a child,
it sure was easy to believe.
(Of course,
it’s easy to smile when
riding bikes,
drinking from honeysuckles,
and singing with a cool dad is your life.)
Life gets older,
things get colder.
and bills,
and arguments,
and “what are we going to do?”s take over.
And yet, in my mind,
I can hear our voices.
They sing to me as a reminder
that life is oh so good.
Especially when you still have a father,
and three daughters,
who you sing Cat Stevens with.
Cheryl Wray |cherylwritAT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
The following prose poem was inspired by The Birds' Turn Turn Turn which was, in turn, inspired by a passage in Ecclesiastes. I am dedicating this to my mother who broke her Bird's lp accidentally and who has not forgotten the lyrics.
To Everything There Is
This is the season of forgetting. You send me emails with details that cannot align themselves with the stars of our past; the experiences you have had that cannot have ever been. Later when I enter your room you look blinking, pulling a memory that will tell you I am your daughter. I read to you from books until you fall asleep and your lids flutter. Do your memories come out to play in your dreams or are your dreams as confused as you are when you lean over my shoulder to try to discern the words you yourself taught me to read when I was the child, confused and grasping to find meaning in the glyphs, trying to remember the sounds of letters. When I visit and your face shows you know me, I forget not to cry and want to say a child being held instead of letting you go ever.
satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
LOVE SONG ON THE INNER LOOP
“This could be the end of everything…”
--Keane, “Somewhere Only We Know”
Wipers smear, taillights flicker red,
then fade; the world a greasy rainbow residue.
She sips tepid coffee as the radio
drones its headlines into tinny white noise -
Gunman opens fire, Marines press to remove Iraqi
forces, Turks angry over House genocide vote –
then segues into scratchy guitar wails
of unrequited love that curls
through a grey crush of monotony.
The familiar yearning flames from her gut
to her chest, catching her mid-sob. The sky opens;
God slices through the lifting fog
in brilliant gilded diagonals; for a perfect instant,
the City’s towers puncture the horizon,
shimmer into opalescent minarets, the receding cloudbank
transmutes into snow-capped pinnacles.
She smiles through her sip, and her heart
wings East, over the ocean to another continent.
To him.
Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
(Inspired in part by Hurt - Johnny Cash version)
Feel
I sit alone, always alone, speaking to no one,
talking to myself. I cut my skin, trying to feel
something, anything. Even pain is better than
this absolute nothing. Can you hear my cry for
help? You see the marks on my arm. “Why did
you do that?” You ask. “I don’t know.” My reply
is quiet. I wait for the yelling. “Shouldn’t do that.
It’s stupid.” You turn back to your coffee, fixing
your makeup. I watch you. I want to be you, cold,
aloof. I return to my room, listen to the music of
your youth. Old records that try to speak to me. I
cut my skin, and wonder if these records made you
feel.
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
When I’m 64
I must remember to remind
my children not to let me
wear white anklets and plastic shoes
not to mention a flowered muu-muu
even when no one is at home.
Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net
*****
Winning Glory
"Glory days well they'll pass you by
glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye"
Bruce Springsteen
Basketball
physical game, mind game, winning game,
not just a game,
an all consuming struggle to the pinnacle of success.
Play the game on and off the court.
Be on top of your game
front the post, box out, take a charge,
sprint to the help, rebound,
stand alone on the foul line
she shoots, she scores.
The roar of the crowd,
adrenaline pumping,
fast break, take it to the hoop.
The buzzer sounds
game over,
defying gravity
the team remains unbeaten.
Cameras flash
team pictures,
smiles through tears,
the Lady Spartans pose
arms linked,
state champion medals around their necks,
standing for a moment in the glory days.
LBC |lcaramanAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com
*****
The Highway is a Clogged Artery Through the Heart of it All
"And you wake up
to the sound of a horn
that reminds you
that you're not dead"
-- "Traffic" - Chad VanGaalen
I am well-travelled
but only between
the same
two cities; I am
a master
of highway
hypnosis
My car
radio has been
asleep for two
years, I have too
much time
to think about
how many
people are passing
by with bodies
in the trunk
In Ohio
it is orange
barrel season: every
inch of us
is under
construction
with broken
roads
and hearts
In the fast
and slow
and stop
and go
again
we are large
eyesores
running quickly
out of gasoline
And even
in the right
direction
I am headed
the wrong way
k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
So let go, jump in,
what you waiting for?
It’s all right
cause there’s beauty in the breakdown-
It’s so amazing here
Let Go by Frou Frou
Let go
I want to turn the left side on my brain off-
unclasp the heavy buckle
that binds my heart closed,
swing doors and windows wide
to sun and breeze,
rush of love in and out;
I want to live at the centre
and breathe everything.
Jacquie Wareham |wareham dot jacquieAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
"Go ahead with your own life leave me alone"
(Billy Joel--My Life)
It wasn't my first affair, but it was my first divorce.
Fall of 1978.
I was driving down the highway from my disastrous job
With Billy Joel filling my head
When that old American Motors Eagle caught fire.
I grabbed a blanket from the backseat
(you can imagine why that was there),
jumped out of the car and opened the hood.
Flames were all over the engine.
I just started beating them with the blanket yelling
"I don't care what you say anymore this is my life!"
The flames died.
I started the car and drove on home
for the last time.
The flames were dead.
Nathan Everett |nwesignaturesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets
Monday, April 28, 2008 2:29:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Sunday, April 27, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Day 27
Posted by Robert
Well, we're working our way closer to the end. After we finish today's prompt, only three days will separate us from finishing this April PAD Challenge. On May 1, I plan to give a recap of the month and some details of how we can keep this community going beyond April. Something to keep an eye on.
Today's prompt is to write a poem that is only one-half of a two-person conversation, or what I like to call the "one side of a phone line" poem. I'm not even sure how well this is going to work out, but every once in a while, it's good to stretch ourselves and experiment a little.
While you could just get to typing one side of a conversation, it might be a good idea to write down some dialogue and then, cut out the person who is the least interesting. Anyway, as with all the prompts, be sure to have fun with this one.
Here's my poem for the day:
"Really?!?"
Hello? Oh. It's you. I didn't mean. Whatever. Why did you call anyway? Really?!? He's a fool. Doesn't he-- Well, yeah! Obviously. He doesn't ever listen, and he's going to learn-- Really? That's so-- I don't understand. Oh. Well, yeah. If that's the case, then-- Better to just leave him on the side of the road. Sometimes, you just gotta get tough. No, really. Next time he-- Well, next time he-- Okay. Call me back later then. I've got a lot more to say on him. Yeah, bye.
Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts
Sunday, April 27, 2008 1:58:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Saturday, April 26, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Day 26
Posted by Robert
Today's prompt is to write a poem with the title of "I'm so over (_____)." You get to choose what you're "so over" with, and write a poem about it. I'll be looking forward to reading these.
Here's my poem for the day:
"I'm so over commuting to work."
In getting up at 5:30 in the morning to beat rush hour traffic. $3.59 for a gallon of gasoline is highway robbery. For real. As in, I'm driving on the highway, and my name is Robert. Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts
Saturday, April 26, 2008 2:26:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Friday, April 25, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Day 25
Posted by Robert
A few times this month, I've felt like the forces working around my daily life are keeping track of my prompts (most of which I had set in stone before April started). For instance, I wasn't able to get Day 13's highlights up this morning (look for them on Monday), because my Clark Kent persona as a mild-mannered editor of Writer's Market had some indexes to go over late last night. Sometimes work just gets in the way of having fun and saving the world, I guess.
Anyway, the reason that is relevant to today's prompt is that we need to write an occupational poem today. You can write about your own occupation or that of another. Had a favorite job from the past? A least favorite job? A funny story from a job? Consider these questions before tackling your poem today.
Personally, I've held many jobs over the years, including baby-sitter, paperboy, bus boy, dishwasher, art gallery attendant, youth counselor for the City of Moraine, cashier, ice cream scooper, canvasser for a windows & siding company, night time stocker at a department store, and--being entrepreneurially inclined--I've had several odd jobs through the years as well. But I ultimately decided to write today's poem based off my experience working at a car factory making struts one summer.
Here it goes:
"Waking up in the evening"
They brush their teeth and dress before flocking to the parking lot protected by barbed wire fencing and a wide open gate. One by one, they swipe their cards and move though the turnstile, cross train tracks and plug their ears against the sound of metal on metal, a cocoon to keep them safe from the harsh realities of the situation: While others sleep, they labor over machines in a repetitive thrum of this piece here affixed to that piece there and move it on to the next station and back to this piece here affixed to that piece there until a machine breaks and throws off the units for the day. Then, the foremen shuffle around and fuss at them to remind them they're no better than a machine. They defiantly put up with the abuse until it's time to go home, driving the against the traffic caused by the others, the people who sleep while they work. When they get home, they take showers and have trouble getting themselves to sleep. Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts
Friday, April 25, 2008 3:33:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
 Thursday, April 24, 2008
April PAD Challenge: Day 24
Posted by Robert
Today's prompt is to use a photograph to create a poem. You can raid your dusty photo albums, look through your daily newspaper, scour the Internet, etc. But you must use a photograph. Them is the rules, yo!
(Sorry for the brevity today, but my book is soooo close to being done!)
Here's my poem for the day:
"Take a picture; it'll last longer."
She smiles at me through the mirror applying her makeup with a towel wrapped around her hair. She's dressed for the office, and I haven't decided upon my Manhattan game plan while she's out. She's wearing a green sweater pulled over a white button-down, and I say, "I love you," before pressing the button, waiting for the flash.
Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts
Thursday, April 24, 2008 2:40:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
|
|
Day 12 Highlights
Posted by Robert
You were asked to write an apology poem on Day 12, but I want to start off by saying, "Thank you," for all the great poetry written on this day. Good poems are usually marked by a great degree of honesty (even when making things up) and fearlessness on the part of the poet. These poems were very truthful and close to the bone. For instance, I didn't realize so many women have thoughts of punching people--the things poetry teaches us. But seriously, there were some funny poems in the bunch, but also some that were truly heartbreaking. Thank you for writing them.
I also want to thank Amy Cornell for sharing this prompt with her women's writing circle at the Monroe County Corrections Center in Bloomington, Indiana.
Here are the day 12 highlights.
*****
#12
I atone…
I admit…
I regret…
I repent…
I confess…
I am sorry…
I am guilty…
I apologize…
I didn’t mean…
I am ashamed…
…it’s a beginning.
Are you listening?
Never mind. I need
to say it
even if you don’t need to hear it.
Cara Alson |csalsonAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
*****
Inconsiderate Acts
I'm sorry snail, I didn't see you sliding across the sidewalk like a wad of butter on a slowly warming skillet. I'm sorry mailbox lock, for missing with my key and scratching your chrome. It's such a small key. I'm sorry mail key, for calling you small. You aren't small, you're compact. That makes you more efficient. I'm sorry house key, I understand the mailbox lock's smaller than door lock, and that he'd break off his teeth trying to muster the strength to move that heavy, oh, right, heavy and stiff deadbolt. (Yes, mail-key, I know that he's full of himself, I'm sorry for placating him, but if he decides to run off I have to call a locksmith and they don't accept apologize. The last one I called wouldn't even take a check.) So, so sorry, morning, for stepping on your sidewalks, I'll try to be more considerate in the future.
Zebulon Huset |zebulonhusetAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Sweet Nothing
I'm sorry you feel that way
was what you said
then later claimed that
as a true apology
As you slept
I wrote the note
and taped it to the
bathroom mirror
Sorry I didn't wake you
to say good-bye
Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
I'm sorry I went back into the bar
after chatting over the bed of my
truck for 20 minutes. We went back
in and drank a bit more, then ended
up back at my place...
He never told me about you -- the
current wife, just spoke about
the bitch ex-wife, assuming I knew
about you. When I came onto the
scene, after you left,
after you were too pregnant to
train any longer. If I had known
about you, it would never have
happened, I never would have
been so sick at heart
at what I'd inadvertently done,
all unknowing. I would never
have impulsively left town to
visit my alma mater, my ex-room
mate and his new digs
and I would have never met the
man who would become my husband
that second time. I wouldn't
have been dive bombed by that
wasp or gone to the
emergency room and been given
prescription Benedryl, which
loosened my tongue enough to
disarm his sense of humor. So
I'm sorry you
still don't know. I'm sorry about
the whole screwed up situation. I'm
sorry it happened with your husband.
But I'm not sorry it ended up
with mine.
A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
Letter of Apology
Dear John (or rather Robert),
I readily confess
That I partake of your challenge
But fail to pass the test.
I could blame it on my two jobs
Or my need for family time,
I could say my dog ate my homework.
Would that excuse work online?
I could plead I missed three days
'Cause I was subject to the flu,
I could argue I'm not a poet,
I'm just trying something new.
I could say that I am sorry,
I could post it on my shelf,
For it's not you I have let down...
I apologize to myself.
Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
Sorry
I hope the consequences will be slight.
Sorry for not posting on here last night.
I was out to last call -
it was Friday and all,
so if I penned a poem, it'd be shite.
Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Sister
She’s still there, whether
I talk to her or not.
Whether I pick up the phone
and try to cross the bridge
that’s been bombed.
It wasn’t us—
we both agree—
but still, the bridge is gone
and I haven’t rebuilt it
with telephone wire.
Kimberlee Thompson |kthompsonAT NOSPAMpatmedia dot net
*****
Yellow
Sepia stains this house -
and you - with time passed,
time mourned, choices made
or not. Of fingers
jaundiced and shrunken,
swirling amber nectar,
ice clacking to moments
metered by the hissing
thump, thump, thump of air
coursing via canal,
to make red what’s blue
in you, now yellowed,
smoky-scented, canyon-
carved, starving for space
enough to utter
“I’m sorry.” But the tip
just flares, then fades. You
gasp, and all goes black.
Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Why I’m late
I left in plenty of time but
There was a train,
I had a flat tire,
My mom/sister/doctor called,
I was detoured,
I forgot my purse,
There was an accident,
The dog ate my homework,
(Sorry, wrong excuse list),
I would have called but
My cell phone battery
Was dead…
Oh heck, I just didn’t leave
Early enough. I’m sorry.
Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
The Lackluster Apology
I'm sorry that I have the energy
To smile and rub your shoulders
I'm sorry that I enjoyed my day
That I delight in the new flowers
The silly thing our son said
The bliss of going for a walk with a friend
That I have the time to make your life simple
And full of love and peace
That I am not miserable and having crazy days
Like you
That I'm clearly not as important as someone
Who has impossibly difficult days
And mountains of pressure and frustration
Over and over and over again
But mostly I'm sorry that you don't
Remember
How it was when I was stressed, fried
And miserable too
And the tension between the two of us
Just about broke us in two
And when I told you to stop buying things
That you ignored me and said "it's a homerun."
And now it's a headache
And that you still don't see it
But I'm not sorry that you're a dreamer < | |