For this week's prompt, I want you to write a discovery poem. You can go "old school" and write about a discovery that's already been made; you can go "sci-fi" and imagine discoveries yet to be made; you can go all "Bukowski" and share your own personal discoveries; or you can "discover" a direction completely different.

Here's my attempt for the day:

"Standing on bridges"

The worst part is that the doctors make
no discoveries. Instead, they tell me never
to let myself fall and turn blue again. My boys
are taught how to dial 9-1-1 if I do. Part
of me prepares for every bridge I cross
to collapse. I know it's dangerous to think
that way. The rain is coming down hard.
Much of Atlanta has flooded or is flooding.

On the news, a man talks about watching
a car drive into a river: "The bridge was out.
I was on the other side waving my hands and
yelling. There was nothing I could do." Life
and death are like that. We can scream
to the heavens and wave our hands in the air,
but in the end, we make our own discoveries;
we stand up and hope that we won't fall.

*****

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Wednesday, September 30, 2009 1:51:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [237] 

Okay, I've been meaning to cover this poetic form since like March, but yadda-yadda-yadda here we are getting ready for October. The sevenling was created by Roddy Lumsden, but it was J.P. Dancing Bear who turned me on to the form earlier this year around the time I interviewed him for the blog. (Click here to read the interview with J.P. Dancing Bear.)

So, here are the rules on the sevenling:

• The sevenling is a 7-line poem (clever, huh?) split into three stanzas.
• The first three lines should contain an element of three. It could be three connected or contrasting statements, a list of three details or names, or something else along these lines. The three things can take up all three lines or be contained anywhere within the stanza.
• The second three lines should also contain an element of three. Same deal as the first stanza, but the two stanzas do not need to relate to each other directly.
• The final line/stanza should act as either narrative summary, punchline, or unusual juxtaposition.
• Titles are not required. But when titles are present, they should be titled Sevenling followed by the first few words in parentheses.
• Tone should be mysterious, offbeat or disturbing.
• Poem should have ambience which invites guesswork from the reader.

That said, here's my attempt at one:

Sevenling (The signs all pointed)

The signs all pointed in one direction--
SLOW CHILDREN AT PLAY, CARS IN THIS LANE
KEEP MOVING, and HIDDEN DRIVE--

unless they pointed in the other direction--
EMPLOYEES MUST WASH THEIR HANDS BEFORE
RETURNING TO WORK, CASH ONLY, and NO SOLICITING--

but few people bothered to read them anyway.

*****

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*****

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Tuesday, September 29, 2009 4:57:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [27] 

Getting ready to head up to Ohio for the week, but I just wanted to share the news of Patricia Fargnoli's most recent collection released earlier this month: Then, Something (Tupelo Press).

Fargnoli was interviewed on Poetic Asides back in March. Click here to read the interview.

Anyway, her latest collection is wonderful. Here's one of my favorite poems:

On the Question of the Soul

It is not iron, nor does it have anything to do
with the fleshy heart. It does not shiver

like feathers nor the arrow shot from the hunter's bow,
is not the deer that runs or falls in the snow.

It hunkers down in the invisible recesses
of the body--its closets, scrolled bureaus,
the ivory hardness of the chest,

or disperses through every cell. And also it flies
out beyond the body.

Someday watch smoke travel through the air.
Someday watch a stain spread out to no stain
in the ocean. The soul does that.

It doesn't care whether or not you believe in it.
It is unassailable and contradictory: the dog
that comes barking and wagging its tail.

It is not, I am certain, biology.
Not a cardinal or a heron, not even a thrush or wren,
but it might be a praying mantis.

It is the no color of rain
as it sweeps a field on an August morning
full of fences and wildflowers.

It is the shifting of light across the surface
of any lake, the shadows that move like muskrats
across a mountain whose shape mimics the clouds above.

Weighed down by the vested interests
of the body, it nevertheless bears us forward.

*****

Anyway, I just wanted to share.

Friday, September 25, 2009 10:56:49 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [7] 

I'm one of those writers who is always coming up with these great ideas and concepts for poems and short stories. Where I usually fall short is making sure that I follow through on that idea or concept to write the best poem or short story I can. It's almost like the idea is so great that I can't deliver on the promise of the title. That's probably why many of my "great idea" poems don't get published while my unassuming pieces do.

Sharon Cameo Franz has shared a very great idea with her poem "The Delicious Man" in this week's workshop. Here it is:

The Delicious Man, by Sharon Cameo Franz

Like a French croissant;
Smooth as butter and flaky.
That was this delicious man.

1. Have the narrator swallow him whole. In this scenario, the narrator finds the delicious man so savory that she can't even enjoy him; she just swallows him whole.
2. Have the narrator pass on him. In this scenario, the narrator has had her fill of sweets (or she's watching her figure). Even though he looks so incredibly delectable, she feels she has to pass on his deliciousness.

As you know, I love the idea behind this poem, and I feel it has every opportunity of being a tremendous (and delicious) poem after a little more work. It's already a cute poem, but let's make it completely memorable. After all, you don't want your readers spitting out the delicious idea. (Question: How many times can I use the word delicious in one blog posting? Answer: Apparently at least one more time.)

• Focus more on the delicious man. We need a little more than he's like a French croissant, though that was a clever simile.
• Use specifics to describe the delicious man. What's his hair like? His skin? His odor? (Yes, food does smell--hopefully in a good way.)
• Remove the delicious woman. Give her a poem of her own, sure, but this is the delicious man's poem. Feel free to keep the woman narrator, but don't make her delicious. Instead, make her hungry or full.
• Don't spit the delicious man out. If he's delicious, it doesn't make sense to spit him out once he's in your mouth. So, either swallow him whole or pass on him (because the narrator is already stuffed or counting calories).

Final thought: I wish I'd thought of this idea, Sharon; it has a lot of potential, and the revision process should be a lot of fun. Thanks for sharing!

*****

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*****

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Thursday, September 24, 2009 2:23:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [8] 

As some of you may have heard, Atlanta was hit with some massive rain at the beginning of the week (after a lot of rain last week) that caused some record flooding throughout the area. Bridges washed out, Interstates more than 6 feet below water, and some fatalities. Luckily, our family is fine; Reese even got two days of no school.

For this week's prompt, I want you to write a disaster poem. It can be large or small in scope. It can be a natural disaster like the flooding or a man-made disaster--or even a disaster caused by aliens or something.

Here's my attempt:

"Mud Flood of Doom"

Reese stands on the window sill and
peers over the ledge. "I've never
seen a flood before," he tells me.

Somewhere between here and her work,
Tammy is merging to the left,
because the right lanes are flooded.

On the TV, the reporters
have never seen anything like
this before, say, hundred-year flood.

Will rocks in his swing and listens
to the rain pelt the windows, pound
the earth, searching for a river.

When I moved to Atlanta, they
were experiencing the worst
drought ever; now they'll feel the flood.

*****

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Wednesday, September 23, 2009 1:50:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [160] 

...then follow the action live on our first ever Writer's Digest Conference blog at http://writersdigestconference.blogspot.com. I'll actually kick off the blogging around 4 p.m. or so (NYC time) with the Opening Address. And other Writer's Digest editors will be helping document the event, too. It won't be as good as being there, but it should still be pretty sweet.

Also, if you're in the NYC area Friday night (9/18), then head over to the Bowery Poetry Club around 8 p.m. and meet me at the first ever Writer's Digest Poetry Slam. It is a FREE event (open to the public); so c'mon by and say, "Hi." For directions to the Bowery Poetry Club, check out their website at http://www.bowerypoetry.com/.

And it's still not too late to register for the Writer's Digest Writer's Conference, and I believe you can even sign up for individual days. For more information, go to http://www.writersdigestconference.com/GeneralMenu.

But yeah, if you're not able to get out there, check out the blog; there should be lots of great bits and pieces offered up throughout the weekend and into the beginning of next week.

Friday, September 18, 2009 12:59:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [3] 

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, it is a dark and stormy night. Earlier, it was a dark and stormy day. Stormy enough to knock out the electricity when I was half-way through typing up today's prompt. Believe me, I realize the irony of the situation. In a moment, I'm sure you'll recognize the irony, too.

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about starting over. Think of a situation in which you could hit a re-start button involving yourself, some one (or thing) else, an idea, etc. As with all these prompts, I'm sure there are several different paths we can follow.

With my fingers crossed that the power won't go out again, here's my attempt for the day:

"Finding patterns"

In the year of the days, the monsters
are attacking themselves and everything
that crosses their paths. Those monsters
are blinded when the flashlights dance
into corners frequented by spiders. Poor
Stacy isn't sure what will happen next:

She's already been clubbed by a troll and
trampled by an army of zombies. Once, a car
ran her over while she crossed the street.
Reese includes her in his stories--with her
always by his side--but he denies he likes
her. Easier to throw Stacy under a bus.

*****

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Thursday, September 17, 2009 2:30:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [175] 

Wow! Today is 09/09/09. As someone who got married on 08/08/08 (at 8:08--in the p.m.--no less), I can totally appreciate the effect of numbers in the writing of others. After all, numbers and letters are basically the same thing: symbols representing something else.

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem that incorporates numbers in some fashion. The title could be a number. The end word for each line could be a number (maybe even a counting sestina?). There are a number of ways you could come at this one.

Here's my attempt for the day:

"Counting"

Reese is five years old;
Jonah is six. Benjamin
is eight, and Will is, too,
though he's still in months.

I turned 31 earlier
this year, but I have no
idea how old my grandmother
is. She may not even know.

We visited her and grandpa
today, and she asked me
six times if I had seen
dad's new house. His last

move was more than 10
years ago. She disappeared
into the house one minute
after grandpa got everyone

drinks before reappearing
with four pops. Grandpa
smiled and had her sit down
while he took them back inside.

Left alone with her, there
was little left for us to say.
The sun shining and a nice
breeze, we both just smiled.

*****

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Wednesday, September 09, 2009 9:04:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [238] 

Earlier this week, I was asked a pretty ridiculous question: How many poetry submissions (or poems) get rejected by American poetry journals (per year)?

It's not so ridiculous, I suppose, if you're just guesstimating an approximation. But then, the person (I'll let him remain anonymous) went on to ask if I can forward him to a resource that knows the answer if I do not. (And, by the way, he's already consulted poets.org, pw.org, The NY Public Library, and the Library of Congress.)

I'm not surprised he wasn't able to find an answer, because any answer he could have received would've been completely and utterly bogus.

To determine a specific number would require:

1. Knowing every journal (big and small press) that receives poetry submissions each year.
2. Knowing how many submissions (or poems) are rejected by each journal.

The first part is a lot more difficult than it seems. Even the best directories, do not list every small press journal on the market. Are there 500 literary journals accepting poetry submissions? Are there 5,000? Do high school and college publications count? Where is the line drawn exactly if you want an exact number?

The second part is even harder to figure out. Most editors don't even know how many submissions (or poems) they reject a year. They give approximations like, "We only accept less than 1% of what's submitted," or, "We reject 500 poems every poem we publish." If a journal can't even give you a specific number, how can you give an accurate (or near accurate) answer?

Bottom line: You can't.

More than a million poems are likely rejected each year by American poetry journals. I'm not sure what the point of getting any more specific would accomplish. In fact, I'm not sure why a general knowledge even matters. At the end of the day, it's just another silly, ridiculous statistic.

Poets will continue to write and submit their poetry despite the odds. And I think that's exactly how it should be.

*****

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Friday, September 04, 2009 7:10:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [9] 

As I mentioned earlier, my wife Tammy's second chapbook, No Glass Allowed, was recently published by verve bath press. Meanwhile, I've resisted the urge to interview Tammy for more than two years now. But the release of a poetry collection is too much for me to pass, especially when the poems are all so good. (Seriously, I loved Tammy's writing even before we started dating. No, really.)

Tammy's writing has been (or will soon be) published in publications such as storySouth, The Pedestal, RATTLE, and others. She received her BA in English at Georgia State University and promptly became a paralegal. She was born, raised and still resides in Atlanta, Georgia--and can be reached via e-mail at tammyfbrewer@gmail.com.

My personal favorite poem in No Glass Allowed is also framed on my desk in my Atlanta office. Here it is:

Sea Gypsies

You said you spent 5 minutes of your life
today looking for a staple remover.
Something to do with your job.
You edit, and sometimes
there is a need to pull things

apart. There are mountains
between us, and then a river.
The land swells with seeds
that fall from your pockets,
sewing the distance with deep
breaths, an entire city
in your smile.

I tell you about the Mokens,
gypsies of the Andaman Sea.
How they knew to flee the tsunami
before the first wave tore trees
from their roots, husbands from wives.
When the sky turns to salt, sometimes
there is a thirst. In their language

there is no word for want,
only an understanding
of give and take. You said
I took away your need
and you want

to share water with me.
The ground presses its pregnant
belly against my feet. I am
distracted by squirrels
in the trees. Wind.
When.

*****

What are you up to?

I've got the windows open and I'm listening to the wind and hoping baby Will stays asleep in his swing. And sipping some water and trying not to eat too many pretzel sticks.

Other than that, I have a new chapbook out from Verve Bath Press!

Within the past year, you changed your name--with earlier work as Tammy Foster Trendle and more recent publications as Tammy Foster Brewer. How have you handled that transition? And have there been any surprises (good or bad) as a result?

That's a good question. Foster is my maiden name. The first time I got married, I struggled with the idea of changing my last name. I was a Foster and I was proud of my family and my name. But, I wanted to have children and I thought it would be easier to change my name. My first poetry publications were under my married name--Tammy F. Trendle. I have a lot of publications (including my first chapbook) under that name.

I got divorced and remarried and didn't have any hesitations this time around about changing my name; however, I think I still published one or two poems under my previous name. Once I started publishing under Brewer, I decided to include in my bio my former name (in parenthesis). I joked that I didn't want anyone to think I was plagiarizing Tammy Trendle.

I don't think the name change has caused any confusion in my writing life; however, it causes lots of confusion for the pediatrician whenever I take Reese (my son from my first marriage) because he always addresses me as Ms. Trendle and then apologizes and calls me Ms. Brewer. It's weird having so many aliases--but a little mysterious, too.

The poems in No Glass Allowed have many great linebreaks. Do you have a linebreak strategy when writing poems?

Yeah, I put a lot of thought into my linebreaks. It helps me to type out my poems on the computer, so that I can see the linebreaks clearly and evenly. I like to break my lines at a thought or an image, so that the idea/image changes meaning from one line to the next. Each word in the line adds to the overall idea/image in that line. I like to have what appears to be a simple sentence broken over a few lines so that the words have multiple meanings. I hope that makes sense.

Do you spend much time on revision?

Oh yes. I recently finalized a poem that I started writing 1.5 years ago. Usually, I get the lines down and then I pour over each word methodically until I finally feel like it's done. I am a perfectionist when it comes to my poetry. Every now and then I'll write a poem that only needs a tweek or two. It's a great feeling when those poems come so easily. (By the way, the poem I just mentioned that took me 1.5 yrs to finalize is going to be published in the upcoming Winter issue of RATTLE.)

Your poetry has appeared in several publications--in addition to your two chapbooks. How do you handle your submission process?

It's funny. I think I go through phases where I write write write and then I submit submit submit. I'm not very organized with my submission process. Fortunately, I've had several instances where editors have contacted me about publishing my poetry. (I always put my e-mail address in my bio which I think helps.) I think I'm just about at a point where I've submitted all of my good stuff and now it's time for me to write more.

Speaking of writing more. Where or how do you tend to find inspiration for your writing?

A lot of times I get inspiration from reading other poets or from looking at pieces of art. Whenever I get stumped or feel like I need inspiration, I'll look at artwork and start writing out ideas that pop in my head. Also, I get a lot of inspiration from listening to other people (especially my kids). Something said in an everyday conversation becomes a line in a poem. Also, driving helps. During my long commute to Atlanta for work, I get ideas just from looking out the window. I'm a daydreamer.

When you're reading other poets, what do you look for in a good poem?

I think a good poem makes me feel. I remember reading "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" in high school and getting goosebumps (that's when I knew I was a poetry freak). I like a poem that can take language and twist it on its head. To read something that seems ordinary and simple on the outside but has many layers of meaning beneath. I think a good poem is one that even non-poets enjoy and appreciate.

Who are you reading currently?

I just finished re-reading Jessica Dawson's chapbook, Fossil Fuels (also published by Verve Bath Press). I'm also reading Cheryl Dumesnil's In Praise of Falling. Of course, I always like to read some Bob Hicok. I am a big fan of the small press and small press poets--Pris Campbell, Amanda Oaks, Jacob Johansen, Barton Smock to name a few.

If you could offer only one piece to other poets, what would it be?

Never forget you are a poet.

Final question: Who's your favorite poet named Robert?

You, silly.

*****

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*****

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*****

 

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Personal Updates | Poet Interviews | Poetry Craft Tips | Poets

Thursday, September 03, 2009 7:44:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [11] 

I did not think I'd have time to do a poetry workshop this week, but I surprised even myself with how much I've accomplished through Wednesday. So, let's get workshopping!

This week's poem comes from Jane Penland Hoover of Durham, North Carolina.

Here's the poem:

On Writing and Love, by Jane Penland Hoover

Always a middle
somewhere to come from
somewhere to go

I imagined I could fall in love
with gardening, if only
I could be close to those
who loved the taste

of green, the feel of bloom
upon some stem.

and so I joined them
the little club
that met each week
in someone's den.

listening and talking
about hydrangeas, seedlings,
sufficient moisture, and
what the sun might do.

But I didn't fall in love
with gardening.

One must get closer
kneel into the damp
earth, reach deep into
its darkened soil

rise up again and again
fingers dripping dirt.

And so it is with writing
still, the smell of ink
bleeding into skin, words
trailing back lead me.

*****

There are some obvious errors with capitalization and punctuation, but this is a pretty good start for the poem. What I really love in this poem is the metaphor Jane uses. Recently, I've been reading an advance copy of Robert Frost Speaking on Campus (due out at the end of September from W.W. Norton), and Frost was very much into metaphor.

In fact, I think there are two good ways to immediately strengthen this poem. One, correct the capitalization and punctuation. Two, strip out anything that does not directly relate to the gardening metaphor.

Here's the second version of Jane's poem after doing those two things:

On Gardening and Love, by Jane Penland Hoover

I imagined I could fall in love
with gardening, if only
I could be close to those
who loved the taste

of green, the feel of bloom
upon some stem.

And so I joined them,
the little club
that met each week
in someone's den.

Listening and talking
about hydrangeas, seedlings,
sufficient moisture, and
what the sun might do.

But I didn't fall in love
with gardening.

One must get closer,
kneel into the damp
earth, reach deep into
its darkened soil,

rise up again and again,
fingers dripping dirt.

*****

Already, this poem is much stronger. It still works as a possible metaphor for writing, but by focusing squarely on gardening, this poem also works as a metaphor for any hobby that someone could love. "Whether you're interested in writing or cooking or whatever," this poem is now saying, "you can't fall in love with something by merely talking about it. You have to actually work at it."

Notice: The only word change I've made so far is to swap the word "gardening" with "writing" in the title. Everything else is in the same order and same voice as used by Jane originally.

Sometimes, it really is as easy as cutting off the beginning and ending of a poem to make it that much stronger. But just because this poem is stronger now, it doesn't mean we're completely finished with it.

The poem may be done now, but I'd advise Jane to play around with trying to add a few more specific details to see how they affect the poem. For instance, I feel that it might be more interesting to have the name of a person instead of "in someone's den." You don't have to use a real name; make one up. This is where you can get into the business of telling the truth but telling it slant (as Emily Dickinson would say). 

In the same vein, I'd advise Jane to try playing around with adding specific details and conversation (again, can slant the truth here) about these gardening club meetings. By adding specific details, this poem may become even more interesting. Or it may not. But Jane won't know until she tries incorporating details first.

Regardless, I do like Jane's poem very much and love that she provided such a great example of how metaphor can be used in our poetry.

*****

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*****

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Thursday, September 03, 2009 1:40:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [8] 

For most of my life, I've encountered complete strangers who've taken the liberty of shortening my name from Robert to Bob or Rob or Bo or even Bill (click here if you're interested in reading me rant about the subject on my personal blog). Another common mistake is to mispronounce my last name as "Brower" instead of as "Brewer." I know most people encounter this phenomenon of mislabeling regularly, whether it's their name or something related to their work or hobbies, etc.

For this week's prompt, I want you to write a poem that deals with some form of mislabeling. The poem could deal with getting someone's name wrong, slight mistakes on signage, etc. I'm really interested in seeing how "out there" this prompt might get.

Here's my attempt:

"My Name Is Not Bob"

Or Rob or Bo or Robby
or Bobby. I don't go by Bill
or Bert. I won't answer to Mr. Brewer
or Lee, though those are better than Mr. Brower
or Leah. No, I really just prefer Robert
or Robert Lee or Robert Brewer
or Robert Lee Brewer.
Or "Hey, you."

*****

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Wednesday, September 02, 2009 5:53:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [244]