With pen in hand,
still I stand,
all astonishment,
as
my reflection
speaks.
“You are a writer?”
“No.”
I shake my head.
It all means nothing.
Fingers
The challenge this week was to write a limerick. What fun everyone had! Here are the results. Nesting, An Egret Limerick from An Egret's Day
by Jane Yolen
Our home it is here in the sticks,
With three very boisterous chicks.
They bully and fight
Until they take flight,
But it’s nothing that we cannot fix.
©2010 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved
Andrea from Just One More Book!! took a break from chemo to offer this poem. Send some healing vibes her way and see how she's doing at We Can Rebuild Her.
a woman on chemo one day
thought the world was just crumbling away
then she felt the clouds lift
and said thanks for the gift
of my life. Now I think I will stay.
Jane Yolen shared this chain of limericks.
A writer who wrote only prose
Took a very unwelcoming pose:
“There are things that no poet
Could bloody well know, it
Takes more than addressing a Rose.”
But the poet, in turn, gave a look.
Said, “It’s more than just writing a book
Of hundreds of pages,
Of arcs, plots, and stages,
Or catching your fish with that Hook.”
The reader addressing the two,
Said, “Nothing you say or you do
Can make my heart twitter.
So stop with the bitter.
Really, you haven’t a clue!”
So which of the three has it right?
Is there poetry or prose in your sight?
Or do both have a place
In the read-writing race,
Bringing all of us readers delight?
© 2010 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved
Kate Coombs of Book Aunt shared this poem.
A housewife once started to jog
With a ferret, three kids, and a dog.
She set a slow pace
And got red in the face,
So instead she decided to blog.
--Kate Coombs, 2010
Jane's Back! Here's what she had to say.
"OK--so limericks are addictive. In honor of Barbara Cooney AND our fair hostess here, I wrote this last one. And now I am quitting cold turkey."
Miss Rumphius loved things of blue
So decided she knew what to do.
She spent her spare hours
By planting blue flowers,
And my! How those hours just flew!
© 2010 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved
Sam wrote this limerick for the Pinkwater Podcast contest. The theme was insects...
There's a fly who parasitizes
and on one beetle it specializes.
It lays eggs in their larvae.
Maggots hatch and are starvy.
So they eat them from their insideses.
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater shared this poem.
There once was a cat with no tail
who ordered herself one by mail.
When it came she said, "Thanks.
I’m no longer a Manx.
It’s too small, but I got it on sale."
The challenge this week was to write a pantoum. Here are the results. Lost Scents
by Doraine Bennett of Dori Reads
The smell of butter rum
Will not take her back, though it should,
To a high-ceilinged room
On Ponce de Leon Avenue.
It should take her back. It should
Let her re-live summertime
On Ponce de Leon Avenue
When sirens were but a sound in the night,
Let her re-live the summertime
Of strawberry pie and apple peels
When sirens were but a sound in the night
And she was safe under handmade quilts.
Strawberry pie and apple peels,
Glass doorknobs, cedar trunks, jasmine vines
And she, safe under handmade quilts,
Watching lights play through Venetian blinds.
But, glass doorknobs, cedar trunks, jasmine vines
Lie tangled in a web of silk threads,
And no one watches lights play through Venetian blinds.
She stares instead at faded walls and regrets
The tangled web. Silk threads
She stitched in time unravel in her hands.
She stares. Instead of faded walls and regrets,
She dreams an old romance. Memories,
Stitched in time, unraveled in her hands,
Linger in a high-ceilinged room.
She dreams an old romance, straining to remember
The smell of butter rum.
Tiel Aisha Ansari of Knocking From Inside shares a poem entitled Caribou Shadows.
Another Spring: A Pantoume
by Jane Yolen
If I never see another spring--
the green thrusts of daffodils,
the violin curl of ferns--
I will still remember them.
The green thrusts of daffodils,
the scatter of crocuses.
I will still remember them
when I am under earth.
The scatter of crocuses,
like children in a playground,
when I am under earth
will still look the same:
like children in a playground.
The violin curl of ferns
will still look the same
(even if I never see another spring).
©2010 Jane Yolen all rights reserved
The Treasure of Old Captain Bones
A Pantoum by Nicole Marie Schreiber
Old Captain Bones, in a cave off the coast,
Sits waiting with his treasure for you.
Cursed by the hand of a siren so fair,
Beware, to all those who go seeking.
Sits waiting with his treasure for you,
For anyone who dare to try.
Beware, to all those who go seeking,
For all who have tried have died.
For anyone who dare to try,
One piece of advice I do give.
For all who have tried have died,
Choosing one jewel out of many to live.
One piece of advice I do give--
Find which of the hoard that she seeks.
Choosing one jewel out of many to live,
It’s not as easy as one might think.
Find which of the hoard that she seeks.
With a ruby or strand of pearls,
It’s not as easy as one might think,
To appease a siren of the sea.
With a ruby or strand of pearls,
You shall never soothe h
The challenge this week was to write in the form of kyrielle. There was some discussion about whether this was actually the correct name for the form. We wrote "traditional" kyrielles back in April 2008. Here's the explanation for that form. A kyrielle is a French from that was originally used by Troubadours. In the original French kyrielle, lines had eight syllables. Written in English, the lines are usually iambic tetrameters. The distinctive feature of a kyrielle is the refrain in which the final line of every stanza is the same. The name of the form comes from the word kyrie, a form of prayer in which the phrase "Lord have mercy" (kyrie eleison) is repeated. The definition of kyrielle I used this time around came from the book Fly With Poetry: An ABC of Poetry, written and illustrated by Avis Harley. Kyrielle - a kyrielle is divided into couplets, each pair of lines ending with the same word which acts as the refrain. There was a question of whether or not this form as described was actually a ghazal. Here's what I know about this form. This definition comes from The Teachers & Writers Handbook of Poetic Forms. The original Persian form was fairly simple--a poem of five to twelve couplets (two-line stanzas), all using the same rhyme, with the poet putting his name in the final stanza. ... Originally the main themes of the ghazal were love and drinking wine, but later poets became more philosophical and even mystical in their writing.
In it's contemporary form, the ghazal doesn't usually rhyme, poets don't sign their name in the last couplet, and it isn't very often about love or drinking. So you might wonder what's left of the original Persian form.
The two important features are the long-lined couplets (sometimes unrhymed) and the often mystical thoughts that are expressed. In the end I don't know what the answer is, but I did have fun reading the results in their variant forms. Here they are. What Will I Wear
by Jane Yolen
What will I wear when day is done,
When all my skin and flesh are gone?
How will I know which skills to hone
When brain and heart are also gone?
Who will I speak to, in what tone,
When mouth and ear and throat are gone?
Who will I love when I’m alone
And all I know are dead and gone?
©2010 Jane Yolen all rights reserved
Maybe
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt
Maybe this is the day to begin.
I can sort of see it, but I hesitate.
Today I will sprout a future
like green wings. Except--I hesitate.
If I can just drop that habit,
life will gleam. I hesitate,
wanting to keep it and drop
a different one. To hesitate
is easy. Should I call you?
Should I write a poem? Hesitate
and all is not lost. But something is,
something isn't born because I hesitate.
--Kate Coombs, 2010
0 Comments on Poetry Stretch Results - Kyrielle as of 1/1/1900
The challenge this week was to write a tritina, a 10-line poem composed of three, 3-line stanzas and a 1-line envoi. Like the sestina, a tritina uses an end-word scheme instead of a rhyme scheme. Here are the results. POINT JUDITH LIGHT
by Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech
That Sunday you wanted a drive,
So we drove south, you and I,
Singing alphabet songs, to the sea.
Some roads lead only to the sea.
We passed a sign for “Scenic Drive,”
You pointed out a lighthouse, which I
Saw was a mammoth lowercase “i”
Topped with a beacon, and the sea
Strove with its moon-driven drive
To drive us, home, beyond what my eye could see.
This poem was left by Lee Wind of I'm Here. I'm Queer. What the Hell Do I Read?
Four days till the SCBWI Conference and I'm excited.
Nervous.
Scared.
My first New York Conference so I'm scared.
Excited.
Nervous.
Who knows what could happen? I don't, so I'm nervous.
Scared.
Excited.
Excited, Nervous, Scared... but mostly excited. That's me.
Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.
To write a poem takes great heart ,
But do not leave behind the head.
Of course the other body part is the foot.
With poetic coin, the bill you foot,
But never neglect great (h)art.
Still, some poems begin in the head.
The poetic road that lies ahead?
You will need to go on foot.
Do not, my rhyming friend, lose heart
It takes all three to walk that road, to make a poem: heart, head, foot.
The Deluge
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling
I imagine the deluge began
in the winter's darkest days
when the already bone-chilling rain
turned to relentless bone-breaking rain.
Beating, bashing, battering, it began
to obliterate nights and days.
No difference between the days
and nights--just pain--and rain--
and pain. Until the fortieth night began.
Forty days and nights lost to rain before forgiveness began.
Rain
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt
Last week the sky was made of gray
and all the eyes reflected rain,
the kind of weather that asks why.
Like children tugging, asking why,
we waded through a sea of gray,
the only light in gleaming rain.
But there are those who read the rain,
who think its falling tells us why
the world's tenderness is gray.
Why, soft and gray as eiderdown is rain.
--Kate Coombs, 2010
Sneachers
by K. Thomas Slesarik
Pet shops seldom sell ‘em (those sneachers)
because they’ve a small cerebellum
but some sing karaoke by day.
They make little pay working each day
and many teachers are really sneachers
so please don’t stress their cerebellum.
And don’t speak of their cerebellum
‘cause it likely will ruin their day.
In fact, just run away from sneachers.
But celebrate their cerebellum each day. Go sneachers!
The challenge this week was to write a poem about a first. Here are the results. Names
by Jane Yolen
My first kiss was a revelation,
not because it was deep, soulful,
full of tongue,
but rather hesitant
or perhaps respectful,
hard to know at the moment
of such new, sweet heat
or even years later, trying to recall.
A quick peck on the lips,
a butterfly not a wasp,
and yet I was stung
there under the Vermont trees.
That boy, I think his name was Paul.
The trees, I think they might have been birches.
The place, by the main house at summer camp.
I remember that name at least:
Indianbrook.
or Indian Brook,
now Farm & Wilderness,
because Quakers are wary of misnomers.
But names fall away fifty-five years later
and only that first young kiss,
remains.
Whether Paul or the birches do as well,
well, it little matters
when the matter is not reality
but memory.
©2010 Jane Yolen All Rights Reserved
My First Poem this Week
by Ken Slesarik
Can you fix this poem?
For Jane Yolen I am not.
It’s not a sonnet or an ode
with a complicated plot.
It’s closer to a limerick,
a basic, simple jaunt.
The best parts of my poem
are the paper and the font.
The meter it is woeful.
The cadence clearly weak.
My grammar needs some work
so go on and take a peek.
Please do your best to fix this.
I’m certain you won’t fail.
And if you know a publisher
this poem, it’s for sale.
©2010 by K. Thomas Slesarik
First Time Roasting a Turkey
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling
Come to think of it
I'm now sixty and I
have yet to roast a turkey,
or even to cook a roast
beef. I've got endless
"firsts" possibilities--
making the aforementioned
roasts, knitting--anything,
writing a sonnet, welcoming
a grandchild, traveling
west of Pennsylvania,
getting a pedicure, taking
tap dance lessons, going
up in a hot air balloon,
seeing a Broadway musical--
on Broadway, winning a Newbury
(actually any award would do),
growing clematis, wearing
high heels (nah, I'll never
do that), running a mile,
eating a hot fudge sundae
with three scoops of ice
cream, nuts, a cherry, and
real whipped cream without
feeling guilty. Hey, I'm
sixty--that doesn't make
me old--only I can do that.
WHEN I FIRST KNEW
for Lesley
by Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech
February night, stuck inside
a stuffy, dim-lit dorm room,
people talking nonsense.
I say to no one, anyone,
"I'm going for a walk,"
hoping it won't draw a crowd.
I've got your attention.
You ask, "Can I come too?"
We grab our warm coats
slip out the door to the hall.
Multiple musics surround us:
Frankie Valli's "Oh, What a Night"
mixes with Pearl Jam's "Black."
The challenge this week was to write a poem about a beginning, and ending, or both. Here are the results. Left Behind: 2009
by Jane Yolen
Thirty-six pounds,
a lust for chocolate,
regrets,
a heavy pocketbook,
five pairs of size 16 pants,
several boxes of books
I will never read again
or use for research,
the word awesome,
anger at friends,
boots that are pointed
and not water-tight,
an ice cream maker
with missing parts,
a jealous nature,
fifteen glass vases from the florist
that held funeral flowers
from almost four years ago,
the man who stuck his tongue
down my throat on our only date.
© 2009 by Jane Yolen, all rights reserved
A Song for New Year's Eve
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt
1. Endings
Tail of a horse, flapping
like a slow flag. Last page
of a book, its surge of words
vanished. His back as he walks
away, smaller and smaller.
Song's final note, hovering
like a dragonfly, then suddenly
gone. Sunset kiss at the end
of a movie. December 31st,
dry as a spent Christmas tree,
fallen needles brushed away
by the broom of the wind.
2. Beginnings
Horse's face, large eyes asking
a question. First sentence
of a book, tugging you into
the story with both hands.
Familiar striding shape
of a friend coming closer,
smile growing. First note
of a song, rising like a sun.
Establishing shot: a town
one morning, a house, a porch,
an opening door. January 1st,
fresh and white as new snow.
--Kate Coombs (Book Aunt), 2009
Birth (Beginnings)
by K. Thomas Slesarik
Aww diaper, bib, and baby bottle,
a newborn girl to hold and coddle.
Trouble comes when they start to toddle;
at first a little, then a lot’ll.
© 2009 by K. Thomas Slesarik
Re-tirement (Endings)
by K. Thomas Slesarik
Grandpa is re-tired.
It’s really kind of sad.
I’ve been tired once
but twice is really bad.
He must be exhausted
to be tired and re-tired.
It happened once to grandma
and soon after she expired.
© 2009 by K. Thomas
1 Comments on Poetry Stretch Results - Endings and Beginnings, last added: 1/1/2010
The challenge this week was to write in the form of hay(na)ku. Here are the results.
Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.
The Widow Speaks
Husband,
Come back.
I miss you.
These
One-way conversations
Satisfy no one.
If
You cannot
Come to me,
I
Must go
Underground to you.
Your
Gray stone
Beckons to me,
The
Words written
On its surface
A
Printed invitation.
Here’s my RSVP.
I
Will not
Be too long.
© 2009 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved. Heidi Mordhorst of my juicy little universe left this poem in the comments.
Good
morning Tricia
I finally Stretch!
before
trying hay(na)ku
must make lunches
tofu
soy sauce
storebought chocolate pudding Diane Mayr of Random Noodling left this poem in the comments.
Turkey
sits waiting
frozen solid, wrapped
in
plastic. Innards
removed except for
liver,
gizzard, and
heart soon to
become
additions to
gravy, stuffing, or
kept
for the
dog's thanksgiving treat.
I
ask: what
would the Pilgrims
think
about our
idea of thanks? Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments.
One
leaf, shaken
by windy envy.
One
bird, rewriting
a November sky.
One
sound, alarm
clock prodding me.
One
good morning
in the mirror.
One
pillow, making
half a bed.
One
lunch beside
the front door.
One
bowl, one
spoon and cup.
Sometimes
I forget
lonely, but then
Some
days it
eats me up.
--Kate Coombs (Book Aunt), 2009 Kelly Polark left this poem in the comments.
Thanksgiving.
Time to
Stuff the turkey.
Holidays.
Time to
Stuff the human.
January.
Time to
Start your diet!
--Kelly Polark, 2009 Easter of Owl in the Library shares a poem entitled Married to the Military.
Carol Weis left this poem in the comments.
Stirs Up Memories
I
miss Mom
as the holidays
come
upon us.
The thought of
her
easy laugh
and the sweet
scent
she wore
stirs up memories.
I
can smell
her creamed onions
drifting
through the
house as I
peel
the skins
of those small
white
elliptic beauties
ready to drop
them
into a pot
that she once
used
knowing full
well her redolent
essence
will infuse
this reminiscent dish.
© Carol Weis. All rights reserved. Julie Larios of The Drift Record left this poem in the comments.
Ten
leaves falling,
nine hang on,
Eight
winds blowing -
going,
The challenge this week was to write a poem about a childhood game or pastime. Here are the results. Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.
Jacks
I was no Jill at Jacks,
tumbling gracelessly down a hill.
Instead I swiped the little iron-legged tokens
with a quick hand, snagged the ball,
was on to the next round with hardly a wasted motion.
Champion of my camp, of my elementary school,
I privileged jacks over real boys,
keeping my winning streak going
until my first kiss the summer I was thirteen.
The next time I played jacks
was with my own children
who could sit on the floor with an ease
I scarcely remembered.
The last time was at a conference,
with two women friends,
one of whom brought her own jacks and ball
in a velvet drawstring bag.
We sat on the hotel floor
watched over by conference attendees.
They cheered us equally.
But two of us lost.
We lost big.
Never play pool with anyone
who owns his own cue stick, Daddy had warned.
It’s true in jacks as well.
©2009 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved Amy Ludwig Vanderwater left this poem in the comments.
Ouija Board
My hands hover over
hoping for hints.
Who will I love someday?
I close my eyes.
I hold my breath.
What will the Ouija say?
Letter-by-letter
my future is told.
Word-by-word
her secrets unfold.
For me to make true.
For me to blame.
Ouija board –
Truth?
Or game?
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater, 2009 Easter of Owl in the Library shares two poems this week.
Carol Weis left two poems in the comments.
POGO STICK
Up
down
hopping around
how many times
can I go-go?
Up
down
hopping around
zillions of times
on my pogo.
-----
ONE POTATO, TWO POTATO
One potato
two potato
three potato four
rang around our yard
on chilly
autumn days
in our northern
Jersey neighborhood.
Fists held tight
we’d huddle in a circle
ready-or-not to play
the next round of
hide and seek
all wondering
who would
be IT.
Tapping fist to
chin and other
eager fists
it turned out
only
the potato
knew
for sure. Janet of Across the Page shares a poem entitled Boggle Dreams.
Harriet of spynotes left this poem in the comments.
Rope
Skit skat
Paddywhack
One foot, four;
Jump rope,
Turn twice,
Holler for more!
Double Dutch,
Never such,
Ever such rhyme;
One foot,
Two foot,
Four feet time.
Hold hands,
Back to back,
Shake it sweet;
Whip round,
Skip down,
Don’t miss a beat!
Turning,
Turning
The rope goes round --
Faster,
Faster, that
Whirring sound
Touch down
Turn around
Back against the wall
Oh, no!
Caught a toe
Trip then fall
The challenge this week was to write in the form of rictameter, and unrhymed, 9-line poem with a syllable count of 2/4/6/8/10/8/6/4/2 in which the first and last lines are the same. Here are the results. Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.
Today
I am trying
a brand new form of poem.
It is known as rictameter.
Who is it makes up these poetry forms?
Some clown with a post box in Maine?
Or was it just someone
who had a dream
Today?
© 2009 Jane Yolen Kate Coombs of Book Aunt shares a poem entitled Snail.
Snail
Gypsy
hauls his round brown
caravan behind one
smooth trotless horse up and down small
country roads. When he's gone, so is the green
laundry from the garden's clothesline.
Festooned in lettuce, he
rides on--bold-eyed
gypsy.
--Kate Coombs (Book Aunt), 2009 Laura Purdie Salas shares a poem entitled Bear Attack.
Kelly Polark left this poem in the comments.
Autumn
Is so cool. He
Showers us with vibrant
Colors. Our children race and jump
In the pile the size of a Volkswagen.
We sip cider while we watch the
Breeze scatter leaves on the
Yard yet again.
Tyrant.
---Kelly Polark, 2009 Carol Weis left this poem in the comments.
Mind fog
Creeps shamelessly
Blurs judgment inside brain
Key decisions lost in its midst
Bleary vacillations picking up speed
Yearning for sun to blaze away
Thick overhanging clouds
Obscuring view
Mind fog
© Carol Weis, all rights reserved Harriet of spynotes left this poem in the comments.
Walking
Over the hill,
Past the long-necked horses,
Thumping the fence with a fat stick
Just for the wooden sound of it,
I wade into the grass
To hush my feet
Walking Harvest
moon is slouching
lazily in the sky.
Her belly is too full to rise
just yet, so she lounges right above the
horizon, peers over the broad
shoulders of farm workers,
and inspects the
harvest. Easter of Owl in the Library shares a poem about gifted kids.
Julie Larios of The Drift Record shares a poem entitled Late Night Thoughts.
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater left this poem in the comments.
A cat
comes to a door
looking for food and drink.
He finds this. And he finds children
kissing him before they even name him.
Small hands remind him how to purr.
Soft laughter fills the porch.
This home needed
a cat. Andi of a wrung sponge shares a poem entitled
0 Comments on Poetry Stretch Results - Rictameter as of 1/1/1900
The challenge this week was to write a Zeno. Here are the results. Pat Lewis left these two poems in the comments.
Travel by Armchair
You can take a trip by Greyhound,
motorcycle,
paddle-
wheel,
ocean liner
(package
deal)—
I prefer the
bookmo-
bile.
* * * * *
Weather by The Old Masters
The Michelangelo thunder
of an April
cloudburst
hints
at what follows
a great
rinse:
spring meadows in
Monet
prints. Carol Weis left this poem in the comments.
Great Blue
The great blue heron tries to hide
itself in tall
grasses,
yet
passers see this
nature’s
pet,
take photos to
not for-
get.
© Carol Weis. All rights reserved. Greg K. of GottaBook left this poem in the comments.
Halloween
I counted down October days.
Tonight, at last,
Waiting’s
Through.
I prowl the dark,
Seeking
You.
My costume on,
I’ll shout,
“Boo!” Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments.
October 31st
Night. A graveyard. A single boy
walks soft as a
new-raised
ghost,
with each step re-
gretting
most
making that quick,
daylit
boast. Laura Purdie Salas left these poems in the comments.
Weapons Make the Warrior?
Marching in time, but out of time
into the harsh
light of
day:
Emperor Qin’s
army.
They
wield bronze swords in
arms of
clay.
* * * * *
Putting the Art Before the Horse
In Emperor Qin’s afterlife,
he would rule by
timeless
force.
But death had its
way, of
course.
Lesson? Don’t ride
a clay
horse. Amy Ludwig Vanderwater left this poem in the comments.
One Hen Speaks
We make eggs inside our bodies.
Roosters chase us
make us
mate.
Every egg is
tempting
fate.
Farm life or your
breakfast
plate? Julie Larios of The Drift Record left these poems in the comments. And yes, the first title is longer than the poem!
In a Nice Restaurant, I Use My Fingers to Tap Out Syllables on the Tablecloth, Which Worries the Nice Couple at the Next Table Who Appear to Be Having a Romantic Anniversary Dinner
Constantly counting syllables
alarms the shrinks.
While some
probe
tales about our
frontal
lobes,
none dare call us
zeno-
phobes.
* * * * *
A Zeno to Ze Nose
Ze nose eez nice, eet smell ze rose,
eet shine so pink
with wine.
Ooh-
la-la, ze nose
eet grows
blue -
eet sneeze, eet honk,
eet drip -
eeewww. This was darn hard. Here's the poem I came up with. What secret incantations do
you write upon
the sky?
Light
poems on a
summer
night
flash on, flash off --
"Hold me
tight!" It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.
The challenge this week was to write a poem about the thing(s) you love. Here are the results. Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.
This Thing I Love in My Yard
I loved that great fir tree,
watched it growing for thirty-eight years.
It kept walkers on School Street
from staring into my bedroom windows
and a resident Downey full of bugs.
Now there is an empty space
where a lightning strike
killed what wind and rain and snow and ice
and three climbing children
had never damaged at all.
But this new space, where the wind blows
red and gold leaves about
like crazed autumn dervishes
is inviting in its own way.
Dear One, it says, make a stone garden here,
a place to sit, read, enjoy the sun,
to contemplate the rambling house
now that husband and children have left it.
Put statues here—an owl perhaps, or a plaque,
slate stones with phrases from poems.
Emily Dickinson might be best:
“A word is dead, when it is said,”
“Tell all the truth but tell it slant,”
“I’m nobody, who are you?”
Short, pithy, like the space
now that the tree is gone.
Make a monument, a statement,
make a taradiddle, a fantasy.
You are good at that.
And you have less time to do it,
than the tree that has given you the place.
© 2009 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved Diane also left a poem in the comments.
Appreciating the Rarae Aves
Winter afternoons...
cold, gray, joyless
until a flash of cardinal
red opens my eyes.
Spring mornings...
chirps, twitters, love
songs of early risers gently
awaken me to possibility.
Summer dusks...
in the dash dart of swallows,
finding proof that every
creature is a piece in the puzzle.
Fall evenings...
far off honks of geese,
reminders that the
trip is all worthwhile. Shutta Crum left this poem in the comments.
Sea Song
I had a life as simple and full as the sea.
And out of the surf I carried stories—
wet, and unraveling.
I had a man who dove into water
and cradled my heart like a prize.
I had a child with tides to travel,
and another with kelpie eyes.
I had land on a windy cliff,
and a house that danced as it sang.
I had cats and dogs that spoke my tongue,
and a bird that proclaimed my name.
I had a strong hand clasped in mine,
and hallowed work to craft.
I had little hands that followed,
and mysteries that made us laugh.
I had a piece of floating ribbon
plucked from my mother’s hair.
I had a word of wisdom my father
found pooled in a magical year.
I had a friend who died too soon,
and another who died too late.
I had brothers and sisters and strangers,
who waved as they rounded the cape.
I had a place in my own time,
and a joy for the labors I sing.
I had a son, a daughter, and a man,
and hearts to set a-cradling.
So make me a promise will you?
If you should ever speak of me,
remember what I’ve said:
I had a life as simple and full as the sea.
And out of the surf I carried stories—
wet, and unraveling. Julie Larios of The Drift Record left this poem in the comments.
A Love Song
To Dappled things, of course, but why stop there?
To Hopkins and his God, to Yeats and Heaney and O'Hara.
Ditto the bare bottoms of toddlers, plus their plump thighs.
Love those. To their ear lobes. To their mangled prose.
To the sighs of various tides from Bahia Kino to Banyuls.
To toolboxes. Lunch boxes. Pencil boxes.
To knocks at the door when I know it's my sister.
To Bronte's mist on the moor. To Mr. Rogers - miss him.
To Whitman loving everything large, to the way
he sang. Still sings. And other things: Yellow in January,
deep green in July. Saturn and its rings. Crescent moons.
Cupcakes plain or pink. The blink of an eye that’s long.
Last but not least, jujubes. To all these things - Glory Be. I stopped and started several times, but couldn't get my childhood home out of mind, so that's what I wrote about. Still Loved
I miss the clothes line
sheets snapping in the wind
smelling of sunshine and lilacs
though that lilac bush is long gone
I miss the crabapple, mulberry,
weeping willow and white birches
yet it’s the Rockefeller Center-worthy
firs that hold my imagination
My brother once jumped his pony over them
now they tower far above the house
I miss the lily of the valley,
white trilliums, black-eyed Susans,
Queen Anne’s lace, pussy willows,
cattails and silver dollars
flowers of my youth
I miss the smell of manure,
fresh cut grass, spring in bloom,
summer rain, leaves in fall,
fires in winter
I miss the snow,
the blank canvas
wrought by each new storm
I miss the uneven slate floor,
naked baseboards,
drafty hall, narrow stairs
squeaky closet doors,
the wabi sabi of the home
my father built
I miss who we were there
It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.
The challenge this week was to write a roundel. Here are the results. Sam left this poem in the comments.
A Halloween Poem of Ill Manners and Iller Meter
Godfrey was an annoying gent.
He died of gout, but came back a ghost.
He crept into our kitchen, then
He willfully burnt the toast.
He ate the Spam. He stole the roast.
The spoons he bent. The dishtowels he rent!
With chocolate syrup he engrossed
Messages of ill temperment.
But what bothered us most,
Aside from all the money spent,
He willfully burnt the toast. Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments. Sea Turtle Roundel
Sea Turtle swims through a brine-green sky,
sweeping the water with flippers like brooms.
The jellyfish shiver when she goes by,
round and austere as a leathery moon.
Her back is marked with ancient runes,
a map to a beach where a whale's bones lie.
She buries her secret up near the dunes,
then leaves without so much as a lullaby.
The seagulls chant an ominous tune,
but Sea Turtle doesn't have time to hear their cry,
round and austere as a leathery moon. Amy Ludwig VanDerwater left this poem in the comments.
Churchyard
Whispers are rising from under each mound
calling to me though they gave up this game
of living for death, for peace underground.
I trace every name.
Babies and teachers and ministers came.
One final party for lying around,
remembering days of laughter and shame.
Why do I visit them? What have I found?
A voice clear as wind chimes – You are a flame.
Where did it come from? I search for the sound.
I trace every name. Backyard Junco
Just a little junco in the apple tree
this morning was enough to make me fiddle
with my plans, make me wait & see
(just a little)
what the day would bring. I put the kettle
on, rethought my errands, made a cup of tea,
settled in by the window. The junco's whistle
(just the hint of one, no bigger than the middle
letter of September) the birders call a "buzy zeet" - her ee-ee-ee
was Greek to me. But I love an autumn riddle
(especially if it's little.) Rebecca at Rebecca's Writing Journey shares a poems entitled A Roundel.
Andy of The Life Allegorical shares A Roundel for Fall.
My poem this week is about one of my favorite sights in spring.
The Kite
A kite on the breeze dances and sings
cartwheels and flutters--a bit of a tease
shaking its tail and spreading its wings.
A kite on the breeze
soars over the trees
tastes clouds, tugs strings
cavorts with the bees.
As spring gently brings
new life from the freeze,
a song of hope rings
from a kite on the breeze. It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.
The challenge this week was to use a prefix to form a series of words and then write a poem around them. Here are the rather spectacular results. Julie Larios of The Drift Record shares a poem entitled Pre of the Fixed.
Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.
OVER
--lay
When my beloved husband died,
And after I cried
For a thousand days,
Making myself unhappier
In a thousand ways
I realized that the problem
Was neither warmth nor sex,
But that like that turtle
“Twixt plated decks,”
I have no one to lie over
Or under me.
That fact alone
Practically sundered me.
--mantle
Looking into the mirror
A year after his death,
I saw an old woman
with eyes like shallows:
cold, inhospitable,
covered with rime.
I shall get to know her
In time.
--come
We shall,
I shall,
Make a life,
Not a better,
Not a wife,
But a new
And fierce
Alone.
What was two
Is now
Quite
One.
© 2009 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved Laura Purdie Salas left this poem in the comments.
circum-
be
circum-
spect
don’t dive in
to that hole.
is there a bottom?
circum-
navigate
instead.
black.
endless.
peer in,
gasping.
scrabble back from the edge.
circum-
locution
may be the only
way around the
unanswerable
question.
drown it in words
larger than the hole
itself obliterating
its unknowableness.
study the
circum-
ference
of the
question.
is it
pi times
the d(ying)
all around you.
the dying that
you fear?
circum-
scribe
your thoughts,
defined
within
walls of words,
borders of phrases,
continents of
poems.
--Laura Purdie Salas, all rights reserved Susan Taylor Brown of Susan Writes finally joined us for a stretch! Hurray! (and Welcome!) Her poem is entitled SEMI.
Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments.
The Sorcerer Chants
Tera
It twists like fire
in my mouth: sands pour
into glass and mass,
demanding the spell-shape.
Peta
I aim the word
like an arrow with eyes
and magic hisses
the name of every star.
Exa
Thought trembles down
the bones of mountains.
My incantation
rises like a golem.
Zetta
I leave behind silences,
as if I were dragging
a thin, jagged tail
through the dust.
Yotta
It isn't enough to tell
the size of the darkness
I have bloomed
into being like a new flower.
—Kate Coombs Linda of Write Time shares a poem entitled UN. Here is one of the poems I wrote for this stretch. Sub
-divide
Cleave attention
halve time
part ways
our days are
split and split and split
-atomic
It’s really all about
the little things
the tiny
bits and pieces of
our lives
-ordinate
I am
so small
so insignificant
so meaningless
in the grand scheme
of things
-sist
still …
I
am
here It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.
The challenge this week was to write a poem about having your picture taken. Here are the results. Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments.
Faces
Kerri has 500 photos
of herself on Facebook:
pouting sexy like a model,
then cute and funny, sitcom girl,
very Kerri, never scary.
I let her take photos:
they're supposed to be me.
A smile I practiced
for Picture Day,
dragon dabs of mascara,
a dropped shoulder
(Kerri says to, but I feel like
the hunchback of Notre Dame).
She doesn't get it. "Not one?
This one! This one is perfect!"
No. I go home.
I take out my paints,
my brushes, my scissors and paper,
a bottle of glue. A feather
I found on the sidewalk,
a button, a twig.
I take out the day I was born,
smoothing it with my hands,
the time I cut my knee
and it bled on my green dress
like geraniums,
a quarrel tasting
like unsweetened chocolate,
the ruffled pages of books,
my mother's daisy of a sneeze,
the times tables lined up
as if they made sense,
my sister's baseball bat swinging
through the air like a song,
and my secretest secrets,
like the heart of a stone or a tree.
I'm making
a picture of me,
and it's going to be
nothing like anything
in that book of faces.
It's going to be so me
that if wizards came,
they'd take one look at it,
and know my true name. Diane Mayr of Random Noodling left this poem in the comments.
INSANITY
Having my picture
taken over and over
and each time
expecting to see
someone else. Laura Purdie Salas left this poem in the comments.
Author Mug Shot
one hundred twenty five pixels square
double chin, cowlick, frozen stare
they told me this pose would make me look stunning
now black pixel bars restrain me from running
my crime: an unphotogenic cliche
my punishment: infinite awkward display
--Laura Purdie Salas, all rights reserved Linda of Write Time left this poem in the comments.
Picture Day
Last year I stayed home
sick on picture day—
I wasn’t even faking,
my stomach ached
thinking about my face
forever fat
on the yearbook page.
I had a plan
nothing but salads
I’d be skinny-jean ready
by re-take day—
It didn’t happen.
So I promised myself
a new me
in the new year.
But tomorrow
is picture day
again—
and already
my stomach
aches. Here's the poem I started but haven't yet figured out how to finish. I face the mirror
on the wall
practice smiling
stand real tall
tilt my head
rest hand on chin
try to mask
the fear within
The face that stares
at me each day—the one
I know by heart
is not the one
that is revealed
in photographic art It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.
View Next 25 Posts
|
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7320080607016581524-2257715003283329619?l=missrumphiuseffect.blogspot.
</p>
<div class="post-comments">
0 Comments on <em>Poetry Stretch Results - Birthdays and Beginnings</em> as of 1/1/1900
</div> <!-- end post-comments -->
<a name="commentsforpost615744target" id="commentsforpost615744target" style="text-decoration:none;"></a>
<div id="commentsforpost615744" style="display: none;" ></div><a class = "leavecomment" title="Click Here to Add a Comment" href="/redirect.asp?kind=3&value=514&t=http://missrumphiuseffect.blogspot.com/2010/09/poetry-stretch-results-birthdays-and.html" onclick="window.open(){kind=small}
Add a Comment
Those are great! Couldn't resist - I left a late entry on Monday's post. Thanks for all the Poetry Month fun here this week.
Oh, my goodness, the brother poem particularly tickles me. I chuckled - he sounds so annoyingly human.<br /><br />These are all so great!<br />And, I fear I shall soon have sad evidence of J. Patrick Lewis and those moths. I have found loads in the closet lately. ::sigh::