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An Unremarkable Square of Dirt
by Anika Denise (Copyright, 2014)

The first days in my garden remind me of my mother. On Mother's Day, we'd plant the flower bed at the front of her house--a small, unremarkable square of dirt just to the right of her front door; but to us, it seemed a grand garden. It was the first place she'd lived after moving out of New York, and it had a flower bed that needed flowers.

Busy hands allow my mind to wander. As I sift through soil with my fingers, I remember a conversation we had when I was seven years old. "Mom, what will I be when I grow up--will I be a mom with lots of kids, or a lady who goes to work every day like you?" I asked. I think you'll do it all," was her answer.

I wish she'd told me it would not be always be a perfect balance.

I pull weeds from between the iris bulbs and listen to sound of my breathing. Now my mind travels to when my first daughter was born, red-faced and howling, tiny fists clenched. I remember how she didn't stop crying for three months. And how tired I was. I remember how often I fell short of doing it all.

I rake the bed, evening the soil, and and part a tiny space to place the plants.

I am wiser now, after child number three. I know that all is a fantasy, and it's okay to settle for some.

I wonder, Am I doing a good job? Does she think I'm a good mom?

And then I remember the unremarkable square of dirt by my mother's front door, and how now, in this moment, there is a flower bed that need flowers.


I'll be joining a cast of thirteen remarkable women this Saturday, May 10th, at the RISD Auditorium for Listen To Your Mother, Providence. Tickets for the show can be purchased online here.  If you are in the area, I hope you'll come.

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RECITAL Lightning strikes a chord and Autumn tap dances on a floor of encrusted gold and ruby… while Thunder claps in appreciation —                       and Winter waits in the wings. Filed under: writing for children Tagged: autumn, ballet, dancing, fall, free verse, free verse autumn poetry, free2rhymeornot, freeverse, freeverse poetry, micropoetry, poems, poetry, poets, recital, […]

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Today, a quickish review of Instructions, the latest picture book by Neil Gaiman, with illustrations done by Charles Vess, who did the wonderful work on Blueberry Girl. This book is decidedly something I would have read to my children when they were young - perhaps after reading one of their other favorites, Mufaro's Beautiful Daughters by John Steptoe, which uses some of the fairy tale conventions found within this set of instructions. But it is entirely appropriate for adults, too - a picture book for all ages.

Longtime readers may recall that I posted an excerpt from this poem last August, along with video of Neil Gaiman reading the poem. (He is, as always, a most excellent reader.) What I may not have told you is that earlier this year, I began a new commonplace book, and the very first thing I copied into it was this poem, which I adore. Not just because I wish I'd written it - although that, of course, doesn't hurt - but because it is an inspired, inspirational piece of writing. On the surface, it is a poem containing just what it says: instructions. On its face, these instructions are there to help one navigate through a fairy tale sort of world, and it includes tips like "Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where you are going" and "If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe." It contains, of course, so much more, since so many of the instructions apply in the real world (or should). Such as:

However,
if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.

And in the middle is excellent advice for writers, whether that is precisely what Mr. Gaiman intended it to be or not:

Do not be jealous of your sister:
know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope--
What you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts.
Trust those that you have helped to help you in your turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart,
and trust your story.

Long story short? You need this book. Or someone you know and love does. A writer, perhaps. Or a graduate.

Physically, this book is lovely. It is a small size, for a picture book, roughly 7-1/2" wide x 8" high in size, and it contains 40 pages, all of them covered with Vess's art. The illustrations capture the magic and adventure of a fairy tale world. And since I'd love for you to see and hear this book as soon as possible, I've added the book trailer for this book below - which features a complete reading of the text by Neil Gaiman, along with semi-animated images of the illustrations (including some that move from sketch to completed artwork before your eyes):

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Yesterday's poem involved Shakespeare's statements about the immortality of his verse. Hubris? Maybe, but it seems to have proven true. Today's poem looks, however, at the flip side. Known best for his realistic prose, including The Red Badge of Courage, one of the texts that was (and still is) widely read in U.S. high schools, Stephen Crane also wrote poems (that he referred to as "lines" - think, perhaps, of Wordsworth's "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey", and one can readily see that the use of the word "lines" to discuss poetry isn't his alone).

A Man Said to the Universe
by Stephen Crane

A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
“A sense of obligation.”

Form: Free verse. No fixed metrical pattern or rhyme scheme.

Discussion: It's small, but it packs a wallop, does it not? The man goes with a simple declarative sentence, and the universe answers back with a rather more complicated sort of response. What is the point of the man's statement? Is he simply trying to get a bit of attention, or is he trying for something more? Is he trying to establish some sort of authority? And how does he expect the universe to respond? Probably not the way it does.

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This evening, another snow storm is coming our way here in New Jersey. We appear to be located on the border between "major" and "crippling" snowfall, if our local forecast is to be believed. It will be a classic Nor'easter, with the snowstorm that's currently in Chicago joining forces with the storm tracking across the south, so that we'll end up with a very strong snowstorm that includes some blizzard conditions (which requires visibility of 1/4 mile or less and winds in excess of 30 m.p.h. for a period of 3 hours or more, as it turns out).

What is more appropriate on a day like today than a poem about a blizzard by one of New Jersey's native sons?

Blizzard
by William Carlos Williams

Snow:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down —
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes —
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there —
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

The poem is written in free verse. Given his use of the word "anger" and his time period extending to 60 years, I have to note that Williams was not restricting himself to writing about a snowstorm, but is also speaking about the accumulation of a life, and he compares looking back at his footsteps in the snow to looking back at the course of his life.

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Cowboy Curtains

I felt tears in my eyes before I opened them this morning...and I thought, here come the tears again...

It was an early December morning, my favorite season- so I wondered why I had tears in my eyes- But, I knew I didn’t want to open them-

Because I recognized this feeling...as one I had known before- this was not my first wagon ride.

I wanted to keep my eyes closed and continue to think of the cowboy curtains on my grandmothers drapes, her azalea bushes in bloom, and my golden retriever...


In addition, if I opened my eyes, I might lose the ability to smell honeysuckle-
I wished I was nine again and I squeezed my eyes together tight, that way I could stay in the moment longer, although I knew I had to open them sometime.

For one thing, I had to wipe the tears before they drew lines on my face, although I wondered why I was crying- a surprise I decided to brush off and rationalize as tired, confused, lost, or "just one of those days."


I lay in bed feeling as if an unwelcome visitor had returned to my door. Nevertheless, I told myself I was strong and thought of good things until I felt better.

After all, it was an early morning in December, my favorite season-
So I shrugged off the feeling and decided to focus on secure moments and new beginnings before opening my eyes.



I always project myself into the future during the fall season and on Sundays-

For example, on Sunday I think of Monday, and during the spring months, I remember long hot summers.

Only, on this day in winter, I didn't think of the summer, I thought of cowboy curtains...

I remembered the cowboy curtains that hung in my uncle’s boyhood room at my grandmother’s house. They always smelled good, probably because they dried clinging to the clothesline on breezy spring afternoons.

It felt good to think about the smells and sounds rich in a Southern environment- in addition, to the lasting impression my grandmothers five hundred year old Oak tree left on my soul.

The agricultural climate in the Deep South blends into your senses and becomes a part of who you are, and what you remember.

Sometimes, I draw upon my southern heritage for comfort when I’m having trouble with life's harsh realities. And I’m happy I can still smell the honeysuckle vines I pulled from my grandmother’s Azalea bushes, as well as hear the crickets' sing at night.

The sound of crickets are entrenched in my mind, chirping in a rhythm I miss when I'm away...

I remember crickets singing when I opened the window in my uncle’s room before going to sleep at night- and watching the moonlight shine on the shadows as the drapes floated on the breeze away from the window...

It was as if the moonlight showed up to tell a story of cowboys and their horses. The cowboy drawings looked alive when the wind wiggled the drapes back and forth-Therefore, it was easy to imagine real cowboys roping, laughing, and branding cows, behind what would be a dusty curtain. I wished the tiny wranglers I envisioned were really alive, and sometimes I gave them names, histories, and character.

A glimpse inside the life of horses and cowboys who share the heart and spirit necessary to win any race, cross any countryside, or rope any calf, gives me courage- these imaginary cowboy's horses kicked dirt toward the sky until the end of every day- and so will I...

But today, I let my minds eye watch horse and rider gallop to the rhythms of life inside the breezy drapes of long ago.

Because, after all, I recognize this feeling...I've felt it before- this is not my first wagon ride, remember?

I will worry with the details tomorrow...I haven't the time today- time is too precious...

I will think of cowboy curtains, honeysuckle vines, my grandmother, my retriever...a cool drink of water... tall clover...and you-

Then I'll open my eyes...and begin a new day-

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You have to
Believe
in your power.
Stories spin
from your fingertips.
Characters draw breath
from yours.
It is all real.
It is all good.
Falter,
disbelieve,
and it all becomes
cardboard
and paste.

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The Boys are
elsewhere.
I am home
Alone.

Every surface is
piled high.
Books
toys
dirty dishes
three gloves
(where did the other one go?)

I could...
watch TV
work out
call my sister
write some more
read a book.

But disorder
makes me itch.
Living with my Boys
means I always
itch.

So I clean.
Legos under the playtable.
Cozy throws folded.
Find a home for new birthday toys.

Two hours
and done.
The first floor, at least.

But I am lonely now.
No evidence of
Boys.
Anyone might live here.

I take out the legos again.
Build something tall
with wheels.

Leave it in the middle of the floor.
There.
Now it is home again.

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The speaker showed us pictures
and spoke
searing words.
Haiti suffers.
1 hour away
from Us.
Rich us.
Rich me,
moaning:
oh woe dirty bathroom sink
oh woe defiant child.
No running water
in Haiti’s villages.
Rampant disease.
Parasites invade
feet
soaked in sewage.
2 out of 3 children
Dead
by age 5.
Dead.
His organization built
toilets.
They are
the villages’
Pride.
I can open my
wallet.
I can tell my
friends.
But I can’t understand:
why them?
why not me?
How do I begin to
Deserve
my riches?

For more information, please visit the website for Voice of Haiti.

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Your DVD
came today.
Full of
memories.
We eat dinner
while we watch,
consuming
eagerly.
A cruise.
Colorado.
Piano recital.
Birthdays
we missed.
Jack-o-lantern
we didn't
see.
You're running
the race
alone
I want
to be next to you.
I won't cry.
Not in front of
my Boy.
But inside?
I howl.
I love you.
I miss you.
I wish
moving didn't put
miles
between us.

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Holidays are gone

bright boisterous sweet

packed away

Now we settle into winter

cold silent crisp

No expectations

No conversation

Nothing to

Deliver.

Only endurance is required.

There is space

in my mind

magic creeps from cold corners

sets my fingers

to record another tale
 

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Twist and Shout…this is the song in my head today… I’ve made a blog plan and part of my blog plan includes what I’ve decided to call Sunday Morning Free Verse.

Every Sunday I will write the events of the past week as soon as I wake up or shortly thereafter. I’m going to write whatever pops into my semi- conscious mind at the beginning of the day. Although you can do this any time of the day, the best time for me is as soon as I open my eyes.

I thought since many of you are home and slumbering around on Sunday morning you may have time to join me. Just write the events of last week or whatever comes to you as quickly as you can, don’t think, just write, that’s what I mean by free verse. It’s like a warm up, for example, free verse is to writers, what stretching is to runners.

I usually haven’t the time to write freely before every post, but my writing is much better when I can verse an idea a few times before I write my first then final draft, to a manuscript, story or article. It’s also another word for brainstorming, because often an idea will hit you if just write without thinking several times. In addition, if you already have an idea, it will help you tighten your words so that they will be easy to edit when you write your final copy.

However, that’s not what we’re going to do here this morning, in fact, we’re not even going to write a first draft. We’re just going to write and not think about what we’re writing. I thought it would be a fun thing to do, sort of like having someone twist you on a tire swing, then let you shout your way down as you fly in circles.


O.k. I’m going to highlight my week now as fast as I can without editing or thinking… Ready Set go!




Happy Sunday everyone~ That is if you’re awake yet. I didn’t start waking up this early on Sunday morning until I couldn’t sleep at night.


I couldn’t sleep last night, I don’t know if it was my cat, (Simon) keeping me awake, or if I’m become decrepit before my time, but I lay in bed and read, dozed, read, dozed, read, went to the bathroom, returned to bed, and read, dozed, read, dozed, you get the picture…I hope.

Simon jumped on the bed and purred like a kitten to go outside, and then when he realized the cute kitten stuff wasn’t going to work, he started his manipulation tactics, which I must admit are getting better. Finally, he gave up and there was the sweet sound of silence, and I almost fell asleep…But, I was awakened by the loudest ringing sound…this side of Winchester Cathedral. It bang my ears like a drum, chimed my and melted my brain into mush. I was in such a sound sleep…that I must have been dreaming because the sound was just Simon at the front door moaning. His cries of desperation begin with a moan which blends into a growl like whine, I call it the growl whine. Let me see if I can articulate it better, he makes the sounds a human being makes when we’re freezing; so it sounds like Brrrr, but it ends with what sounds like the word “owl” on the end- I call it a moan growl. . The prefix is Brrr and the suffix owl, hence, Brrowl, and as the browl gets louder he locks onto the vowel sound O really loud, so it sounds like BrrrOwl BrrOwl pounding into your brain.

I couldn’t take anymore of it, so I jumped from my bed in the dark with my water bottle, tripped over my guitar, praying I didn’t break it or a bone, and chased the little maniac through the house. I sprayed the water bottle as I ran hoping to soak him good…then there was silence…the opposite of the sounds seconds before…it was so silent you could hear the tick tock of a clock if I had one….

I turned on the light, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I know he was wet, but I couldn’t find him to dry him off so I brought my heavy eyes back to bed, and tucked myself under the warm covers…it was so nice. But not for long….the BrrrOwl…came back again….without turning on the light I picked up the water bottle on my bed side table, and swished the water in it back and forth so he could hear it,. Then, more silence followed by …Brrowwwlllll…silence….browwwwwllll…silence…and I suppose we went to sleep for a few hours until morning. No more catnip for Simon, he is a bad drunk. Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you about the catnip I bought him the night before at the grocery store. I was looking forward to a nice evening after spending one night in the hospital this week, in addition to my lion escape, Yep, it’s all there in my Chicken Feed post. To sum it up I had a hard week, so I bought a magazine, a coke, and a catnip toy for Simon. I’ll find some use for that cat nip…but it will not be for him…

I missed Tuesday’s Question because I fainted, then my doctor trapped me overnight in a hospital and had my room guarded my lions. I had to jump from a window and run as fast as a cat seeking shelter from a pouring down rain..

And the magazine got wet from the coke in my bag.


THE END

Happy Sunday!

Now it’s your turn, and remember, don’t think, just write. And please forgive my errors, (I hope Google does) because I couldn’t bare to read it- I would have edited...

Have a fun, happy, weekend full of music, laughter, and dancing- And be nice to one another…))) Oh, and Twist And Shout is on my sidebar as the song in my head today.

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"Tick tock tick . . . Time keeps on tickin', tickin', tickin' into the future . . ." Boy did the Steve Miller Band get that right.

Drafting

From time to time, I've bemoaned how long a poem can take to write. Writing in a form or using rhyme can take ages. A draft of even a short rhyming poem can take hours, and can span days.

Writing in free verse isn't always a piece of cake, either, although any delays there are based in finding the right image or just the right color of word, not finding the right image and then screwing with it until you can make it fit the form. More on the color of words later (and no, I'm not planning on discussing synesthesia).

I've talked this over from time to time with other poets. And I've eavesdropped on poets talking amongst themselves. And I can assure you that if it takes a long time to write a poem, you are not alone.

For every poet that claims to write a poem a day, there is a poet that writes only one poem in a month. And I'm not comparing one haiku to an epic poem, either. These are poems of roughly the same length. I have heard poets express amazement at the notion that someone has completed, on average, two poems a week — and why not be amazed? After all, that is over 100 poems in one year's time.

Revising

All poems benefit from some time "in the drawer"; that is, time away from the poet. Even the rare poem that is picked up, read over, and left alone benefits from having its maker approach it with clear eyes and a fresh attitude. And most poems require tweaking. One wants to follow Strunk & White's advice and "omit needless words," particularly when it comes to a poem. Not just prepositional phrases that could be reduced down, but also articles and conjunctions that should simply go. Perhaps the order needs to be reconsidered, whether for clarity or for flow. And then there's the issue of finding not just a word to indicate what you meant, but the quest for that best word for the particular line.* This is where the issue of finding a word that is just the right color comes in.

Perhaps you've written a poem about a walk in the woods. Here's a possible first draft idea, expressed as a sentence:

Today I walked through the woods as the light faded, heedless of nature until a rustling noise drew my attention to a litter of raccoons near the stream.

There are those who would simply break the line here and there and call it free verse:

Today
I walked through the woods
as the light faded,
heedless of nature until
a rustling noise
drew my attention
to a litter
of racoons
near the stream.

That, my friends, is not free verse. It is a sentence that has been split into bits to resemble free verse. Let us spend a bit of time and tweak it. In this instance, "today" adds nothing to the poem; if the writer were comparing today to yesterday or tomorrow, it would be different, but such is not the case. Lose the "today."

Is walking the best word here? Maybe; maybe not. If you have a strong desire to convey how you were walking through the woods - what it looked or felt or sounded like, you'd want to replace the simple verb with something better. "Shuffled" expresses slowness and conveys sound as well as speed and appearance; "strolled" sounds more relaxed, and loses some of the other sensory connotations; "slouched" ratchets up the visual and the feel of the walk, and implies a sort of shuffling, so maybe it gets 1/2 a point for aurality as well; "stumbled" says something else, as does "hiked," "trod", "tramped", and "wandered."

"Through the woods" is the next bit of the line. Ask yourself if all the words are really needed. For instance, "I walked the woods" can work perfectly well in some contexts, so maybe "through" isn't neede. Then again, perhaps (like some poets I know), you hate to see useless articles like "the" lying about; in such a case "through woods" might be preferable. Or maybe the article invites an adjective as an addition or replacement: "through darkening woods", "through quiet woods", "through rain-damp woods", "through musty woods". See how those adjectives change your conception of what kind of woods these were? Maybe you should address whteher the walker was on a trail or rustling through the underbrush. Perhaps another line should come in. Perhaps one should go.

If you're getting the idea that every single word in a poem needs to be assessed — weighed and measured to ensure that it has earned the right to stay — then you are correct. And that is just for the creation of the poem in the first place. After it's been allowed to rest a while, all these same issues must be revisited again to determine whether the poem is complete, whether it expresses what you wanted (did you just want to tell me you saw raccoons, or did you want to tell me how it made you feel?)

If you wanted to convey how it made you feel, did you want to do so by telling me "it made me feel this way" (better phrased, of course), or did you want to use imagery to take me into those darkening woods with you so that I could see those raccoons, too, and feel it for myself? Both of these are valid choices, by the way, but as the poet, it's your job to make these decisions. Every poem. Every line. Every time.

This is why those who write poetry can be blown away at the notion of someone writing two poems per week. Or even one a month. In the fifteen months since I began the Jane project, I've completed 57 Jane-related poems, 54 of which are useable. I've also written at least 10 other poems, some of which are actually decent. That puts me at an average of approximately 1 poem per week in that amount of time, some of which still require serious revision. Adding it up, I'm pleased with my progress. But on a day-to-day basis, it feels remarkably slow.

I'll be back tomorrow with my rewrite of the above bit of fluff. Anyone else willing to post their efforts in the comments is welcome to do so, and I'll collect them up.

*Samuel Taylor Coleridge defined poetry as "the best words in the best order."

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Back in November, I read a post over at Laurie Purdie Salas's blog in which she called for two poems for her (now) newly released title from Compass Point Books, Write Your Own Poetry by Laura Purdie Salas.

I submitted two poems, one for each of the categories that Laura needed, and was thrilled when my bathtub-related poem was chosen for inclusion. When I was at ALA last weekend, I got to see and hold a copy of the actual book over at the Compass Point booth. My poem is there on the right-hand page, near the very small rubber ducky.

Wanna know what the poem says? Since I'm sure at least one or two folks out there might, here it is:

In the Bathtub of Possibilities
by Kelly Fineman

I am:

    a landscaper
        clearing a lake amid bubble mountains

    an admiral
        directing battles between rubber ducks
        and drakes

    a mermaid
        my hair a floating halo
        or fishnet

    Now, Alice
        in a towel
          too big for the rabbit-hole drain

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