I fell in love with this meme the minute I saw it on FaceBook.
Psychology-turned-poetry. For all those who are seeking:
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poetic therapy
AU CONTRAIRE, L’ DOCTEUR!
“Sweets are gonna kill you,” my doctor is fond of saying. Thanks to my friend Darlene, I will go to my next appointment armed with proof to the contrary. Darlene and her husband had enlisted their son’s help to move stuff from their old house to their new one. The son stopped on the way over and impulse-bought a fresh strawberry pie, the berries swimming in sugary red goo, smothered beneath a blanket of whipped cream. They trucked load after load to the new house. It was late, but Darlene wanted to go back and stay the night; she had to meet with a potential buyer early the next morning. Her son talked her out of it by tempting her with the pie, which looked too yummy to resist. Midway through dessert, their cell phones began buzzing with warnings from the National Weather Service. Had it not been for that strawberry pie, Darlene would have been caught in the eye of the storm.
OWED TO STRAWBERRY PIE
(diminished hexaverse)
They had spent all day
moving heavy loads
from old house to new.
She wanted to go back
but her son stopped her.
“What about the
strawberry pie?”
he said. “Let’s sit
and have a piece.”
While they ate
and talked, a
tornado
flattened
their old
house.
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TALKING TO STRANGERS
Last month, I decided I’d take the bus to Erie, PA to visit my sister. When I shared this plan with my husband and sister, both offered to ferry me there and back rather than allow me to throw myself to the ‘Hounds. I shushed them and bought a ticket, determined to have an adventure. C’mon, how bad could it be? For a very reasonable price, they do all the driving, and you get a comfy seat, a generous baggage allowance, an electrical outlet, complimentary WiFi, and a restroom.
I had tight connections to make in both Columbus and Cleveland, so things got off to a rocky start when the bus failed to show up at the designated pick-up point in Springfield. The Greyhound rep checked the online tracker. The bus was running late. Like, over an hour late. Hubby drove me to Columbus, I made my connection, and everything went smoothly from there. On some legs, the bus was less than half full and every rider got a row to him or herself. On the more crowded legs, I was quick to offer up the empty seat beside me. Most people kept to themselves; they read novels, listened to music, or texted on their cell phones. The nap-takers came prepared with C-shaped neck pillows and eye masks. Others were eager to strike up a conversation. If my seatmate wanted to chat, I obliged. These dialogues were eye-opening. Humans are complex beings, not always what they seem:
PEOPLE OF GREYHOUND
The bus driver arrives carrying a coffee
in each hand and fills us in on the rules.
“Be considerate of others around you.
No loud music or yakking on the phone.
Hold onto the overhead safety ropes
on your way to and from the restroom.
Weapons and smoking are prohibited.
Sit when you pee. And there’s no maid
onboard, so pick up after yourselves.”
My first seatmate is a clean-cut dude
carrying nothing but a brown paper sack.
He’s 35 with kids by three “baby mamas.”
After he got out of “the joint,”
he started reading. All those new ideas
“shifted his paradigm” and changed his life.
He channels Maya Angelou saying,
“When you know better, you gotta do better.”
Young black ex-cons can surprise you.
In line in Cleveland, a chocolate Adonis
with shined shoes and a swank iPhone says
he’s heading back to rehab after a day pass.
“Think that vending machine takes fives?”
“Probably,” I reply.
He returns holding a bottle of lemonade
and I ask how much they ganked him for.
He snorts. “Did you just say ganked?”
Old white ladies can surprise you, too.
My next seatmate is a pasty redhead
in faded Levis with more holes than denim.
She’ll be riding all night to get to Nashville.
She opens her shiny copper-colored handbag,
withdraws a can of Pringles,
and allows herself one diminutive handful.
I envy her restraint.
When she nods off, her head slumps forward
like a flower on a broken stem.
Within earshot, jagged snores saw through
the feather-light laughter of a guy sporting
Elton John sunglasses and bedazzled jeans.
A Barbie doll-shaped brunette is on her way
to an exam that will determine her worthiness
for a slot in a speech pathology program.
A plain-clothes nun silently prays the rosary.
An afroed teenager bobs his head in time
to the pumping bass overspilling his earbuds.
On the final leg, I meet a dark foreigner
with a gold front tooth and wicked breath.
I offer him a box of wintergreen TicTacs.
He accepts them with a gracious “Merci.”
He asks if I have children. When I say no,
he nods gravely and replies, “God’s will.”
He teaches me a few French basics:
Bonjour. Comment vas-tu? Bien, merci.
“Au revoir, ami,” he grins when we part.
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A VOICE FROM THE GREAT BEYOND
Earlier this week, a reminder popped up on my FaceBook: “Conrad Balliet has a birthday today. Let him know you’re thinking about him!” Had he not passed away last August, he would have turned 92. I miss him a lot. He hosted Tower Group meetings in his home and recited poetry on WYSO’s Conrad’s Corner for decades. Local poets stepped
up to fill the gap. Steve Broidy now hosts our monthly meetings; Lori Gravley and David Garrison have kept the Corner going. Conrad’s old recordings are interspersed throughout the schedule, and it is always uplifting to tune in and hear his voice.
Conrad was a WB Yeats aficionado so I wrote this parody of “Where My Books Go” to read at his memorial service. I think of it every time I hear him reciting Yeats on the radio:
LEGACY
All the verse he has uttered
on the radio each night
preserved for all eternity
through the magic of sound bytes
Our sad, sad hearts shall perk their ears
as his lilting voice recites
the works of Yeats and all the greats,
a comfort and a delight
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WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
This poem combines just two of Muri’s prompts; it’s the best I can do considering what’s left.
2. Write a poem about the changing seasons
7. Write a Quatern
The following piece hums happily along as winter turns to spring. It is
a “non-traditional” quatern—a few of the syllables are missing and the line that moves through the stanzas is close but not identical. I have added internal rhymes just for fun. What can I say? Creativity doesn’t always stay within the lines.
APRIL ALL ABUZZ
Humming, humming, earth is humming
Soft vibrations wake creation
Dormant grass shoots up en masse
Greening blades in countless shades
Keen homeowners start their motors
Humming, humming, engines humming
Mowers growling, tillers plowing
Jostling beds of sleepyheads
Bulbs awaken, breaking open
From each womb, a brilliant bloom
Humming, humming, flowers humming
Pistils, stamens, sweet libations
Bold prospectors seeking nectar
smell perfume and zoom, zoom, zoom
from their hives in overdrive
Humming, humming, life is humming
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ANOTHER TRIPLE HEADER, MURI!
On her blog, A Different Perspective, my buddy Murisopsis laid down
a challenge for National Poetry Month: using the supplied prompts, in any order, write thirteen poems in 30 days (one poem each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday through the month of April). The first week, I managed to nail three prompts with one poem. It was so much fun, I decided to choose three more and try it again.
1. Write a limerick
6. Write a poem about dogs
9. Write an acrostic poem using an emotion
Without further ado, here is my blissful acrostic limerick about dogs:
WALKING THE DOGS
Bold-nosed explorers are they
Lollygaggers at the odor buffet
In the grass, on a tree
Smelly poop, pungent pee
So strong I can’t pull them away
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THREE BIRDS WITH ONE POEM
On her blog, A Different Perspective, my friend Murisopsis laid down a challenge for National Poetry Month. Hers is easier than some I’ve seen as it requires the completion of only three prompts per week, which are announced at the beginning and can be completed in any order.
MURI’S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH WRITING CHALLENGE
1. Write a limerick.
2. Write a poem about the changing seasons
3. Write a poem about angels (any kind).
4. Write a concrete (shape) poem.
5. Write a poem about signs of spring.
6. Write a poem about dogs.
7. Write a Quatern.
8. Write 4 haiku about favorite foods.
9. Write an acrostic poem using an emotion.
10. Write a Blitz poem.
11. Channel your inner Doctor (Seuss, Who, Frankenstein, Doolittle, Zhivago, McCoy… your choice)
12. Write a list poem about clothes
13. Write a poem using all of the following words: crow, sparrow, snow, chapeau, below, ginkgo, shallow, and solo.
The rules are simple. Write 13 poems in 30 days (that comes out to one poem each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday throughout the month of April). You may complete the prompts in any order. Once written, post your poem on your blog and LEAVE MURI A COMMENT to let her know you have done so. The point of the exercise is to have fun and stretch your poetic muscles.
OK, Muri, I figured I would start with the most difficult prompt, which I determined to be #13. After I finished the poem, I realized it also fulfilled the criteria for #3 and #11. So it may be a bit of a cheat, but here is my poem for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of Week One:
BIRD FEEDER
The spinster next door
a disheveled old crow
pulls on her wool cap
the season’s chapeau
fills her pockets, dons
galoshes, sets off solo
trudging ‘n crunching
over late winter snow
Her size 9 footprints,
cocksure but shallow,
stop short at a bench
by a knobbled ginkgo
Birdseed is scattered
on the ground below,
one angel’s provision
for hungry sparrows
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ORDINARY, YET EXTRAORDINARY
After my dad passed away last summer, my mom consolidated his stuff and let each of us kids choose a few keepsakes. These items reside in a special box: an everyday zip cardigan, a necktie, a cloth handkerchief, a Craftsman wristwatch with a leather band, a pair of clip-on sunglasses, a child-sized rosary (perhaps the one he received for First Communion), a copy of the letter I sent him for Father’s Day containing a hodgepodge of childhood memories, and the eulogy I wrote and read at his funeral. Unbeknownst to me, he had been a journaler. In small notebooks and diaries were records of his daily activities dating back to the late 70’s. We didn’t fight over them, but we all clamored for our share. On days
I really missed him, I would read a few pages. His life, though ordinary, was full of surprises. Who knew Dad was the garbage man’s favorite customer, a closet romantic who rewired lamps and misspelled words?
One of the diaries I have is from 1986, the year I graduated from high school and went away to college. It was interesting to read about the months right before and after I left the nest. The following poem is a mix of summary and insights in the style of Dad’s journal pages:
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ONE LOVE POEM, MANY FORMS
In honor of Valentine’s Day, my poetry group did a writing exercise wherein each person contributed a phrase about the source of love.
A few days after the meeting, our fearless leader Steve arranged
the phrases (verbatim) into a poem which he sent to us via email:
They say that love is never lost, so why can’t I find it?
Love comes from love
Innate, hard-wired unless over-written by Fortune or Fate
a cookie pan
Love–divine–like birds, always there, even in winter
When in the midst of pouring rain, a smile warms the day
He challenged us to re-work it if we wished. Woo-hoo! A batch of free verse phrases crying out for structure, a form… This sounds like a job for JustJoan! But what form would I use? Which one would do justice to this wide variety of ideas and images? Naturally occurring rhymes were scarce, so I began with syllabic forms: eintou, cinquain, haiku, and diminished hexaverse. I figured I’d hit on the right one sooner or later.
I got lucky on my first try, but kept on going. Perhaps one of the other forms would work better. What I found, to my surprise, is that they all worked. Emboldened, I decided to try a couple forms with rhyme and refrain: lai and rondelet. With a few synonyms and a touch of creative license, these also worked. I added an acrostic for good measure. You guessed it, it worked. I’d always believed that words suggested their own poetic form, but maybe verse in search of an outlet finds one in whatever form it is offered. Without further ado, poems about love:
Eintou Septet
7 lines
Syllables 2 / 4 / 6 / 8 / 6 / 4 / 2
LOVE IS
constant
like winter birds
warm smiles on rainy days
divine, innate, subject to Fate
never lost, hard to find
on cookie pans
from love
Cinquain
5 lines,
Syllables 2 / 4 / 6 / 8 / 2
LOVE
Warm smiles
Birds in winter
Never lost, hard to find
Divine, Innate, on cookie pans
From Love
Haiku
3 lines
Syllables 5 / 7 / 5
HAIKU
Love is never lost
Found in smiles, birds, gods, the self
and on cookie pans
Diminished Hexaverse
5 stanzas, first stanza has 5 lines, each 5 syllables, second has 4 lines, each 4 syllables, third has 3 lines, each 3 syllables, fourth has 2 lines, each 2 syllables, fifth has 1 line, 1 syllable
LOVE
Around and within
Like birds, always there
even in winter
A smile that warms us
on a rainy day
Innate, and yet
subject to Fate
The divine yield
of cookie pans
Never lost
but sometimes
hard to find
Love is
born of
Love
Lai
9 lines with rhyme scheme a / a / b / a / a / b / a / a / b.
a lines have 5 syllables, b lines have 2 syllables
LOVE IS
The Divine revealed
Within us concealed
Innate
A cookie pan’s yield
A pouring-rain-shield
Smile-shaped
A Lost-Found ordeal
A spin of the wheel
of Fate
Rondelet
7 lines with rhyme/refrain scheme A / b / A / a / b / b / A.
Refrain (A) is 4 syllables, all other lines are 8 syllables, all lines written in dimeter
SOURCE OF LOVE
Love comes from love
and warming smiles on rainy days
Love comes from love
and cookie pans, and God above
Within us all, subject to Fate
It’s never lost but just misplaced
Love comes from love
Acrostic
The first letters of each line spell something related to the poem
LOVE
They say that love is never lost so
How come I can’t find it?
Even in winter it is there, like birds
Smiles that warm us in the midst
Of pouring rain. Divine. Innate.
Unless overwritten by Fortune or Fate
Really, it is borne on cookie pans
Chocolate Chip Love, Oatmeal Love
Ephemeral and yet, everlasting
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IN A MIDWEST MINUTE
Ready for a new and intriguing form?
The EINTOU SEPTET is an African-American poetry form with seven lines adhering to the following syllable count: 2 / 4 / 6 / 8 / 6 / 4 / 2.
One recent afternoon, it began to rain. The air, chilled by a brisk north wind, dropped from just above freezing to just below in less than sixty seconds as the plummeting droplets shimmied in the chaotic current. The result?
PRESTI-DIGI-PRECIPITATION
With the
deftness of a
magician, the wind waves
a sheet of sparkling sleet over
the rain; when he whisks it
away, ta-daaaa!
Snowflakes!
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