Ice Storm

Ice Storm

In the trees, glass clinking,
limbs toasting to better days.

I lie beneath them,
brave the shatter of
tumbling flutes. It is worth it,
I think, the risk to eyeballs,
the risk of seeing nothing
for a frozen moment
seeing something.  

I see gravity
bend with the branches.
Icicles curve,
curl like talons,  
scratch the rising ground.

Against my back,
ground scrapes,
cold and sharp,
but I am ready
to be wounded,
ready to bleed, 
ready to hazard
being alive.     

The Prompt

If you’ve been following the news here in the US, then ice and fire have likely both made their way into your consciousness (or your living reality) over the past week. Here in Kentucky, we got a fluffy four inches of snow, followed by a thick lid of ice (on which another 4 or 5 inches of snow now sits). Ice storms are jaw droppers, equal parts gorgeous and destructive, but the fires in and around LA are obviously wreaking far more havoc than anything we’re experiencing here in the Midwest. If you or your loved ones are in that neck of the world, I’m thinking of you and wishing for the best possible outcomes.

If you’d like a prompt to help coax your next poem out of its hiding place, then I offer you those two words: fire and ice. If one of them is readily observable around you or has already been weighing on your thoughts, then go with that one. If one stirs vivid memories—ice skating on a pond, roasting marshmallows as a child, slipping on a black sheet at the end of your driveway, listening to sirens as a neighbors home was engulfed in flames—spend a little time exploring the sensations and emotions attached to those memories. Jot down the images that arise. Notice the meanings or metaphors you pull from them.

If you’re feeling frisky, you might also attempt a poem inspired by both ice and fire, like this classic from Robert Frost.

Remember that you don’t need to see the end of a poem to begin writing it. I rarely do. In the poem I shared above, the opening image of tree limbs toasting one another (and the sounds of clinking glass, which refers to the sounds the ice makes in the breeze) was kicking around in my brain, so I thought I might as well attempt a poem. I had no idea what it would be about. Then I remembered seeing the way icicles on the bendiest branches curl like talons because the angle of the branch continually shifted as they formed. And I remembered my moments lying under Silver Maple, staring up at her icy daggers. I wrote that all down and still wasn’t sure what the poem was about, when the ending swept in to surprise me . . . and also, as no surprise at all. I’ve been thinking a lot about the willingness to step toward heartbreak, feeling that grow within me, and also contemplating it as a measure of aliveness. My poem held up a mirror to my own thoughts and longings and intentions, reflecting them back to me at a new angle that I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t make it do that or expect it do that. It just happened, as is so often the case. I think the key might be not to get in the way—not to strain toward an ending when you’re only just beginning. Not to be too quick to filter out images as irrelevant. To float your pen across the page with a soft curiosity—what might happen next?

Whether they be about fire, ice, or something entirely different, I look forward to reading your poems in the comments thread! And of course, other comments and reflections are welcome—and so appreciated—too.