I want to write poems that write me back— wild streams of words to sweep me from my careful path. I want to write poems that break me like a line, shape me to the softness of assonance and rhyme.
"Rotates the stock in my monkey-mind" - I am so tickled by this line! I'm imagining monkeys rearranging grocery store shelves, discovering surprises lurking behind the cans of campbell's soup.
Many years ago, in Vermont in the early 1980's, I saw a book of poetry by Hayden Carruth with the title "If You Call this Cry and Song." Lisa's prompt and the memory of that line brought this poem today.
What a gorgeous line, Larry - "if you call this cry a song." I can see why it stayed with you all these years, and I love how you made it your own. I'm struck by the spareness of this poem, the power of the question you pose at the end, and this beautiful and resonant confession: "my writing since then / a desperate attempt / to write that / one line / one phrase / that cries / that sings / that dances / off the page / into your heart." Stunning!
Also, I hear love in absolutely everything you share here. ❤️
Thank you Lisa, for your kind, generous and gracious comment. And comments--always one of the best parts of any day in which they come or I see them! This tremendous line, ironically just a parenthetical line in Carruth's poem, has resonated for so long--and your prompt made me realize that I write in part to attempt to write such a line that my cluster of beloveds may remember.
Thank you for the comment about love--I am not always conscious of that. Many years ago, in a church that I often led and preached in, a wondrful man, a classic irrascible New England Yankee curmudegeon, said to me after the service "you are always talking about love. What about salvation? Evil and obedience? The fear and trembling?" I smiled and said. "I'll let others handle those things. I'm not so good with them." And I added, "plus, maybe I'll stop talking as much about love when it seems like we have finallygotten it down?" He grumbled but did keep listening over the years. :)
This put a big smile on my face! I love that notion of writing to surprise yourself, the image of the sagging mattress and flying sparks . . . and then of you flying, too! This is so delightful.
Very nice, Keith. I like the “sagging old mattress of my mind” and “sparks of light begin to fly” and the last three lines, so honest and so sweet. May you continue to spark and fly!
Oh my goodness, these lines - "roasting sentences like marshmallows / to be stickily consumed by plot greedy minds; / whilst images, like chestnuts, split apart!" They are every bit as delicious as a perfectly roasted marshmallow. And yet I also intimately know the sometimes exhilarating, sometimes exasperating reality that "the words have their way." This is marvelous, Tam, and I am chef kissing right back!
Beautiful poem, Lisa! I love the idea of poems that write you back. And I had to grin when I came across the lines about rhyme and assonance. It’s so fun when those sneak up on you, as a reader.
I hope this isn’t too much of a cop out, but…I’d like to submit a poem that deals a lot with why I write, from back in January:
Not a cop out at all, and I'm so glad you shared your poem! I love the casual, conversational tone, like you're sitting right there with your reader. I think the interspersing of photos added to that - almost like the natural pauses in a conversation. And that flowy style made the specificity of your descriptions pop that much more. Lovely!
This is wonderful work, Mike. I like the use of the photos interspersed and the wide ground you cover with your poem. It is always nice and fair to share poems written previously, recently or in a distant land long, long ago!
I have been writing poetry since I was seven and I am turning 69 in a few days so that is a long time. I do it because I love it, but lately, maybe in the last 10 years, since I’ve been getting a lot published, I find more and more I’m thinking “is this good enough to be published?” That takes all the fun out of it so Thanks for reminding me why I write.
Happy birthday, Elaine! 62 years of poetry - amazing! It can be such a tricky thing to retain childlike play and exploration and honesty of expression when faced with an actual audience. I hope there are many hours of ridiculously fun writing in store for you during your next trip around the sun!
I was thinking about how writing is like a motor for me -- when it's on, I write without really understanding why, and when it's off, I don't. That got me thinking about other motors, like the one inside my weedeater. And then that prompted this tiny poem.
Ange, this is stunning! I don't even know where to begin. I want to quote back half of your poem to you because it's just that beautiful! Thank you so much for sharing it - and also for your kind words!
This is simply beautiful: Every word, phrase and sentence. I love the way you frame it with declarative sentences and lovely descriptions that follow. These lines will stay with me: Poetry is soul awakening song;" Poetry is clearing in a dense forest;" and "Poetry whispers me awake." What an incredible piece of writing, Ange. Thank you for sharing.
What a lovely kind of person to be in a world that's always in such a hurry! We need people who take things slowly. If you slowly find your way to a poem based on this prompt, I'd love to read it, however long that takes!
Life holds many mysteries. We all go about life in a truly unique manner. Some of us have been blessed through a love of reading and writing and the mystery that all entails. And like any endeavor or relationship there is surface and also a depth that can never be fully reached. One can keep progressing through layers of nuance and further understanding all the while knowing you will never reach the end. How can I not read? How can I not write once I have even an inkling of this understanding?
I think maybe some people don't read or don't write for that very reason . . . the fact that they will never be done, never be perfect. But it's also such a tantalizing promise . . . that you'll never run out of things to learn, ways to stretch and grow.
All of this writing
will be worth it if........
It rotates the stock in my monkey-mind
enuf
to sneek a peek
at what lurks
underneath.
"Rotates the stock in my monkey-mind" - I am so tickled by this line! I'm imagining monkeys rearranging grocery store shelves, discovering surprises lurking behind the cans of campbell's soup.
Bravo Chuck! May the monkey mind live on!
Many years ago, in Vermont in the early 1980's, I saw a book of poetry by Hayden Carruth with the title "If You Call this Cry and Song." Lisa's prompt and the memory of that line brought this poem today.
“If you call this cry a song…”
Parenthetical line from
the Song of Two crows.
Lyrical line that found me
So many years ago.
My writing since then
A desperate attempt
to write that
one line,
one phrase,
one poem
that cries,
that sings
that dances
off the page
into your heart
And you want to be
that writer, that poet
whose words live long after
earth has called you home.
If I call this cry a song
Will you hear
Its longing
or its love?
What a gorgeous line, Larry - "if you call this cry a song." I can see why it stayed with you all these years, and I love how you made it your own. I'm struck by the spareness of this poem, the power of the question you pose at the end, and this beautiful and resonant confession: "my writing since then / a desperate attempt / to write that / one line / one phrase / that cries / that sings / that dances / off the page / into your heart." Stunning!
Also, I hear love in absolutely everything you share here. ❤️
Thank you Lisa, for your kind, generous and gracious comment. And comments--always one of the best parts of any day in which they come or I see them! This tremendous line, ironically just a parenthetical line in Carruth's poem, has resonated for so long--and your prompt made me realize that I write in part to attempt to write such a line that my cluster of beloveds may remember.
Thank you for the comment about love--I am not always conscious of that. Many years ago, in a church that I often led and preached in, a wondrful man, a classic irrascible New England Yankee curmudegeon, said to me after the service "you are always talking about love. What about salvation? Evil and obedience? The fear and trembling?" I smiled and said. "I'll let others handle those things. I'm not so good with them." And I added, "plus, maybe I'll stop talking as much about love when it seems like we have finallygotten it down?" He grumbled but did keep listening over the years. :)
Oh, wow. This is amazing, Larry.
Thank you LeeAnn!
An inspiring manifesto...I was particularly taken with the sparking in the last stanza, so I...took it!
***
I write to
surprise myself
with words and images
I must have stuffed for safekeeping
like rumpled bills under
the sagging old mattress of my mind.
As I discover them there,
sparks of delight begin to fly.
And despite my dedication
to self-denigration,
I fly with them.
This put a big smile on my face! I love that notion of writing to surprise yourself, the image of the sagging mattress and flying sparks . . . and then of you flying, too! This is so delightful.
Very nice, Keith. I like the “sagging old mattress of my mind” and “sparks of light begin to fly” and the last three lines, so honest and so sweet. May you continue to spark and fly!
MEASURED FAITH
You follow me always
Yet I often forget you are there
Hidden
Silent
Still
Have you passed?
Are you gone from me?
Your existence
Depends on me
Fully
Truly
Verily
You live only by extremes
There is no half measure
It is all or nothing
Would I sell all I have?
Would I lay down my life?
Faith
Hope
Love
The greatest of these
Balances on the scales
That I have built for you
The measure
I receive
A reflection
Of what I truly am
Yesterday
Today
Always
I love how your poem returns over and over to trio's of one-word lines. Beautiful!
This one gave me chills....faith is always there for me just lurking at the edges when I lose my way....
Very nice and prayerful, Billy. A poem and testimony of faith. Blessings to you.
This is gorgeous, Lisa.
Thank you so much, A!
The Words Don’t Agree
I want to weave stories like opulent tapestries
vibrant and intricate, oozing character and plot.
I want to regale, inspiring reverential attention,
by a great open fire on a fierce winter's night
roasting sentences like marshmallows
to be stickily consumed by plot greedy minds;
whilst images, like chestnuts, split apart
to rise with the embers on the hot smokey haze.
But the words don't agree
favouring a shorter route;
impatient, impetuous words
demanding release without the delay
of paragraphs and chapters,
of end plots or character arcs.
I want to tell tall tales in long form
not notes dashed down
but my lines are truncated,
ignore punctuation,
and split in all the
wrong places.
So the words have their way
and I write what they ask.
Stories don't hang around
to wait for a mere chance of expression;
shrouded by the fire haze
of poetic composition,
they leave.
(Beautiful poem Lisa - that last verse is 🤌 (let’s just assume I know what all the emojis are and this is a chefs kiss symbol)
Oh my goodness, these lines - "roasting sentences like marshmallows / to be stickily consumed by plot greedy minds; / whilst images, like chestnuts, split apart!" They are every bit as delicious as a perfectly roasted marshmallow. And yet I also intimately know the sometimes exhilarating, sometimes exasperating reality that "the words have their way." This is marvelous, Tam, and I am chef kissing right back!
Gorgeous!
Beautiful poem, Lisa! I love the idea of poems that write you back. And I had to grin when I came across the lines about rhyme and assonance. It’s so fun when those sneak up on you, as a reader.
I hope this isn’t too much of a cop out, but…I’d like to submit a poem that deals a lot with why I write, from back in January:
https://open.substack.com/pub/mikesperiosu/p/unforeseen-plans?r=286g6m&utm_medium=ios
Not a cop out at all, and I'm so glad you shared your poem! I love the casual, conversational tone, like you're sitting right there with your reader. I think the interspersing of photos added to that - almost like the natural pauses in a conversation. And that flowy style made the specificity of your descriptions pop that much more. Lovely!
This is wonderful work, Mike. I like the use of the photos interspersed and the wide ground you cover with your poem. It is always nice and fair to share poems written previously, recently or in a distant land long, long ago!
I have been writing poetry since I was seven and I am turning 69 in a few days so that is a long time. I do it because I love it, but lately, maybe in the last 10 years, since I’ve been getting a lot published, I find more and more I’m thinking “is this good enough to be published?” That takes all the fun out of it so Thanks for reminding me why I write.
Happy birthday, Elaine! 62 years of poetry - amazing! It can be such a tricky thing to retain childlike play and exploration and honesty of expression when faced with an actual audience. I hope there are many hours of ridiculously fun writing in store for you during your next trip around the sun!
Happy Birthday Elaine.! 69 has been a good year for me, all told! Many happy writing ventures and adventures to you!
I was thinking about how writing is like a motor for me -- when it's on, I write without really understanding why, and when it's off, I don't. That got me thinking about other motors, like the one inside my weedeater. And then that prompted this tiny poem.
.
I weedeat because
there are weeds.
If there weren’t
I would do
something else.
.
I write because
there are words.
If there weren’t
I would be
not myself.
Tiny and marvelous!! I’m so glad that there are words and that you are you.
I love this Rebekah! Clever creativity in a few sweet lines! Remember to eat your weedies!
Eat your weedies -- ha! I love it!
This is so beautiful Lisa. So many gorgeous lines and all of them together as a whole are stunning 🤍. Thank you for writing & sharing x
These are some of my thoughts about why I write…
https://open.substack.com/pub/angedisbury/p/poetry-sits-with-us-in-the-clearing?r=2qii2&utm_medium=ios
Ange, this is stunning! I don't even know where to begin. I want to quote back half of your poem to you because it's just that beautiful! Thank you so much for sharing it - and also for your kind words!
Ooops, I'm sorry I called you Angie rather than Ange at first! I just went back and fixed it.
Thank you, this is really encouraging 🤍
This is simply beautiful: Every word, phrase and sentence. I love the way you frame it with declarative sentences and lovely descriptions that follow. These lines will stay with me: Poetry is soul awakening song;" Poetry is clearing in a dense forest;" and "Poetry whispers me awake." What an incredible piece of writing, Ange. Thank you for sharing.
Such lovely encouragement Larry. Thank you so much 🙏
You are welcome Ange! My pleasure!
I want to write poems that
write me back—
Just stunning, Lisa. I write to save my life, again and again and again.
That one sentence is its own gorgeous poem, LeeAnn - "I write to save my life, again and again and again." Please keep writing!
Thank you, Lisa!
Yes to all of that! Beautiful poem, Lisa 💛
As for the prompt, well, I am one of those who take things slowly :)
What a lovely kind of person to be in a world that's always in such a hurry! We need people who take things slowly. If you slowly find your way to a poem based on this prompt, I'd love to read it, however long that takes!
You’ll be the first to read it, Lisa! 🙏
Power to the slow ones, Fotini!
What a poem. Wow. Reading it out loud to myself was a treat.
I'm going to return to this prompt for sure. Happy camping!
Thank you so much, Margaret! I really look forward to reading what you write . . . whenever it happens!
Love! ❤️
Thank you so much, Cynthia!
Lovely
Life holds many mysteries. We all go about life in a truly unique manner. Some of us have been blessed through a love of reading and writing and the mystery that all entails. And like any endeavor or relationship there is surface and also a depth that can never be fully reached. One can keep progressing through layers of nuance and further understanding all the while knowing you will never reach the end. How can I not read? How can I not write once I have even an inkling of this understanding?
I think maybe some people don't read or don't write for that very reason . . . the fact that they will never be done, never be perfect. But it's also such a tantalizing promise . . . that you'll never run out of things to learn, ways to stretch and grow.