You say you have to hurry—the line of time pulls tight enough to choke you, the second hand is a ticking knife, and safety lies in spinning. You are always moving, like rigor mortis has a cousin, muscles stiffened, perpetual sprint, you run from the fear that you’re too late. But you are always on the dot— on this dot, pale and blue, tucked beneath a wing of sky so big it bends the blade. If you want to, you can drop the clock. Go fishing with the line? If you want to, you can try the sharp delight of now.
Photo by Meghan Hessler on Unsplash
The Prompt
My prompt for you today isn’t directly related to the content of my poem. Instead, it’s related to a challenge that I bump up against just about every time I share a poem here. Titles. Ugh. I am sure that a smart person somewhere has shared brilliant advice about how to craft titles, and I should probably go look that up, but instead, I’m just going to keep ughing and tell you that I find titles really difficult. Usually, I just snatch at the first thing that comes to my head, call it good enough, and move on. For some reason, the desire to find the right title for the poem I shared above keeps nagging at me. I’m going with “Timeline” for now, and maybe that’s good enough, but I can’t shake the impulse to search for something better. If you have suggestions, please share!
And since we’re on the subject of titles, let’s make them into our prompt for today! Take a few minutes to make a list of titles that you’ve engaged with in the past day or two—songs you’ve listened to, books you’ve read, movies or TV shows you’ve watched, etc. Read your list aloud. Let the sounds of the titles roll off your tongue and into your ears. Removed from their context, is there a particular title that you like best from this list? Is there one that feels like it could be a title for some aspect of your life? Some experience you’ve had? Some hope or fear you hold? Notice if there’s a title that feels the zingiest to you. Notice if there’s a title not on this list that you really want to add, even though you haven’t read/watched/heard it in awhile. (You’re allowed to do that. You’re allowed to do whatever you want.)
Alright, so you’ve found your title. The next step is to write a poem that fits this title! Does it have to be a perfect fit? Of course not. This is play, friends. Play gets messy. If you don’t find a poem rushing its way to the surface, take some time. Let it kick around in your consciousness for a bit. Think about it right before you fall asleep, and see if it finds its way into your dreams. Cryptically post it on Facebook or X, and see who responds. Think about it when you’re walking your dog or pushing a cart up the aisles of the grocery store. Maybe a particular tree or bird or bottle of ketchup or a particularly angry customer will somehow link up with your title in that way that signals a poem gestating inside you.
I look forward to reading your newborn poems! Maybe doing so will help me get better at titles?
Surprise(?)! I've been holding onto this for a while and have been scared to jinx it, but I really want to share about it, especially here, with you (because it wouldn't exist without you - although it technically barely exists as more than a title and a binder full of blank pages at the moment)... I'm writing a poetry book. It's called Spare Room, and I don't have much more than the title, basic concept, and a handful of poems yet, but I do have this introduction poem - I wrote it before this prompt, but it came directly from the title of the book so it felt like it fit:
This book is a spare room,
for you to rest and stay a while.
.
In it, I am offering you
my spare thoughts,
my spare words,
.
They came to me
in my spare time,
and I put them
in my pocket,
like spare change,
to share with you.
.
Thank you
for finding your own
spare room,
to hold them.
.
Welcome.
😶🌫️
Sugaree
.
First pea, she breaches and greens
while flashy bedfellows
Sugar Sprint and Sugar Daddy
repeatedly hit snooze.
Shake it, goes the song.
I sing it all day to praise her
and the coming snap of summer.
.
First concert, 1992.
I like their overtly psychedelic tunes,
but Jackie likes Sugaree.
At 16, we are surprised by everything:
the smell of weed, an endless drum solo,
a crowd-surfing beach ball.
It all feels like something
others might not believe later.
.
Now I am the later other
and scarcely believe our newness.
We were still blanched
from the cool earth, but
testing our tendrils.
We were smiling toward the sun.
.
Shake it up now, little sister.
I’ll meet you at the jubilee.