Tag Archives: poem about writing

How to Write a Poem

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How to Write a Poem

Only a fool waits for a poem to come to him.
You have to call for it like a proper blind date,
knocking on its door
and seeing beauty in whatever opens it.

Take it dancing.
Twirl it around the floor,
letting words fly off in all directions.

Leave what flutters off alone.
Someone else will pick it up
and dance with it.
No word is a wallflower,
although some are chosen more frequently to dance.
Those are the words to avoid.
 
Do not always choose the prettiest words.
In the dance of the poem,
the ugliest of words acquire a charm.

Do not insist that you yourself lead.
Let the poem, instead, draw you
off the dance floor,
out the door
and down the path
to deep woods
where all the wild words live.

Gather them in bouquets
or weave them into chains
to crown your head––
that head of the poet
who follows where the poems go
and collects them by armfuls to share with the world.

 

The NaPoWriMo prompt today is to write a poem about how to do something. Three of the other four prompts I follow had the word “fool” as the prompt. No surprise. The fourth had the prompt “down.” Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/04/01/rdp-monday-fool/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/04/01/fowc-with-fandango-fool/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/04/01/your-daily-word-prompt-fool-april-1-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/04/01/down/

Fidelity

The prompt word on this Valentine’s Day is, fittingly, “passion.” 

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Fidelity

Each morning when I wake
to shrill alarm or sweet bird song,
depending upon the requirements of my day,
you are the first to greet my opening eyes.
You rest there on the pillow next to me
in the bed where first I, then you,
have fallen to sleep the night before
too soon, too soon,
before half our words were said.

It is the first stroke of my fingers
that brings you finally to life.
Your countenance lights up
and the same love words
I revealed to you last night
are returned to me.

My hands caress
and new words come easily
first to me, then to you.
I touch gently all
your fine smoothness,
getting back
everything that I give
equal measure,
continuing our long love story
of give and take
as I shift your light frame onto my lap
to stroke your separate parts
from question mark to exclamation point.

Could a PC ever rouse this passion in me?
No way, MacBook Air. Thou art my love!

 

 The above is a rewrite of a poem written 5 years ago, and my passion for its subject continues to this day.
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/02/14/your-daily-word-prompt-passion-february-14-2019/

The Dogs Are Barking

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The dVerse Poets prompt requires that we write a quadrille–a poem of 44 words––making use of the word “steep.”  To do so, I rewrote an earlier poem so it became a 5 stanza poem, each stanza forming a quadrille. I wonder how many other poets share this experience as they are awakened from dreams by one means or another:

The Dogs Are Barking

They break the morning––a daily rite.
It’s just a warning. The dogs won’t bite.
Two strangers talk but pass unseen.
I doze, they walk, with a wall between.
I lie here posed between thought and sleep.
My eyes still closed. I’m swimming deep.

I try to sink back into sleep,
once more to drink of waters deep;
but the dogs still bark. They leap and pace.
My dreams, not ready for this morning place,
lie dark and deep and intertwined,
wanting to creep back up my mind.

But its steep slope is much inclined
and provides small hope that I will find
once more that world well out of sight
where truth lies curled, still holding tight––
as an oyster cleaving, loath to unfurl
and reveal to light the priceless pearl

of that mind of dreams that slips the knife
beneath the rind of our daily life.
Time is a brew of present, past
and future, too—all tenses cast
to bring to light those grains of sand
made pearls of wisdom by nature’s hand.

Dreams are stories we tell ourselves
and share, perhaps, on bookstore shelves.
Pinned to pages, they reach their height
and bring our sage self to the light.
But the dogs are barking. They’re hungry, cross.
When I rise feed them, the poem is lost

dVerse Poets Quadrille prompt is steep.

We Gather to Write

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We Gather to Write

Waves crashing in below us and jovial repartee
from the ones below us in the small café.
The waiter interrupts us. We order coffee, tea,
or jugo de naranja, but, dedicated, we
return to our writing. It’s what we’ve gathered for,
here where it is quiet, up on the second floor.
Leather covered tables, and equipales, too­­––
tablecloths of orange, yellow, purple, green and blue
as though they had instructions to make use of every hue.
These vivid pigments  seep into all we write and do.
Children leap through tide breaks, walkers gather shells.
Swimmers move hand over hand, out beyond the swells.
But we above just write of it, revealing how we love it
as though we were a part of it instead of here above it.

Purloined Passion

Purloined Passion

It was just a small hotel, the only I could find.
I felt lucky to find it, for I was in a bind.
I hadn’t planned to stop here, but snow began to fall
and I could not seem to see the road at all.

The walls were thin as paper and the folks next door
enjoyed one hour of passion, then tried for one hour more.
Both were very vocal in making their demands
about what the other should do with lips and hands.

Those classes in dictation I had to take at school
that I never thought I’d use now became a tool
to record their dialogue, and when the night was through
I took out my computer to do what writers do.

Every cry of passion, every scream and moan
although I cannot claim it for my very own
I can still incorporate in my coming story,
using strangers’ passion for my creative glory.

 

 

The prompt was: You’ve obtained a journal — one with a multitude of confessions inside, but you don’t know who this book of secrets belongs to. What do you do with it? Feel free to alter this prompt for your own purposes.

For Daily Inkling

Morning Head Shots

Morning Head Shots

Picture a woman sleeping, words wrapped close around as sheets.
Syllables slipping to the floor, loosed from their midnight feats.
A whole new world evolving as she’s lost away in dream.
All those single actions spilling from the seam
of those reveries she’s wrapped in, meaning more than what they mean.

Click

Picture eyelids opening as light begins to dawn.
See the eyelids close again, her stretching and her yawn.
See the dreams she’s had all night pulled to consciousness–
all tightly wrapped, but wriggling themselves free from all the mess
of what they’ve been bound up in to become what she’ll confess.

Click

See the words all rising from the place where they’ve been sleeping.
See her brow remembering bits it struggles now at keeping.
See her form a paper sheet into a little sack
and use her pen to prod the words back into a pack,
sparring with belligerent phrases that fight back.

Click

See her herding each into its place with little nudges,
overlooking warring words that seek to live their grudges,
making words that don’t belong together somehow fit,
forcing the recalcitrant to want to do their bit
to turn their separate strands into a story finely knit.

Click

Now see the picture on the page where words have come to rest–
stretched out vowel to consonant, best standing next to best.
Brutal words relaxing, flaccid words now showing zest.
Brought recently into the world where they have met the test,
here they stand before you, shaken out and neatly pressed.

Click

Then see the floor around the bed–the words she’s thrown away.
The words that somehow just don’t say what she wants to convey.
See them rising in the air to hover up above.
Words of anger, sadness, envy, honor, lust and love.
They jump, they float, they kiss, they spar, they hug, they joust, they shove.

Click

Tomorrow night they’ll rain back down to form adventures new.
To form themselves into the curious plots that dream parts do.
Picture them assembling into order all their own
or forming groups informally, wherever they are blown.
Ready on the morrow to once more go where they’re sown.

Click.

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This poem seemed perfect for Matt’s prompt about the influence of remembering dreams, so here it is again.  It’s been a long time.  Admit it.  You’d forgotten it! Even I’d forgotten, at long last, this poem about the effect of remembering dreams.  Here’s the prompt URL.  Come play along!

For Daily Inklings: Influenced by Dreams