For National Poetry Month: This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

NOTE: Today's poem is in honor of her majesty, the Bloggess.

For National Poetry Month: One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied.  It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

National Poetry Month

Image source

April is National Poetry Month.

I'm glad we're finally into April for lots of reasons. One of them is ScriptFrenzy, and another is National Poetry Month.

A professor I had in college said poetry is an experience. That little nugget has stuck with me for many years, and is what I use to explain poetry to others.

In celebration of the experience of poetry this month, I'm going to be posting poems and other poetry-related things to share my love of it and, hopefully, introduce you to a poem or poet that you find you enjoy.

Happy National Poetry Month!

National Poetry Month

Tonight No Poetry Will Serve
by Adrienne Rich

Saw you walking barefoot
taking a long look
at the new moon's eyelid

later spread
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept unsleeping
elsewhere

Tonight I think
no poetry
will serve

Syntax of rendition:

verb pilots the plane
adverb modifies action

verb force-feeds noun
submerges the subject
noun is choking
verb    disgraced    goes on doing

no diagram the sentence


2007

National Poetry Month: FAILURE TO THRIVE

            for my daughter


My daughter grins at me with a smile
not unlike the night-smile of my grandmother,
her day-smile in a glass on the bathroom sink.

It's one of the "Concerns,"
one of the by-the-ways mentioned
in the midst of lack of growth,
weak trunk,
slow development of gross motor skills.

The doctors use that phrase that stamps knots into mothers' stomachs:

            FAILURE TO THRIVE

that accusation I carry
from appointment to appointment,
the knot that remains,
test after test.

"She seems normal," it is said,
but there are hints that give it away:

The watch her play pat-a-cake.
(I see the slight lack of control in her frantic clapping.)
She flashes a smile.
(No tooth to be seen.)
Her wild pixie hair adds personality.
(And hides the soft spot that isn't closing quite fast enough.)
She scrambles across the floor, desperate to keep up with Brother.
(Her knees too wide as she crawls.)
When Brother climbs up on the couch, she turns her attention to the blocks.
(She is resigned in her inability to stand.)

            FAILURE TO THRIVE

I carry it with me, just as I carry the
handmade mint green blanket,
a gift from the hospital's pediatric ward.
Each next appointment promises answers,
brings more tests and evaluations and referrals:
            nutritionist
            gastroenterologist
            geneticist
            neurologist
            endocrinologist

But each next appointment begins with hope
that this appointment will be the one to replace
a list of symptoms with
            a Diagnosis.

And still, despite my fears, I am greeted each day with outstretched arms and
a wide, pink smile.

The Experience of Poetry

I think it's particularly appropriate that my poetry group started meeting just before National Poetry Month started, don't you?

I'd forgotten how much I like poetry, really. I took a poetry-writing class in college, and I liked the challenge of conciseness and strong imagery. And, as I'm sure many of you can figure, my prose benefited from writing poetry.

I think this poetry group is going to keep reminding me that poetry is an important component of literature. Sure, I'm a prose writer, and when it comes to the bulk of my work, I probably always will be. But writing poetry from time to time is a good thing, and I'm thankful for the opportunity to delve into poetry--mine or other people's, both published unpublished--every other week or so.

The writer in me wishes we were meeting weekly, but I know I wouldn't be able to go every week, and I'm sure many others would not be able to, either. So I'm happy with twice a month for now.

I was feeling particularly adventurous tonight at poetry group, so I read an original poem. It's a new one, and still needs work, but it was important to me to share because of the subject's influence on my life right now. Sorry about the vagueness, but I can't discuss more right now (when I can, I will).

It took a great deal of courage for me to read my poem tonight. I used to willingly share my writing with other writers and with my professors, welcoming feedback to improve. But in recent years I've been a different person. I became quite a bit more closed off (to a lot of things). I'm happy to say that reading my poem tonight is one of the signs that I'm getting back to my old self--my real self.

And, if I may be cheesy again for a moment, poetry is helping.

Poetry is an experience. By reading about others' experiences and writing accounts of my own experiences, I'm facing aspects of myself that I used to be afraid of. I'm able to process things I'm going through with a clarity that can only come from verse.

The challenge in writing poetry is to convey these experiences to others so they can share the clarity I feel. I'm not always successful in this challenge, but I like to think I get better each time I try.

Renew Your Spirit with Poetry

Along with being the first day of Screnzy, April 1st marks the first day of National Poetry Month (and that isn't a prank!). It's a good opportunity to explore some writers you've never read before along with a medium you may not be as familiar (or comfortable) with.

A college professor once told me that poetry is an experience. If you find a poem or poet that shares an experience you have had, it can be a very powerful connection.

I urge you to take some time today to read a poem or two, and maybe even share some poetry with someone in your life.

The Poetry Project

How appropriate I join a new poetry group
just before National Poetry Month!

I don't talk a lot about my personal life here (for a lot of reasons), but this is about my writing life as much as it is my personal life, so I'm writing about it anyway. And I think it's particularly apt since National Poetry Month is less than a week away.

Last week I went to the inaugural meeting for a local poetry group in my town. It's co-sponsored by the public library and an amazing hole-in-the-wall bookstore. There were more than a dozen of us that first night, with quite a diverse group. Literature was represented by the bookstore owners and worker, as well as two librarians. Academia was represented in two professors (both former professors of mine, with one being my former academic advisor) and a current college student at my alma mater. A few retired ladies were there, two of whom are closely associated with my alma mater. One woman works with French literature (I know, right?). One man is in the legal system. I'm so excited by the kinds of conversation that will be sparked by this group!

That aside, I'm ecstatic that there is a poetry group in my little town, and that I'm a part of it! The group is sort of split between writers and readers/appreciators, so we've structured it to allow everyone to get what they want out of the group. We will read and discuss published poems, but those who bring original poems and want feedback will have the opportunity to get that from other members, as well.

Right now we're planning to meet twice a month. There was talk about hosting events in the future and deciding on a name for our little band of poetry lovers, but for now we're all just happy to have a place to go twice a month to talk about poetry.

It's worth getting involved in local groups like these. Whether you're in a big city or a small middle-of-nowhere town, finding literary-type groups and organizations to support (don't forget about local businesses!) can be beneficial to your writing career. Not only do these groups get you involved in the local writing scene through meeting local authors or connecting with potential business contacts, but you never know what new friendships can lead to. In fact, when I went into the bookstore a few days after our first poetry group meeting, I stopped and was talking to the owners (co-sponsoring the group), and after finding out what I do for a living, one of the owners asked for my business card. I don't know that anything will come of this new contact, but if I hadn't gone to the poetry group, we wouldn't have had that conversation!

Remember that local business people like to support other local business people. Even if it's something as simple as dropping a pile of your cards at the local bookstore or posting a flyer at a thrift shop, you never know what connections can lead to something great.

That said, I think I'll go back to scribbling a little poetry to get ready for next month's poetry group meeting.

Contest Winner

After a month of poetry, several submissions, and some voting, we have a winner for my very first blog contest!

I know you're all waiting eagerly to see who's the lucky winner of the fantabulous prize, so I won't keep you waiting anymore.

Congratulations:

From you have I been absent in the spring... (Sonnet 98)

by William Shakespeare

From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him, Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.

Moonrise

[NP's NOTE: In honor of tonight's Full Moon:]

by H. D.

Will you glimmer on the sea?
Will you fling your spear-head
On the shore?
What note shall we pitch?

We have a song,
On the bank we share our arrows--
The loosed string tells our note:

O flight,
Bring her swiftly to our song.
She is great,
We measure her by the pine-trees.

Pickle Belt

by Theodore Roethke

The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep;
They thought about Saturday pay,
And Sunday sleep.

Whatever he smelled was good:
The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,--
And he, perplexed;

He, in his shrunken britches,
Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,
Prickling with all the itches
Of sixteen-year-old lust.

Poem in Your Pocket Day

April is National Poetry Month, and people all over the world have been using this month to read, study, develop a deeper appreciation for poetry, and share their love of poetry at events taking place all over Florida. And to further share poetry, people all over the U.S. will be participating in Poem in Your Pocket Day.

(Continue reading)

Asphodel, That Greeny Flower

by William Carlos Williams

Baseball and Writing

by Marianne Moore

(Suggested by post-game broadcasts)

Fanaticism?  No.  Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
   You can never tell with either
      how it will go
      or what you will do;
   generating excitement--
   a fever in the victim--
   pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
 Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
 To whom does it apply?
 Who is excited?  Might it be I?

It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel--
a catcher's, as, with cruel
   puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly
      back to plate.  (His spring 
      de-winged a bat swing.)
   They have that killer instinct;
   yet Elston--whose catching
   arm has hurt them all with the bat--
 when questioned, says, unenviously,
   "I'm very satisfied.  We won."
 Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We";
 robbed by a technicality.

When three players on a side play three positions
and modify conditions,
   the massive run need not be everything.
      "Going, going . . . "  Is
      it?  Roger Maris
   has it, running fast.  You will
   never see a finer catch.  Well . . .
   "Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why
 gild it, although deer sounds better--
snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,
 one-handing the souvenir-to-be
 meant to be caught by you or me.

Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;
he could handle any missile.
   He is no feather.  "Strike! . . . Strike two!"
      Fouled back.  A blur.
      It's gone.  You would infer
   that the bat had eyes.
   He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.
   I think I helped a little bit."
 All business, each, and modesty.
        Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
 In that galaxy of nine, say which
 won the pennant?  Each.  It was he.

Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws
by Boyer, finesses in twos--
   like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre-
      diagnosis
      with pick-off psychosis.
   Pitching is a large subject.
   Your arm, too true at first, can learn to
   catch your corners--even trouble
 Mickey Mantle.  ("Grazed a Yankee!
My baby pitcher, Montejo!"
 With some pedagogy,
 you'll be tough, premature prodigy.)

They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.  Trying
indeed!  The secret implying:
   "I can stand here, bat held steady."
      One may suit him;
       none has hit him.
   Imponderables smite him.
   Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds
   require food, rest, respite from ruffians.  (Drat it!
 Celebrity costs privacy!)
Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice,
 brewer's yeast (high-potency--
 concentrates presage victory

sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez--
deadly in a pinch.  And "Yes,
   it's work; I want you to bear down,
      but enjoy it
      while you're doing it."
   Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,
   if you have a rummage sale,
   don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
 Studded with stars in belt and crown,
the Stadium is an adastrium.
 O flashing Orion,
 your stars are muscled like the lion. 

Sympathy

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-- I know what the caged bird feels! I know why the caged bird beats its wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting-- I know why he beats his wing! I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-- When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-- I know why the caged bird sings!

"What Do Women Want?"

by Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

The Armadillo

by Elizabeth Bishop

For Robert Lowell This is the time of year when almost every night the frail, illegal fire balloons appear. Climbing the mountain height, rising toward a saint still honored in these parts, the paper chambers flush and fill with light that comes and goes, like hearts. Once up against the sky it's hard to tell them from the stars— planets, that is—the tinted ones: Venus going down, or Mars, or the pale green one. With a wind, they flare and falter, wobble and toss; but if it's still they steer between the kite sticks of the Southern Cross, receding, dwindling, solemnly and steadily forsaking us, or, in the downdraft from a peak, suddenly turning dangerous. Last night another big one fell. It splattered like an egg of fire against the cliff behind the house. The flame ran down. We saw the pair of owls who nest there flying up and up, their whirling black-and-white stained bright pink underneath, until they shrieked up out of sight. The ancient owls' nest must have burned. Hastily, all alone, a glistening armadillo left the scene, rose-flecked, head down, tail down, and then a baby rabbit jumped out, short-eared, to our surprise. So soft!—a handful of intangible ash with fixed, ignited eyes. Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic, and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!

While Writing Poetry

by Paul Gustav Spohn

Often times by the reading light of sunshine

Through the window blinds

Sitting by my chair

My mother

Long gone

Stares at my shadow of youth

And in the fragile moment

Of death and beyond

I coax out a sigh

That once to her belonged

That she could read what I am

Writing now

In verse

Past tense

Making something of this memory

Some sense

And hoping I am

Within a beacon of her approval

That smile she always

Shared with me

While writing poetry

Ode to the West Wind

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave,until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened Earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?