Poetry should ride the bus

I am a new fan of Ruth Forman's poetry, especially "Poetry should ride the bus"

I really like how she uses simple language and the tone of her culture to convey strong images and a rich history. "Poetry should ride the bus" gave me a window into a life I am not a part of, sat me down, and made me feel at home.

Poetry is for people from all walks of life, and we can find poetry in all things.

If you would like to listen to Ruth Forman read one of her poems in her own voice - courtsey of NPR, visit this link.

I think we should put poetry on Bob, and literally - ride a poetry bus.

Here's hoping you find a little poetry in your day.

Happy Friday.

On Writing

I haven't been writing much lately. For the last couple of weeks - I might try to blame it on second child's graduation from HS, Father-in-law's week in the hospital, oldest child's massive eye infection and subsequent week-long set of doctor's visits, husband's promotion or something like that. But it might just be that I don't have the energy.

Poetry (and other forms of writing) seems to take a great deal of concentration and energy. And...time.

Do you find that does for you as well?

I hope to recapture some time, very soon. But until than, I'll just do my second favorite thing to do - read.

But sometime, hopefully sometime soon - I'll get back on my writing 'horse.'

Best wishes,

Chris

left to my own devices

Some days I write with a thick pencil,
ham fisted in a Big Chief tablet,
barely literate - smudged and smeared,
unwieldy, childish prose.

Every now and again,
I write with a scalpel,
All bloody and pain wrecked -
words excised, still dripping.

On Fridays, I write with a rain gutter,
catching the words as a down pour,
sluicing them in the general direction
of a downspout, wet and soggy.

More often, I write with a plow.
Heavy lifting, dirt worked
in the hot sun, sweaty seeding
hoping for something besides a weed.

Most days, I write with a shovel,
heaving sticky piles of steamy manure,
from one plop
to the other.

On a very rare day,
no matter my device,
everything...
works.

Poetry as art

I have been haunting the literary boards lately, looking at writing submitted by others, and listening (as objectively as possible) to critques about my own.

During this process it seemed to me there seem to be a variety of reasons people write poetry. Some people seem to write to 1) Get in touch with their own emotions; 2) deal with past experiences; and 3) relate to other people. I'm interested in all the reasons people write poetry.

Here are some of my reflections:

When some people write poetry, they seem to examine more deeply their own emotions, in order to accurately share them to others.

Sometimes, people write poetry as therapy. They use the process to purge demons, cement their memories, or describe a state of being or experience.

I also think that people write poetry to share, display, work, and enrich their own lives by connecting with others.

The unique thing about poetry is the artistry.

Each and every poet is an artist.

Sometimes the poetry picture flows and is easy on the eye, and you catch your breath at the wonder of it. Sometimes, it shocks and rips you open. Sometimes, it is vanilla bland, cheesy or mundane.

Perhaps the paint the poet has used is not your favorite color. Perhaps the lines they draw are bolder, or thinner, then you would use. Perhaps the subject is not your favorite... But what you take from the writing, is your unique experience. What you take from the poetry picture, is up to you.


Why do you write?

Written for a poetry contest. Kind of missed the mark, but...I was pretty caught up in it and had to submit it to get rid of it! Don't know why but I like it. Maybe someone will 'get' it.

My Whimsy

Gray rust steals over a wrought iron gate.
Unconcerned, dandelion fluff skips across pitted black marble.
I lie on my back and watch white cotton wisps
twirl up and join animal shapes on a lazy stroll across a puffy sky.
Between – droopy birthday balloons roll slack on graying grass.
Their sun bleached ribbon streamers wrap and wind
a once bright pinwheel's leg.
The faded pinwheel spins with whimsical disregard,
It's steel leg buried deep
in the graveyard.

Language

I am a voracious reader. I devour books, many times in one sitting. I feel naked without an unread book, hanging around somewhere close to me.

Lately I've noticed something really interesting. Really good writers make me slow down. I can't finish their books at my usual, breakneck speed.

I owe it to every writer to slow down, and really appreciate the nuances of their work. I wonder how very much I have already missed.

...............


I love language. I love the way words work, the way they feel, what they mean.

Lately - I've thought about language and how words work. I appreciate how one word can mean many things, and how sometimes just one word, and how it is said, can mean so much. I love watching the different ways people react to words.

Maybe that's why I have found myself a new fan of poetry.

In poetry, writers use words efficiently. They weave many meanings into short phrases, drawing pictures in our minds, often using a very limited landscape.

How do they know what images the words they weave will call to my mind? How do our shared perceptions, become magic? Should I assume that I can know what words will reach out and touch someone else's ideas?

I don't feel like I will ever be a great poet, maybe not even a fair one, but I do feel like I have some very important work to do on the road to better writing.

I have a feeling there are many great lessons waiting for me in my poetry corner.

Maybe I'll learn more about word efficiency. Maybe I will develop a voice, and some style. And maybe, just maybe, learn I will learn a little something about myself.

Happy Friday

at 5 am on Tuesday morning

Words tumble and jump
Like pongs in a lottery popper
Vying for a spot
on the winning line

the right one still hides
buried beneath the jumble
eluding a greedy grasp

Sorry you are not a winner
crinkle crumble smash
another contribution
destined for the trash