I received some really nice comments on this poem. People seemed to enjoy reading it and were able to interpret its meaning. It's like, a real, grown-up poem! So, I think it is done, for now. Can't see any places to tweak...
It is kind of strange - like walking away from a painting when you could keep adding strokes forever. I am starting to think about building a collection, though, and what that entails. The idea of putting poems together in a thoughtful way, looking at them in terms of their themes, etc. and putting THAT together and calling it a work. It is fun to think about.
January 27, 2010
January 24, 2010
Work-shopping - No. 2
This is the poem how it exists now. I have submitted it for work-shopping...we'll see where it goes. I also completed and submitted my first critique which was a challenge but also fun. I felt like I was in college again (in all the good ways). Hopefully the writer will appreciate my comments!
Destined for Greatness
They say you can dig to China,
so we start right away-
itching for the thrill of escape.
Towels flutter down like parachutes,
an umbrella blooms, but we don’t notice,
already clawing at the sand.
We scuff away the soft stuff first,
a sandy spray sent up from cupped hands,
fingertips hunting for cool silt.
Elbows extended, we dig in a fit-
the curve of shoulder, the snap of neck-
until we hit the damp layer below.
A scrape of plastic shovel,
the heft of wet sand, bowing handle-
then finally, the bottomless crevice.
How deep the hole
and how scary it seems
that a small child could crawl inside it and disappear.
As we cling to the edge with bare toes
the sand gives way-
scattering us like deer flies before we fall in.
How deep the hole, and yet how full.
Woven with thin rays of clay and filaments of wood.
Fragments of silica buried deep.
A scoop of ground, a hollow shaft-
from its origin we return, sand-caked and salt-covered,
eroded and tunnel-weak.
Craving waves of cool water,
we lazily kick at the earth-
filling in the hole so no one gets hurt.
Destined for Greatness
They say you can dig to China,
so we start right away-
itching for the thrill of escape.
Towels flutter down like parachutes,
an umbrella blooms, but we don’t notice,
already clawing at the sand.
We scuff away the soft stuff first,
a sandy spray sent up from cupped hands,
fingertips hunting for cool silt.
Elbows extended, we dig in a fit-
the curve of shoulder, the snap of neck-
until we hit the damp layer below.
A scrape of plastic shovel,
the heft of wet sand, bowing handle-
then finally, the bottomless crevice.
How deep the hole
and how scary it seems
that a small child could crawl inside it and disappear.
As we cling to the edge with bare toes
the sand gives way-
scattering us like deer flies before we fall in.
How deep the hole, and yet how full.
Woven with thin rays of clay and filaments of wood.
Fragments of silica buried deep.
A scoop of ground, a hollow shaft-
from its origin we return, sand-caked and salt-covered,
eroded and tunnel-weak.
Craving waves of cool water,
we lazily kick at the earth-
filling in the hole so no one gets hurt.
January 13, 2010
Tidal (revised)
I received some really great feedback from people on this poem. I have decided to make a small change. This process is amazing, really. I wrote this poem so long ago...and yet, here it is new again. Anyway, here it is in its revised form. I like the change because there is a real reason behind it and it made a lot of sense to me. The poem feels complete to me now.
Tidal
In every pool of water
there is the suggestion of more time.
Like an ellipsis
sinking in between
space.
Dot and line.
I wait for the desire
to surge up and take me
like a catastrophic wave.
A breath held too long, released.
I need the gentle sway of surf.
A steady rise and fall
leaving behind rippled beauty.
A tidal push and pull within me.
The moon’s true talent is consistency.
Tidal
In every pool of water
there is the suggestion of more time.
Like an ellipsis
sinking in between
space.
Dot and line.
I wait for the desire
to surge up and take me
like a catastrophic wave.
A breath held too long, released.
I need the gentle sway of surf.
A steady rise and fall
leaving behind rippled beauty.
A tidal push and pull within me.
The moon’s true talent is consistency.
January 11, 2010
First Work-shopped Poem
Here it is...my very first poem to ever be "work-shopped." So far, two people have commented on it. And I'm still alive! Not sure yet if I will be making any changes or not...
Tidal
In every pool of water
there is the suggestion of more time.
Like an ellipsis or
the first coat of paint.
I want to eat words.
To crunch and break apart
each syllable.
Sinking in between
space, dot and line.
I wait for the desire
to surge up and take me
like a catastrophic wave.
A breath held too long, released.
I need the gentle sway of surf.
A steady rise and fall
leaving behind rippled beauty.
A tidal push and pull within me.
The moon’s true talent is consistency.
Tidal
In every pool of water
there is the suggestion of more time.
Like an ellipsis or
the first coat of paint.
I want to eat words.
To crunch and break apart
each syllable.
Sinking in between
space, dot and line.
I wait for the desire
to surge up and take me
like a catastrophic wave.
A breath held too long, released.
I need the gentle sway of surf.
A steady rise and fall
leaving behind rippled beauty.
A tidal push and pull within me.
The moon’s true talent is consistency.
January 10, 2010
Writer's Date
A good friend of mine often goes to see bands she likes alone. She calls these solo outings "Artist's Dates." Being more of a wordy than an audiophile, I consider my trip to B&N yesterday a Writer's Date. Me (the mom/wife) took Me (the writer) out for several hours to browse, think and most of all, re-engage with the writing life.
It had been quite a while, so it took a bit to get re-acquainted. But after a few minutes of lolling around the bookstore with nowhere to be and nothing specific to purchase, I began to relax. And recharge. And restore. I remembered that I actually like Writer Me. She isn't that intimidating afterall.
After walking around aimlessly scanning new books, the Poetry and Parenting sections and, of course, the bargains, I/we settled down in a comfy chair with copies of People and Poets & Writers. After flipping through People to find out the latest on Elin, Tiger, Jon & Kate (holy hair extensions!) I settled in with P&W. One of my husband's professors in college used to give him back issues and I have always picked it up when I can. But, like I mentioned, it had been a while (more on two-year-old son later).
Paging through the issue, I tried to avoid the MFA ads. I'm just getting back in step with Writer Me, no need to scare her off. One of the pieces is about emerging writers of 2009. It is in one of these profiles that I discover the site ReadWritePoem (see sidebar).
I am now a member of an online poetry community, have submitted my first poem to a workshop and I'm even back on Blogger.
I consider the date a success!
It had been quite a while, so it took a bit to get re-acquainted. But after a few minutes of lolling around the bookstore with nowhere to be and nothing specific to purchase, I began to relax. And recharge. And restore. I remembered that I actually like Writer Me. She isn't that intimidating afterall.
After walking around aimlessly scanning new books, the Poetry and Parenting sections and, of course, the bargains, I/we settled down in a comfy chair with copies of People and Poets & Writers. After flipping through People to find out the latest on Elin, Tiger, Jon & Kate (holy hair extensions!) I settled in with P&W. One of my husband's professors in college used to give him back issues and I have always picked it up when I can. But, like I mentioned, it had been a while (more on two-year-old son later).
Paging through the issue, I tried to avoid the MFA ads. I'm just getting back in step with Writer Me, no need to scare her off. One of the pieces is about emerging writers of 2009. It is in one of these profiles that I discover the site ReadWritePoem (see sidebar).
I am now a member of an online poetry community, have submitted my first poem to a workshop and I'm even back on Blogger.
I consider the date a success!
August 25, 2008
Book Review - Marian Henley's The Shiniest Jewel
Marian Henley’s The Shiniest Jewel is a graphic memoir similar in style to Craig Thompson’s Blankets. Published by Springboard Press, Jewel is touching, real, sad, sweet and honest. Henley's drawings as well as her words tell the story of an emotional journey through a time of great change in her life. The book centers around the process of adopting a child from Russia but also follows Henley as she copes with the loss of her father, the milestone of turning 50 and the marriage to her long-time partner. Henley deals with themes of death, grief, commitment, motherhood, father/daughter issues and waiting with a delicate and refined sense of humor. Reading the book in its graphic form is a bit like watching a movie. I actually had to read it through twice to fully delve into everything Henley had to say with this work. The pictures and imagery tell one story and add balance, metaphor and significance when needed. But text is also important in moving the narrative along, and the first time reading it I was enthralled with the story line and what the outcome would be. Her use of a cartoon version of the heart to represent the emotional “heart” was a very successful element running through the novel.
Henley is a cartoonist best know for her dry, comedic character “Maxine!” The Shiniest Jewel is a departure from her cartooning in both tone and style her fans will most likely not expect what they find when they pick it up. I was pleasantly surprised by it, however, and hope we see more in the graphic novel genre from her in the future.
July 24, 2008
Letter #3: Ft. Myers, FL, April 18, 1945
He asks if she can cook. He jokes with her saying, "I ought to know before I marry you, at least."
Tate is funny. He comes across on the page so sweet without even the tiniest bit of sarcasm. He describes how the Florida rain soaked his tent and all of his clothes but that his clothes remained dry - and he was thankful for that.
The anecdotes he shares with my grandmother range from descriptions of the weather (hot and rainy) to what he is eating (stuffed peppers that were delicious) to what is going on in his family (his cousin had a baby). Some are tender and some are hilarious, like the story of the guy in the bunk above him dreaming he was drowning only to wake up and realize he had wet the bed. Tate's reaction? Thank God they have thick mattresses, or he might have dreamed it was raining!
His sense of humor is just so honest and simple. I am trying to think about anyone I know now who sounds like him, has his kind and honest tone when telling such a gross story. No doubt that if this story was told now, there would be some exaggeration, mockery and filth added in for effect. Is this simply my grandfather's personality or is it the innocence of the time period?
One thing is for sure - he communicates sincerely and lovingly how much he missed Lynn. He is not afraid to open his heart to her on paper, miles and miles between them.
I wonder how she felt each time a letter came in the mail, what that moment before she slipped open the envelope felt like each time?
Tate is funny. He comes across on the page so sweet without even the tiniest bit of sarcasm. He describes how the Florida rain soaked his tent and all of his clothes but that his clothes remained dry - and he was thankful for that.
The anecdotes he shares with my grandmother range from descriptions of the weather (hot and rainy) to what he is eating (stuffed peppers that were delicious) to what is going on in his family (his cousin had a baby). Some are tender and some are hilarious, like the story of the guy in the bunk above him dreaming he was drowning only to wake up and realize he had wet the bed. Tate's reaction? Thank God they have thick mattresses, or he might have dreamed it was raining!
His sense of humor is just so honest and simple. I am trying to think about anyone I know now who sounds like him, has his kind and honest tone when telling such a gross story. No doubt that if this story was told now, there would be some exaggeration, mockery and filth added in for effect. Is this simply my grandfather's personality or is it the innocence of the time period?
One thing is for sure - he communicates sincerely and lovingly how much he missed Lynn. He is not afraid to open his heart to her on paper, miles and miles between them.
I wonder how she felt each time a letter came in the mail, what that moment before she slipped open the envelope felt like each time?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
