April 30th Poems

As some may know, the Residency is ending today. I had an amazing time doing this - running this blog, hosting workshops, celebrating poetry in the community, and, as of last night, hosting a successful Poetry Slam.

At the slam, we had several amazing poets compete. The winner, Chris Britton, and the runner up, Cathleen Louise, were kind enough to allow me to post one of the poems which they had recited at the slam last night. Here are those poems.

Chris Britton:

Cathleen Louise:

April 30th Prompt

Today, we're going to talk about the last place that we have yet to talk about.

Write about what you do. Write a poem to your employer. Write a poem to your employees. Write a poem to the most menial tasks, or write a poem to the amazing things you've been able to accomplish in your position. Talk about your experiences. Was there one time that really struck you with its power? Is there anything of great significance which you do on a daily basis, perhaps without fully realizing it? Poetry can be found in our daily lives, usually in places we may least expect.  Happy writing!

April 29th Prompt

Today, let's try to tackle one of the last places yet untackled in terms of these prompts.

Write a poem to or about your dreams. Clearly, dreams can have many meanings. To some, they mean our goals that are too far away to see clearly yet we know that each step brings us closer. To others, dreams are simply those things we experience late at night when everything else is supposed to be at rest. Write a poem which talks to or about your dreams. Is there one in particular which is very memorable? Is there one which reoccurs and which you can't seem to shake? Is there an idea which seems to call to you? Take some time to write about it today. If not now, then when? Happy Writing!

April 28th Prompt and Question

Today's prompt will be somewhat meta.

Write to or about writing. What is your process in terms of how you write? Does an idea come out of nowhere and demand to be picked up like a crying child? Do you have to meditate profusely on a topic for hours or days or weeks to get the right words to come up? Do you just plain wish it was easier to write? Perhaps harder? This is your chance to complain, explain, create a refrain like a song to be sung to yourself (or others) in the future. What does writing mean to you?



In keeping with this writing idea:

How do you know a poem is "finished"?


Most people know the age-old phrase, "A poem is never finished, only abandoned"; however, something that most people don't necessarily talk about is "Well, is a poem ever finished?" By finished I mean here to say ready for sharing of some kind, whether that be in print or out loud at a local open mic event. How do you know when an audience is ready to take in your poem? Is it only after meticulous long hours of perfecting every single last piece of punctuation? Is it the moment after it's been written (revision comes after sharing)? Is it never? Why - for all / any of the above - is that so?

As always, happy writing!

April 27th Prompt

Today, I'm going to bring back a prompt I was taught forever ago.

Write about a pair of shoes in such a way that creates an idea of death without ever mentioning "death" or certain words or phrases closely associated with the concept like "grim reaper" etc. 

If wanted, you could also change this process so that the poem hints at just about any grand concept: life, love, time, war - and on.

Today's question focuses on place:

Do you have a specific spot or place you like to go in order to compose or revise your poetry?

Many of us have different places we like to be. In college, I would always visit a restaurant near campus that would give me some time to think, eat, and, as luck would have it, compose poetry. Do you have a specific place that you like to go that helps this process? Is there a process that goes into writing poetry? Place is an important aspect for poetry - do you have a specific place that's important to you?

April 26th Prompt and Question

Today, we're going to think about the past but attempt to compose something new. Specifically, we're going to write about something everyone has, and something many of us have had problems with.

Write a poem to or about family. Your family, specifically. Of course, we don't always get along with the people who have been closest to us. What might you want to say to your parents? Your children? If you don't have kids, what might you want to say to them were they around? Are there any images that are closely associated with one person in your family? For inspiration, I would encourage people to read Michael Bennett's wonderful contribution to this blog - it can be found by clicking on his name in the contributor's list. Happy Writing!



A question that has been on my mind - one that I invite my readers to share in the comments section of this post - is:

Is there a poem that has particularly affected you?


I know that, for the longest time, I could not listen to a poem by Danny Sherrard called "The Distance" (which can be found on YouTube) without tearing up a bit. Strange though it may seem, I was particularly moved by this poem. Another poem I found powerful is "What Teachers Make" by Taylor Mali. Last on this list but certainly not least is a 6 minute performed poem called "The Crickets have Arthritis" by a poet named Sean Koyczan. There are, of course, several others (too many to list here) that have affected me in some way or another. I would love for others to share their experiences with poetry within the comments of this post. Happy sharing!

April 25th Prompt and Question

In honor of the Community Poetry reading tonight (a celebration to say "thank you" to all the poets and writers in the are - and showcase the poetry of those who were published on this blog) and to continue the theme of revision, today's prompt focuses on the speaking or performance of a poem.

Find an old poem (or write a new one) and write above your lines all the places that you want to pause to breathe. A fun symbol that can be used to denote a breath break is a caesura ( || ) which denotes, in music and poetry, a complete pause and was used heavily in Old English poetry. After you have have places to pause, decide on the rhythm that the pieces of the rest of your poem should take. Are there certain lines you want to read quickly? Are there other lines which should be spoken slowly to allow the listener time to absorb the information you're presenting? Finally, decide on a tone in which you'd like to deliver your lines. Does your poem demand to be spoken with a smile? Does it want to find its life in tears? Each poem has a character to it - revising poems with this idea in mind will help you to find the poem's voice. Happy writing!



Today's question is also inspired by the question of performance and poetry. Simply put:

What is the place of poetry?


Should poetry be performed or written for performance? Should it be written so that, as one teacher stated, the reader can "swim through" the poem? Is it more ideally a mix of both? In short, this becomes a question of where poetry belongs. Does it belong to the public, or does it belong to the individual? Is it neither? Or both?



Regardless of this question's answer, be sure to check out the Community Poetry Reading which starts at 7:00 tonight at the Midwest Writing Center located on the 3rd floor at the Bucktown Center for the Arts at 225 E. 2nd Street Davenport, IA. It's a great chance to hear some awesome poetry inspired and written by the community! Hope to see you there

April 24th Prompt and Question

Today, we're going to focus more on revision and creating something new through it.

Find a poem you like (or dislike) that you have written. If it's a free verse poem, try writing it in blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter - for these purposes it's okay to just break the lines into 10 syllables a piece). If it's in a meter, try writing it in one long block like prose. A couple points to pay attention to are: where do you breathe in this poem? Are there any points of significance that were brought out more so in the rewritten version? Do you have to change some of the wording or context by converting it into meter? Is the flow changed? Strengthened? Weakened? Regardless of the results, this is a fun exercise to help you see your writing in a new light. Revision at its best. Happy Writing!

The simple question I want to ask today is:

What does your revision process look like?


Essentially, how do you revise your poems? Everyone's style is different. Do you go to a specific place to do them? Do you only cross out (and never erase)? Why does this help you? How does this help you? If you were to give advice about revision, what would it be?

April 23rd Prompt and Question

Today, we're going to practice something very important to any writer.

You will be writing today, but rather than focusing on something completely new, drudge up something old. Find an old poem and re-read it a few times to see if you can see it in a new light. Today, find a poem you thought you had abandoned and adopt it anew. Are there any things you have experienced between the original writing and now that you can draw from? Is there a specific image that stands out that you can keep running throughout the poem? Has this poem developed a new voice? Does it say what you want it to say? Have your views shifted? Today, breathe new life into something old. Happy writing!

Today, instead of a poem, I would like to present a question for you to ponder (and possibly answer, though the question may not easily lend itself to an answer). This question comes to us as something with which I have been struggling for a long time:


What, if anything, is the purpose of poetry?


Is there 1 set purpose? Can it shift? Is purpose determined by poem? Is it to educate? Is it to entertain? Is poetry simply written for the sake of poetry? Does it even have a purpose?

I suppose this question really boils down to: Why do you write poetry?

Happy writing, and have a wonderful day!

Robert Cone: A Taste of Summer Wine

From "A Taste of Summer Wine"

It seemed as the flowers are known to grow
The witch’s existence had been severed
The sprite had delivered a mortal blow
Dashing the hag’s wish to live forever

As for Lord Dinsmore he grew more jolly
And his wife held yet another gala
It seemed all their life had been a folly
And so they dressed in their best regalia

Lady Dinsmore wore her fancy dress ring
Lord Dinsmore was wearing his uniform
The ladies were dressed in their fancy things
And the canapés were cuneiform

The guests said from the way he had matured
That his lordship was no longer off plumb
For they asked what is the state of nature
If it is not at times deaf, blind or dumb

As for his lordship’s eccentricities
He put the fairy garden to one side
For as if struck by electricity
With the fairies he could no longer bide

He took to milking cows from the dairy
People say his life was filled with laughter
And they repeat that though he lies buried
He lives happily in the hereafter

April 22nd Prompt

Today, we're going to talk about culture. Media mostly.

Write a poem in response to a television show, a news report, an episode of your favorite drama. It may help to focus your poem on a single instance or character or moment you find most interesting. What does the moment mean to you? Why did you choose it? What is its significance? What does it say? Regardless of what you choose, I'm certain the result will be very interesting. Happy writing!

Today's poem comes to us as a selection from Robert Cone and is entitled A Taste of Summer Wine. About the poem, Cone writes "This poem was inspired by the long-running BBC comedy, Last of the Summer Wine."

Erin Gehn: Poem: The Purpose

I've not written words for you to see

until now
Because I thought they'd blur your vision
like heat does to a desert scene
With trivial scribbles, loops, and punctuated
. ! . !
expressions yerning to be read beyond the page
....

April 21st Prompt

Today, the style of the blog has changed up a bit (at least on the poster's end), but that fits quite all right with the prompt.

Write about an adventure you had. Dig into your memory and find something about some travels you went on or a mountain you climbed or even a particularly adventurous trip to the super market. Does this memory have a broader connection to your life today? Did you realize something on this outing which you still keep with you? Has this event changed you in some way? Write your story, then share it! Happy writing!

Today's poem comes to us from Erin Gehn and is entitled Poem: The Purpose. About this poem, Gehn writes, "To be read in full and by only the right ledger phrases as two separate poems in one. Notice see-vision-scene, the blur style formatting of the middle ledger phrases, how 'punctuated' does not stop the sentence, and how the left ledger words- last words in every line- also tell a story "See, [a] vision punctuated [the] page." Aha!"

Joseph A. Uphoff: The Lands of the Doll

Opacity ruled the distance between the

frequency of creative production and some

other recipient, a station regulated by the

spectator sport of charismatic power. Perhaps,

it was a bluff that emotions could be arranged

and, otherwise, deranged by the effort

suggesting an indifferent comparison between

deserving individuals and the lyrical diatribes

within which lament was a subtle

grammar for which sorrow remained a

stain upon the syllables and inflections

of the dramatic sword. Outside, the

yard beckoned with fence posts and

sandy boulders. It could not be recognized

that color was tinged by means of enigmatic

spelling and tensely held beliefs requiring

the eccentricity that was the mark of

a spurious fabrication. The paintings

fell into place, winning a stretch of the

wall in full view of adversity,

criticism, and appreciative spectators.

Since it was always all about the fact

of repetitive effort, it remained likely that

a new election would not lead to a fresh

result. The renewal was to be searched

out by reference to other criteria, of which

there was a bounteous plentitude. Fabric

Had woven a whole district to float above

the floor like a dear memory, not without

its departure into virtual form and

expressions cast forth as if a sport

were being playing with a ball, yet the

number were unreliable. the score had

been derived as a fantasy so, without

meaning, it was hovering like the price

being scorched as inflation levered against

the ceiling. The tradition was a rigid

heritage reflected from some predicament

poorly comprehended by indigent and

disinterested people. The dreaming came

before the composition, and after, there was

understanding for the color and the incident

forever documented by scratches forced

into the great expanse of a flat, rock

face. The became the residence

of many ghosts from ancient time, studied

by anonymous spirits at the university,

a vision of future probability. The

sky presided over them with heat and

rain. Nothing was expected to erode

in such a short season as eternal

remembrance., but there was silence about

erosion. Quietude encroached upon

the rooms of the traveler. With a clank

from the chains of this burden echoing

out of the canyon, the wisdom left; it was

picked up and carried away in the

depth of cameras and carved from the

cliff's face by the face of anthropology,

not forgetting responsibility

to the environment of relics.

April 20th Prompt

Today, we're going to revisit perception.

Revision is a process that we undergo in our poetry. It allows us to see something we hadn't seen before in a poem. In a way, it opens the world just a little bit by allowing us to see something in an entirely new light. However, sometimes, this revision can also take something away from us. "We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it -- and stop there; lest we be like the cat that sits down on a hot stove-lid. She will never sit down on a hot stove-lid again -- and that is well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one anymore." With this Clemens quote in mind, think about something whose meaning has changed - something which you could no longer see in the same way - and write about that. Explain the revision if you can.

Today's poem comes to us from Joseph A. Uphoff and is entitled The Lands of the Doll.

Caitlin Griffin: Cigarette Romance

one of those nights where

real is surreal.

colors are too bright,

the ground is too textured,

the dark is too clear--

my heart is not calm.

April 19th Prompt

Today, our goal for poetry is to just not worry.

Pick a span of about 30 minutes today that you can set aside for the following purpose: write what's on your mind. The most important thing to keep in mind with this exercise is nothing. Write the first and last things that come to you. Don't worry about what comes out; simply enjoy the process for what it is. After the 30 (or so) minutes are up, read what you've written and see if any ideas or images pop out at you. You may just discover a poem within a poem today. Happy writing!

Today's poem comes to us from Caitlin Griffin and is entitled Cigarette Romance. About herself, Griffin writes "I'm a junior at Augustana College from Central Illinois, majoring in English and Secondary Education with a minor in German. I enjoy reading and sleeping and a good cigarette."

Sean Walsh: Wee Flower, Old Leaf

I lived a lot in my head, as a lad.
Like, I was the last in the –
brothers and sisters well ahead of me.
They were stretching their wings
while I was still in the nest –
if y’know what I mean…

I didn’t know them. Not really…
And my Dad was away a lot and my mother
working the pub, trying to make ends meet.
So I – I turned into a world of me own…

Well, like, you won’t believe this
but I used to write letters.
To, to the Little Flower. God’s truth…
Saint Teresa of, of Lisieux.

Nearly every night. Two, three pages.
With the fountain pen I got for Christmas.
No matter how cold it was in that bedroom.
And I’d leave them folded under her statue
on the tallboy before I’d get under the blankets…

God only knows what became of them.
Dumped, I suppose, like a lot of other stuff
when the family home was sold off…

And there’s a thing: whenever I go into a Church now
she’s nearly always there to one side or another,
standing with the bunch of roses,
looking at me…

And I think, maybe, she might just get me into Heaven
by a side door when – when the time comes…

April 18th Prompt

This prompt will ask you to step into the perspective of the unknown.

Write a poem from the perspective of the universe, of God, of a "higher power." What would the universe want to say? If it had emotions, what might it feel? What would this point of view be like? Is there anything that this being/point of view would feel necessary to speak? In any case, happy writing!

Today's poem comes to us from Sean Walsh and is entitled Wee Flower, Old Leaf. I found the story stemming from this poem to be very interesting. It draws on memories from the past to powerful effect. Please enjoy!

Ryan Collins: Unsupported Transit

Into photographic plates into immediate effect
What effect is not immediate that matters?

The slow wave the flicker effect washing over
Into my eyes my ghost pressure building up
Behind my photogenic eyes stuck on blinking

Cymbal crash hooves stampede pull toward
Push away to stampede afloat for a moment

A cloud hanging in a room a ghost in a photo
Graph of a bell an acoustic anomaly charging
Toward the frame’s precise edge at a full gallop

April 17th Prompt

Today, we're going to live in the present - at least our prompt will ask us to.

Write about whatever it is you are doing, seeing, or thinking when the clock turns over to a new hour (based on when you read this prompt). So, those who read this at 9:05, keep in the back of your mind that a poem is coming your way at 10. What significance does this subject have to you? Would you honestly rather be doing something else? Are you content with where you are? Is there something new about this moment that you wouldn't have otherwise noticed? In any case, happy writing!

Today's poem comes to us from Ryan Collins and is entitled Unsupported Transit. There is something haunting about it - I felt as though I was on a journey that led me back to where I began. Check out today's poem!

Nathan McDowell: We Were All

-bright eyed and thin shoed,

And you were all kahlua with your coffee,

grumbling at stacks of papers and grumbling

between the lines.

We were all falling, a felt tip pen

on your pillow when you woke -

half eternal burning hope,

half shoebox secret you never show your wife

We were all, Hey! watch out for the quivering

caress of some kind of crazy

anemone goddesses essence, yes.

You were all, excuse me, pardon me, with broad shoulders that

melted at the first sign of rain

and you were all, what’s that noise!

bright porch lights bake your last backstreet synapse.

We were all sleeping through the occasion, so you rose,

we were bright streaks of paisley falling through neighborhoods -

not as brave as our walk, and not so much aware of the fall, just

falling, falling, falling,

We stoodswayed, with a kinda chill I never learned to face

We stoneskipped, we let it be cold, and wet,

and dark over the Mississippi-train tracks,

and you curled into tiny folds of

dampened pride, set aside softly rotting.

We called you a coward, a self-flagellating Godhead.

We astral projected our sacred place into your secret place, but

your secrets lashed back, washing over us like Sunday morning shame.

Your ancient eyes looked too hard into us and

you said you weren’t afraid to die.

You said it with that crying kinda smile

and that made all the difference.

April 16th Prompt

Today, the poetry to write is that focused on the future.

Write a poem to the future. You can take this opportunity to personify the future and talk to it, poet to possibility. In a way, this could simply be a slightly easier way to conceptualize the unknown. In any case, happy writing!

Today's poem comes to us from Nathan McDowell and is entitled We Were All. About himself, McDowell writes, "Nathan McDowell is an Augustana student and Rock Island native. Nathan currently serves as editor-in-chief of Augustana’s literary mag, Saga – and he also writes some poems of his own. Nathan thinks highly of yet is skeptical of poetry and children."

Robin Throne: The summer of mourning doves

I found you prostrate
framed by a gravestone’s shadow
marking here to there
like some holy guardian of an other-world
making its fragiled soul-way
groping to nirvana in lotus-spread,
listening for that note
rising above all else.

You feed water and solace
to delicate youth in borrowed space
as I peer through Kenneth Coles
in that awful summer of grave hunting
to circumspect ascended Masons
displayed carvings of I-80 villages and ravines
the once prairie people who crossed water
searching for the hard, real story
in granite and floppy limestone
reconstruction between periods
lifted up by carefully crafted words
played like a perpetual scrabble as solitaire

over and over and over and over.

Till I ran back east to my river home
and hid from this tale that would not
Let me be.

Your bluegray plume arrived this morning
left on a rusted paver’s stone
when an eagle pair called out your mission
and choreographed their wide arc
smattered by a pelican V
invading the common ground
when you sent that clear sound of July
rejoined with the unburied
encased somewhere above it all.

April 15th Prompt

Today's prompt asks us to go on a journey.

Write a travel poem. This can be a poem inspired by the desire to not stay static and explore instead. This poem can be dedicated to the idea of driving somewhere or flying somewhere. It can be about a specific experience and anything you may have learned. Or not learned. Whatever the case, take your poem someplace outside of where it is now.

Today's poem comes to us from Robin Throne and is entitled The summer of mourning doves. About the poem, Throne writes "The call of the mourning doves is so distinct and it haunted me last summer. This poem emerged from that echo I still hear as I await their return to my potting shed."

Sheri Grutz: Afternoon Interval

I remember that you told me on a crummy day

that the brakes need fixing. There was an

un-sound then, a pause over the dashboard

trying to feel something give out. Only

my breath went kaput. The song that was

playing on the radio was Fleetwood Mac,

"Rihanna," and I waited until it was

over to let you have it. Why do you never

protect me? Why do you always wait until

something bad happens to do anything?

You pulled out your cigarettes, but we had

long since stopped smoking in the car so

this would be a capital offense. Silence.

Slowly now, yes, slowly, the car pulls into the

driveway, then the garage, squeeeaaak!

Jesus, Dave. I’ll call Mike. We need to

have them look at the tires too.

Well,

say something! Sitting in the cold,

unrunning car, staring at the coat rack

I painted yellow with veggies on it.

"Its hard enough living in this stupid town,

calling up the local mechanics you’ve known

all your life, if you’re so chummy with them,

why don’t you call them?" OK, I will. Its

just you always say I have to be in control

all the time, which way do you want it?

"I want it both ways. I want this relationship

to go both ways." The windows fogging up.

The dog scratching on the door. The full

evening ahead. OK, I thought, there is no hurry.

April 14th Prompt

Today, the challenge is to approach place in a slightly new way.

Write a poem in which you speak to a place. This could come in the form of a letter. You could turn a place into a person through personification and have a conversation with it. Regardless of the method, what would you say to this place? How do you feel about it? Do you have any words of wisdom or advice? Any reason to say thanks to it?

Today's poem comes to us from Sheri Grutz and is entitled Afternoon Interval. About herself, she writes "Grutz has a B.A. in English from The University of Iowa where she spent one semester in the workshop. She has been published in Lyrical Iowa, Dead Earth Review and Emerge Literary Journal."

Kaitlin Ross: La Sirène Du Ciel

Willow-weighted tones, to float
On nothing but a wisp
The painful, yearning melodies,
To well-clad, sea-worn soldiers
Not far away from journey's end.

"Are you the love I never was to own,
But ere to cling inside my breast?
The one I search for,
From the sea's sheer cliffs
In vain, from morning's dim,
'Til twilight's burning embers
Put out their present light?
Return to me! O fickle, radiant lover,
To melt crystal seclusion in the
Smolder of our agèd flame!"

With sultry sweet she sang the
Sailors to a gentle trance,
And in their eager desperation,
Fell quickly to the salty sea.
Alone she mourned,
Cloaked in ceaseless solitude,
Within the all but soundless world-
Silent,
Save the crashing of the waves and
Her own, exquisite, silver voice.

April 13th Prompt

Today, the challenge is to take a traditional form and do something new with it.

Write a series of 3 or more Limericks which tell a story together. Although the traditional Limerick is fun and perhaps even a bit raunchy, feel complete artistic freedom to tell any story with any tone you so desire.

Today's poem comes to us from Kaitlin Ross and is entitled La Sirène Du Ciel. About herself, Ross writes "I have written poetry for as long as I can remember. My greatest influences are Emily Dickinson, John Keats and the Bronte Sisters. My father was, at one time, an English professor who focused on literature and poetry from the 18th and 19th centuries, so one could say I was doomed from the start!"

DM Denton: The Lavenders

A sprig on the wrist
a spell for a plague
is worth two
in the bush
where the Lavenders
lay their cares.

Such a fair flower
stolen like sinning
sweeter than
forgiveness
scented from heaven
lost on earth.

Found to be useful
for washing and cures
of body
and heart ache
lullaby-ing sleep
and madness.

Such ladies at work
their laundry to air
for rumors
to ruin them
unless modesty
can save them.

All through the ages
a toiling to some
and leisure
for others
somehow a likeness
in essence.

For how they do grow
well drain’d in full sun
or covered
in winter
with still enough breath
to live on.

Clusters of secrets
that beg to be kept
for sachets
and strewing
their hopes to the wind
and a way.

April 12th Prompt

Today, you may find yourself embracing puns with this prompt and, because I adore the example, a poem from YouTube.

Write a love letter from one inanimate object to another. Don't be afraid to use language that would otherwise be called a pun today. As an excellent example, feel free to follow this following link to a poem entitled "A love letter from a tooth brush to a bicycle tire." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIAQENsqcuM

This following poem comes to us from DM Denton and is entitled The Lavenders. About the poem, the author writes "In medieval and renaissance Europe servant women who washed in lavender water, placed lavender in linens or draped laundry on lavender bushes to dry became known as ‘Lavenders’. The lowliest of these were sometimes reputed to be prostitutes. I was fascinated when I recently heard this snippet of social history, prompting me to write the following poem."

David Dowell: The Scroll of Secrets

In certain circles they still speak in soft, rippling whispers
Of things like time and its bewilderments,
Of shapes and shadows and shades of colors
That can’t be separated by any knife. Who knows
What the truth really is once you can’t
Look someone in the eye?

We’d moved like blind fish through cave puddles-
Such was our progress. We tried growing legs, but
Our hearts were too heavy, and we lacked the expertise.
Whatever fell toward us,
We consumed, and when any echo reached us from the cave’s mouth
We hid, trembling behind rocks or vegetative growth.
Our trembling itself sent ripples out
That acted, once summoned back from the rock strewn shores,
Like faulty radar waves.

We listened and counted, like a child suspended within the
Muscular moments between the flash of lightning and
The harsh report that follows. One, two, three,
The measure of the distance increasing every year.
Our ears, too sensitive, famished for news, made wild assumptions
Drawn from our own proclaimed fears, so that we feared everything,
Even the slightest touch. The Scroll of Secrets
Was unfurled underwater before blind, illiterate fish who still dance
Unknowing through its bright rays. Such is the substance
Of divinity. Such is the language we all bear.

April 11th Prompt

Today's prompt may not yield a very comprehensible poem, but it should be fun nonetheless.

Write a poem which incorporates the words (or some version of the word): Shelter, swindle, energy, conceal, discover, delicate, wild, elegant, aptitude, obdurate, abrupt, placate, perfunctory, (and) versatile. All of these words were chosen from Dictionary.com's "Trending list." Good luck and happy writing!

Today's poem comes to us from David Dowell. Dowell writes about himself that "I have been writing poetry since the late 1970's after seeing Paul Carroll read at the University of Iowa. I have been published several times, most recently in the 2011 edition of Off Channel. I live with my three children in Geneseo, Illinois." Check out his poem, The Scroll of Secrets on today's blog!

Sal Marici: Documented in Vinyl

After they struck
the last chord of “Long Tall Sally”
on 29 August 1966 at Candlestick
they ceased pretending to play music
teenagers’ screams deadened.

During 129 days
in the Abbey Road Studios

strings, brass, woodwinds, sitar
recruitments
of electronic devices:
wah-wah pedal, fuzz box
and a Leslie speaker rotating
low and high frequencies,
trick sound

layered with lyrics
about life’s complexities
our parents did not hear
big bands sing.

April 10th Prompt

Today's prompt asks you to look into the past again.

Write a poem to your past self. What things would you want to say to yourself? Is there anything you would want to warn yourself about? Any life lessons to give? What perspectives on the world can you offer yourself?

Today's poem comes to us from Sal Marici and is entitled Documented in Vinyl. Sal writes about the poem, "I saw the jacket John Lennon wore for the Sgt. Peppers Lonely Heart Club Band album. The display pumped goose bumps. The Beatles’ creations, especially those from the studio years, replay in my mind like the first time I dropped needles in new, circling grooves. Their impacts echo today."

Thomas Jenks: Untitled

I am the great shapeshifter
Shapeshifter of not body
Body, no. Person, yes.
Yes, I am. No, I am not.
Not an echo of me, no you, something different, not me.
Me, who is that?
That is whomever I wake up as.
As oscilating as a pendulum,
A pendulum swaying from one extreme
Extreme to extreme
Extremes never echoing one another, never between.
Between the extremes of a pendulum built,
Built poorly tuned,
Tuned highly sensitive.
Sensitive not to hot and cold, but
But to the hot and cold of humanity.
Humanity, the very thing I am.
Am at all times and none.
None other than I and Me.
Me, the one shapeshifting.
Shapeshifting not into Me, but into Me.
Me, the eternal question.
Question, inquiry, who is Me?
Me is not me then minutes past.
Past me is not me now.
Now me is a different me, a different mood.
Mood, the determinator of me.
Me, a collection of moods, moody.
Moody, they would describe me.
Me, the most frustrating question of all time.
Time and mood, the determiners of me.
Me, crazy, depressed, creative, dull.
Dull to myself, often suicidal.
Suicidal not of Me, but of Me's from all time.
Time, the difference between Me and Me.
Me, always hiding.
Hiding me, trying, afriad.
Afraid to trust, expose my reality.
Reality being always changing.
Changing such that there is no core.
Core poersonality, core drive, no.
No core desires.
Desire to live the same way,
Way, meaning, purpose.
Purpose always changing.
Changing from one me to another.
Another dream, another Me
Me, never the same, no connection
Connection to the past, no echo
Echo of another Me
Me, not another
Another, that is who I was
Was and is
Is and will be.
Be an emotional, hidden, poorly understood mess.
Mess to me, and others, a large mess.
Mess of moods, personalities, me's.
Me's, the many me.
Me, who is Me?
Me knows not who is Me.
Me, the great shapeshifter.

April 9th Prompt

Today's prompt asks you to stretch your perception to see if you can see from someone else's eyes.

Write from the point of view of someone else. What are your thoughts? What are your concerns? What are things like from this different perspective? What does this new perspective want to communicate with the rest of the world? Sometimes seeing from other points of view is difficult, but poetry allows us to see things from new angles - there's more than one way to revise with poetry.

Today's poem comes to us from Thomas Jenks. He writes about the multiple perspectives which can be found residing within one person.

April Jennifer Choi: Life's Love

They walk together hand in hand, and hope never to part.

The Lovers are bound eternally, both in mind and in heart.

Life travels lightning fast, when wrapped in each other's arms.

Blinded from sadness, by just the sight of the others charms.

Love grows stronger, and gives the breath of Life to both.

Forced to age in time, but maturing graceful is their growth.

Learning from each other, both Live twice the Life they would,

They know they both are needed, to be there and understood.

Neither look to the future, and grasp tightly to what is now.

For the future will come soon enough, faster than they allow.

Life becomes what he will, but as long as love is there,

Life will survive the future, and do so without despair.

Love is welcome by Life, though she may cause some pain,

But no matter the hurt, there is always much more to gain.

Love puts a handle on Life, but she will break time to time.

Life then gives back to Live, and will feel in their prime.

Loves comes deeply into life, just as life comes into Love,

Both seem to come from nowhere, springing out from above.

To break up this pair is a tragedy, but seen in eyes every day.

"Please, reunite these two Lovers." are the words I shall pray.

The great Love of your Life, is a Life you Love gratefully.

Do so kindly, and they will kindly return the favor.

April 8th Prompt

Today's prompt will be very specific:

Write a "List Poem." A list poem is typically where you write a list of things then expand on their significance. They can take many, many shapes, but have fun with it whatever you do!

A poem comes to us today from April Jennifer Choi and is entitled Life's Love. The poem comes from a personal place and gives us a wonderful personification of how life and love coexist.

Mike Bayles: Old Botany

When a foot steps on a wooden floor
another chamber stirs.
I listen to the ways the building speaks
to the many parts of me,
the room where I take Intro to Psychology,
and the hallway where samples of seedlings
in wire cages break ground, as I.
Cubicles cluster around a common area
where subjects offer psyches
for graduate student grades.
On second, a maze winds its way
to teaching assistant offices,
painted in neon colors,
where I ponder trials of life.
Stories linger about third floor,
a place some say is abandoned,
unable to bear the weight of other lives,
unseen and left to wonder.
A step outside shows the aging face
observant of a verdant Central Campus
while I shadow its incarnations.

Because we talked to something we didn't understand yesterday, it's time to speak to something a little less strange today.

Write a poem to your past or your past self. This can take the form of a letter or an ode - anything really. What would you like to say to you or your past? Are there any particular images which are reoccurring or have taken on special significance now that you have the lens of time to look through?

In a way, the poem which comes to us today has done that. Entitled "Old Botany", this poem by Mike Bayles takes us through a memory of the past in a scene in which he's touring a favorite place with a family member. Perhaps it will inspire you as well! Happy Writing!

Steve Biehler: Chilling Thoughts

Chemical change happens as we age,

making the hands fasten a wool collar

like an insulating blanket around the neck

keeping the north wind from chilling the body.

Hot blood surging thru conduits free of plaque

create a force-field of warmth to encompass

mind, body and soul for one more run

down the mountain, or around the rink.

Today, cold weather enjoyment is

pushing snow with a tractor blade,

while covered in satin lined fire hose

canvass clothing and Iditarod race boots.

Shoveling by hand is for hard surface

driveways and sidewalks to garages and

saved for son or daughter earning

money before or after school.

Bob-sledding down hills, backbone to belly

fashion, blinds all but the driver; he can't see,

blowing snow screens the slope bottom

like smoke bombs hiding soldiers advancing.

Sliding to a stop, the toboggan's cargo erupts

in laughter ready to drag the sleigh up the hill

for one more downhill flight before the sun

disappears below the Norway-pines at the top.

The rustic bar overlooked Great Sand Lake,

reflecting the full moon, its glass like surface

looking like a dance hall floor, ready for couples

gliding in exquisite parallel formation in

tempo based on music heard by the skaters.

Portable houses glow like tepees from fire within

as ice-fishermen look for perch or walleye

through an 8 inch hole augured thru the ice.

Becoming an inside person, the winter scene

is a welcome sight viewed outside the window,

sitting by a blazing fireplace, sipping Drambuie

straight up from a crystal old fashioned glass,

remembering the fun with kids in the snow.

Snowball fights, shaking the tree branches,

dumping snow on an unsuspecting sister

or cross-country skiing thru the bean field.

Pulling out boxes of decorations, wishing you

had put in one more electrical outlet under the

eaves to use with the white Christmas lights.

If the fire is a mnemonic, more so the trimming

of the outside brought inside to take on a

collection of individual memory pictures.

Hand painted glass balls, with yellow daisy

and leaf of muted green cover the surface.

We know the wind will not stop bringing

greetings from our neighbors to the north.

After all, they are only trying to share the

special time of year everyone holds so dear.

Every pew full of family; some even fearful,

they've not been there very often, maybe for

a funeral or a buddies kid being baptized.

Christmas Eve is special, the animals even talk.

It isn't aging that brings the cold, it's always

with us in the Midwest. Go South old man, go

South old woman; to Florida or Texas, or

Arizona, New Mexico anywhere the north wind

doesn't blow so cold and be warm in the sun.

Don't forget to come back in the spring when

the snow is gone, the Robins are in the yard, and

daffodils are bright and dandelions say hello.

Today's challenge will ask us to engage with the unknown.

Write a letter to "God" (or the Universe) - to something you feel has a degree of mystery and power around it. Take this time to ask it questions, speak your mind, yell or scream, or thank it for whatever you feel is worth any thanks.

Today's poem comes to us from Steve Biehler. Entitled Chilling Thoughts, the poem is a wonderful set of reflections about what winter means and brings to both the author and area in which he lives. Ironically appropriate for today's frosty morning this poem is.

MJ Sullivan: My Father Holds an Apple

My father holds an apple in his right hand

As if it were a curve ball soon to be

In flight to home plate at the Fenway

But he is standing in the backyard looking at his garden

Anchored by a birch tree cupping an oriole nest

Threaded with fine grass and strips of bark

From the post and rail. When he takes a bite

Under his newsboy cap, I can tell

He is chewing a mathematical equation

A prototype for a spaceship.

April 5th Prompt

Today will really but just a new twist on an old classic.

Write a love poem to someone or something. Begin with an image or simile or metaphor and allow the rest of the poem to explain what this image in the beginning means.

Michael Bennett: The Carpenter's Son Mourns His Death

This poem had me looking at things around me - those crafted perhaps with carpenter's hands - in a completely different light. I'm not sure I'll think of trees in the same way again, but I'm okay with that. This poem comes from Michael Bennett and is entitled The Carpenter's Son Mourns His Death

The Carpenter's Son Mourns His Death

The carpenter attempts to trim the world,

to make it fit the vision and the need,

to plane and sand and square and join, fit flush:

but now that fickle bubble rests no more

between the level's aribitrary lines.

Before his work could weary of itself

the joiner broke, the job left incomplete.

It is the scent of pinesap I recall,

and resin, too, and heated roofing tar:

those smells that take me back to childhood.

And once again I am in awe of him.

On summer days, my father's sleight-of-hand

created cavalries of wood and nails:

his common sawhorses that were meant

to hold in readiness the workday load

became for me imagination's fierce

and war-like steeds, blazed by chalk dust.

And I rode recklessly as if I were

a savage, on a mount of raw and naked pine.

His hammersong of steel sang out, and made

me thrill to sounds like hooves make striking flint.

He told me not to weep for trees, for they

with honor and with grace desire the axe:

Their sacrifice would shelter weaker things.

Our homes, our lives, are gravestones, epitaphs,

and legacies of oak and pine and beech.

The forest bore the weight of loss, and in

the end, those same trees must have wept for him.

He was a kind of artist I suspect,

his softwood hands knew skills that shaped my childhood.

He lived and died alike with calloused palms,

with fingers resin-streaked and splinter-filled.

This memory song is late in coming.

This challenge seems somewhat difficult as it asks us to look into our past while examining the present.

Write about something which you used to believe as a child. If you can, describe a specific instance in which you realized that this belief no longer held true. What did it feel like to realize that thing had changed? Is there an image you can compare this feeling to? As always, happy writing!

Stanford Pritchard: The Man Whose Ashes Got Lost in the Mail

I found the scene portrayed in this next poem to be particularly interesting. I thought it highlighted how an everyday moment can suddenly take on new, perhaps unexpected, meaning. This poem comes to us from Stanford Pritchard and is entitled The Man Whose Ashes Got Lost in the Mail

The Man Whose Ashes Got Lost in the Mail
The postal clerk showed no remorse,
Hardly thought it mattered,
Said one was as good as another
Way of being scattered.
We who filled the P.O. lobby
Laughed, but were hardly flattered:
Each I think had found his own
Way of being scattered.

Today's challenge will ask you to think outside the box. Or, perhaps, to think as the box.

Write from the point of view of an object. What might you be thinking or feeling? What is your significance to everyday life (even if seemingly insignificant)? What are your uses? Do you have any likes or dislikes? Do people rely on you? Have you ever let them down? On this challenge, let your mind wander into strange places if it wants to. And, as always, have a great time writing!

Anna Groebe: Como un ángel

I found the description of memories in this next poem to be quite moving. This poem reminded me that, sometimes, we have to travel far away from ourselves to see what the source of us truly is. It pulled from the past its images and echoed their significance back out into the world. This poem comes to us from Anna Groebe and is entitled Como un ángel

Como un ángel

When I was fifteen, I went on a mission trip to Cuba. These are a few memories from that trip.

At first I didn’t dance

Ay, chico, no

And I was just fine in my protective shell of silence, thank you.

But then I came home to the most unexpected place

And they sang dame tu mano, sé bienvenido and gave me a kiss

And I gave them my hand, an unexpected welcome guest,

And kissed them back.

She asked me to dance

And I said no, I can’t.

She was worried; ¿por qué?

And the next night she wouldn’t take my two left feet as an answer.

Who knew angels danced salsa?

He wept the last night

Sitting alone in the garden and praying for a way to change what was to be.

I asked ¿qué es el problema?

And they answered you are leaving.

Before we left he gave me a print he made of a woman

And on the front he wrote like an angel

A blessing I hardly deserved.

I can dance now

Dios mío

And my shell gets too cramped to inhabit all the time.

I still come home to that unexpected place

To sing and dance and kiss

Como un ángel, como un ángel.

Poem a day...

... but just a day late. We're poets, not perfect, after all. During the month of April, a writer may opt to challenge him or herself by writing a poem a day. I am all for that! In order to make this process a little easier, I wanted to post a series of "Challenges" (prompts really, but who's counting?). While yesterday's challenge was quite broad, today's will be far more specific.

Today, try writing a poem which responds directly to another poem. Imagine you are a character responding to the character, subject, or idea of the initial poem. Pretend like you are having a dialogue.

Good luck and happy writing!

Don Ford: Seasoned Reminder

I wanted to start this month's celebrations with a light hearted poem. But one which also helped to tell a story or perhaps even give advice. I found just such a message in Don Ford's poem Seasoned Reminder:

SEASONED REMINDER

Don Ford

Please don't look at me like that

Do not turn your face away

You stare, but look right through me

Let's exchange some smiles today

I've lived my life - head held high

I hope you'll listen to me

When I share my seasoned words

There is something you must see

I know I walk much slower

In a wheel chair I may be

I once could run, jump and play

In a tree you might see me

Give age a chance, one more glance

Hold me up in high esteem

Please restore my dignity

In my place some day you'll be

I wanted to start this month with some wonderful news and a challenge: Although the poems we've received so far have been absolutely stunning, we would like to see more! Therefore, the deadline is being extended until April 10th. This is the wonderful news.

Here, now, is the challenge: Make us cry. Make us laugh. Make us smile. Make us feel what you were feeling when you decided that an image was worth echoing with your poetry. Share your poetry like a story so that we may learn something from your experiences.

Thank you to everyone who has thus far contributed to this year's blog. And thank you to everyone we have yet to hear from!

Poetry Submissions

National Poetry Month is fast approaching, and this blog will be accepting poetry submissions up until the very last minute, March 31st at 11:59, to be exact! This, however, is great news for all poets out there who are interested in submitting a something. Poetry is meant to facilitate communication and tell stories about what it's like to be alive, so be sure to submit and share an echo from your life with the rest of the world. We can't wait to share your voice, the power found on your lines, and that from within your pages!

Follow Andrew on Twitter throughout the residency @MwcResidentPoet