1. Write a poem in which what you're trying to say is never explicitly said.
2. The poem must be coupleted (new rule) and should be at least 10 lines in length but no more than 14.
3. Reference should be made to rain and/or the moon without blatant use of their nouns.
4. The poem should be an expression of ache, of longing.
5. Use at least one colon and one semi-colon. If possible, use an "oh!" (which I failed to do below but I do see where one might be inserted). An ampersand or two couldn't hurt either.
6. Write the poem in 20 minutes or less, please. Yes, I know that puts a bit of pressure on the writer, but please, we could sit around all day tapping out bits and pieces. Sometimes, a time contraint forces the brain to compose something, anything right here, right damned NOW.
Ready? Set? Go!
Sometimes, a House is Just a House
This, you (or I) must accept: A structure constructed
of wood & glass & brick can offer shelter without
comfort. It’s a fact; the black umbrella abandoned
on the hearth will remain damp if you (or I) don’t
open it. For that matter, the fire will never ignite
without a match strike unless, of course, you (or I)
were a Boy Scout. The more weight that’s placed
upon the foot (yours or mine, ownership is beside
the point), the more the stress fracture hurts. Limping
is not the same as walking. Limping is not an option;
neither is walking. Outside, the world is black and white.
Why is it that the night always seems so much kinder?
6 comments:
Hi, Laurel linked here from Pris Campbell - enjoyed your work at melic over the years
this poem worked for me - the couplets seem to work well with this poem - the repetition in the ( ) added strength to the lines -
how goes life
tom
Thank you, Laurel (and Paul Guest, whose link I followed) -- it's been years since I wrote for fun, and this exercise surprised me.
It's coupletted, honest!
--------
Petals on the rose outside my window climbing
bounce with each regular ploink from leaking eaves
Too little light to see whether the beets have sprouted
or if the dog in the gazebo still dreams his rabbits
Nights are long, nights are long & too many. I hear
the patio umbrella swirling: I pretend to snore,
hope you’ll wake and furl it for all of us,
leave the chairs to dissipate into rust
Oh my love oh my love oh my love; one day again
my eyes I’ll open to you, one day my eyes
Tom! How lovely to see you here. I'll have to stop by your blog and say howdy. Thanks so much for commenting on my poem. Did you give the writing exercise a stab?
How goes life? It goes, Tom. It goes. (grin)
Damn, Jack, your exercise result is snappy. Snap-py. I like it alot. I love those delirious stars and that ambient smog. And oh, those blatant nouns!
And hello, Richard. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance and even more pleased that my exercise prompted a poem from you. Years? Why the silence in your writing? As with Jack's poem, I'm impressed with your resulting poem as well. Ploink is such a cool and unexpected word to find in a poem. I'm in absolute love with the second couplet. It's perfect as far as I'm concerned. And I love how the poem ends. "One day my eyes." Nice. Really damned nice.
Gosh, I'm pleased pleased pleased that my exercise prompted some poems. I think creating a writing exercise is almost as much fun as writing a poem.
nuance and chemistry
your smile sits on the edge
of catastrophe: tsunami, earthquake
monsoon. you cradle each in your
hands like a broken legged clock
begging for new gears & small tools
to set things right. how could i resist
calling you on your cell; sending the post
card overpaid; running up a tab in your defense?
you're one step & one tear & one torn dollar
bill from the rising tides and all i can do is
let the mistakes wax & give you a towel
for your soaking hair when you come home
at last; your smile sluicing like glaciers
your hands holding all the drowned reefs.
oopsy,forgot to write the inventor
of this difficult exercise...
hi laurel! colons, semicolons?
eek!
and i already am gonna change that last line ...
good poems .
I already told you how much I love your poem, sis. But hell, I say it again. Oh, those hands holding the drowned reefs. And the towel.
The towel reminds me of Bishop's poem about a lover shampooing her lover's hair. Do you know it?
THE SHAMPOO
Elizabeth Bishop
The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.
And since the heavens will attend
as long on us,
you've been, dear friend,
precipitate and pragmatical;
and look what happens. For Time is
nothing if not amenable.
The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where,
so straight, so soon?
-- Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.
Your towel line is as tender as her whole poem, I think.
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