Friday Original Poem

One thing that I love about poetry therapy is how not only am I exploring different emotions and experiences but I'm doing in way I have never done before. I'm trying to write in forms which is new for me. I've always written poetry and while I have studied forms never thought it'd be for me.But I am working on it.

After reading a gorgeous pantoum poem by Patricia Fargnoli, I thought I'd give it a try.

Here's the basic outline for how a pantoum should be written:

line A
line B
line C
line D

line B (repeated)
line E
line D (repeated)
line F

line E (repeated)
line G
line F (repeated)
line H
…
line Y
line C (repeated)
line Z
line A (repeated)

Here's is the one I wrote for my daughter:

For Violet

The kingfisher rattled and led

past sandstone crannies and crooks

past birch on a cliff

spoke in our language.

Past sandstone crannies and crooks

I pulled the blue kayak

spoke in our language

I told you all is well.

I pulled the blue kayak

You glided on clear water

I told you all is well

let the waves roll under you.

You glided on clear water

past birch on a cliff

let the waves roll under you

the kingfisher rattled and led.

Friday Original Poem

Oswald West Beach

Where I lost it all

to a sea anemone, three starfish,

two orange, one purple,

to the surfer roasting

abalone over open flames.

Sent it all

back into the sea that

salt-stained my pant cuffs,

washed me.

Collected caves,

indents in the earth

where I fit.

Vowed to the lines of petrified logs –

benches in waiting –

where I sat spreading waves

on the day’s toast.

© 2013 Regina Gort all rights reserved

Motivation for Monday

 

I'm not sure what happens to my brain in the summer. I can barely get my thoughts down in my journal with my morning tea before I am off to any number of non-writing related tasks.

And I have plenty of revisions to do, a poetry chapbook manuscript, two middle-grade novels, countless poems. I have letters that should be written and emails responded to.

But there are other pulls this time of year like the garden, the lake, the woods, sitting outside with my girls and reading books. Mushroom hunting season has begun and berry season follows behind and not long after that it will be time for canning.


So I thought I'd share a poem with you.(Even though it's really for me) Happy Monday!

Wake up. Day calls you
BY Pedro Salinas  

Wake up. Day calls you
to your life: your duty.
And to live, nothing more.
Root it out of the glum
night and the darkness
that covered your body
for which light waited
on tiptoe in the dawn.
Stand up, affirm the straight
simple will to be
a pure slender virgin.
Test your bodys metal.
cold, heat? Your blood
will tell against the snow,
or behind the window.
The colour
in your cheeks will tell.
And look at people. Rest
doing no more than adding
your perfection to another
day. Your task
is to carry your life high,
and play with it, hurl it
like a voice to the clouds
so it may retrieve the light
already gone from us.
That is your fate: to live
Do nothing.
Your work is you, nothing more.

Friday Original Poem : Guest Poet, Kathy Cannon Wiechman

Kathy Cannon Wiechman

 Juliet and I met Kathy at a Highlights Foundation workshop. Kathy is one of those writers that I wish I could be. She is dedicated, prolific and gives the best hugs. A couple years ago when I switched gears and started to focus on poetry, Kathy mentioned that her mother was a published poet. Kathy also told me that poetry wasn't for her. But this week she posted on Swagger Writers about how she had made a break through into free verse. Of course I asked to see the poem.

I am so honored and please to host her poem. Thank you, Kathy, for being brave and writing beautiful poetry.

THE BUTTERFLY

By Kathy Cannon Wiechman

The tiny butterfly,

Whose wings flap a rhythm

On the sonogram monitor,

Etches a memory

Of a heartbeat, a life.

Gender and name still unanswered

Among a lifetime of questions.

The mother’s eyes shine

With the blossoming promise,

As delicate stirrings

In the swell of her middle

Herald a future of love.

Baby boy Anthony James

Has his name etched in stone

In the Garden of Angels,

The butterfly’s wings cold and still.

His mother’s eyes swell with tears

As she places delicate blossoms,

That will wilt in the sunshine,

Wilt like the promise.

Arms aching to hold him

Fold across her empty middle,

While the air is stirred only

By her unanswered “Why?”

A little motivation for Monday

This is on the front of a card I received this past week from a dear friend. She was recently at a retreat at Boyds Mills where they have a poetry rock garden where you can assemble stones with carved words into poetry. She wrote to share a new poem she had written and to express her thanks for inspiring her to write a new novel in verse. She said that this something she would have not done if it weren't for me.

Well, I was overcome with joy and so humbled. The poem she sent was lovely and brought me back to the place where we first met. At that time I was pretty timid and unsure of my voice but with her help and encouragement along with some others in the group, I was able to be confident.

So here's my encouragement to you today: Let your voice be heard because you never know who is listening, who is being inspired, who is growing.

A to Z Challenge

For the A-Z challenge, Juliet and Regina decided to post a new and original poem every day. Today we decided to write a poem together by using an exquisite corpse. Essentially Regina wrote a line then sent a description of the line: Adjective, Noun, Verb, Adjective, Noun. Then Juliet wrote the next one not knowing what Regina wrote and so on . We decided to title the poem "Zed" meaning the letter Z. The End.


Zed

Tired hands keep writing breathing words

Pretty, slipping between the iron bars

that no longer hold back stories we have to tell

But whisper, the twisted branches have ears

Open hearts dig loam and prepare

The particles of yourself, a necessary salvage

reap a harvest, wring your hands

Bleed through until the edges burn

An end begins 

and in it all we end

Living a Writer's Life

You know one. One of those writers who confidently says, "I write every day." There are famous authors who swear that writing every day got them to the top. I've heard it at conferences, critique groups and most recently while hanging out with some friends at a pub. And if you are one of those writer's let me be the first to commend you.

But let's be real. I pledge to myself that I will write every day and I fail 98% of the time. Lately my journal is the only writing getting any action and it's not daily, no matter how I try. And it's not a lack of discipline, it's really more the choices I make.

While attending a poetry reading with Robert Haight, he said that at first he did everything to be a writer, writing every day, hanging out in coffee shops, even taking up smoking. But it wasn't until he decided that he wanted live a life of poetry instead of being a poet that he was able to write. And when I heard that I felt so inspired.

Yes, I do know that writer who writes every day. In fact, he told me that even though he may not write the best material every day, he will out work anyone. And yes, I still find myself a tad bit jealous that he has the "writer's" life. And I could stay up until 2 am or get up at 2am and start writing.

 But for now I am choosing to live. And in living I am writing poetry. It's there in the face of my little girl as I kiss her goodnight. It's even in the pile of dishes in the sink. And in the dog's dish and the icicles hanging from my husband's wetsuit as he comes in from winter surfing and in the swish of my skis and crunch of the snow.

 And I hope that when I do make the choice to write religiously again, all that life will become poetry on the page.