Motivation : Be Who You Are

Mary Oliver reads her poem Wild Geese

Motivation : The Classics

James Earl Jones performs Shakespeare

Motivation : Passion

Does poetry even matter? Is it at all revelvant in our world today?

I guess you have to then ask the bigger questions. Is art important? Is self-expression necessary?

For me poetry is passion. It is a way for me to connect in a meaningful way to myself and my surroundings. It is a way to process, to experience and to share.

If you can recite a song, can name a photograph, painting , sculpture, quote a book or phrase then you have connected to another person's passion. If you have written a letter, a wedding toast, a eulogy, made up a song to rock your baby to then you are a poet. If you have said a prayer, chanted a meditation, hummed to the whistle of the wind then the passion of poetry is inside you.

Here is Kim Rosen at TedX talking about how poetry is our first language. Enjoy, go forth and be passionate.

Motivation: Deadlines

My husband and I are set for our 2nd annual poetry reading in honor of National Poetry Month. This year we decided to read all collaborative poems. At last year's reading we shared one poem which we wrote together and it has since been accepted for publication. Maybe we are a winning combination in writing as well as marriage. The only issue for this reading being we only had one collaborative poem. The next few weeks will be a storm of writing and revising in preparation for the reading. Sometimes a deadline can be a great motivator.

A-Z 2013

We did it!  Two months ago, when I suggested daily original poetry to Regina she balked.  Yeah, Regina knows a lot more about poetry than I do.  But maybe my blind ignorance coupled with her brilliant skill wasn’t such a bad combo. 

Sometimes, like the entire sum of our youth, our confidence comes from a place of pure ignorance.  Many writers start out this way – especially writers for children because, hey, anybody can write a 350 word story for kids.  How hard could it be?

It’s hard.

Poetry is hard too.

Still, we did it!

And though I produced a few turds, there were some lovely surprises in there too.  Of the fourteen poems I wrote for the A-Z, I’ve already submitted two to three different publication and contest sources.  Maybe someone will like one.  But even if none are published, I am proud of what I produced. 

Now, Regina and I decided that we have to incorporate original poetry going forward so every other Friday, check us out.  One of us will post an original poem.

Thanks to all of you who introduced yourself and signed up to follow us.  We are thrilled to be a part of the vibrant blogging community.

A-Z Challenge

For the A-Z challenge, we decided to post a new and original poem every day.  Today, Juliet tackles the letter "Y" with a poem for her sons.

Youth

My sons barrel through the kitchen,

Presumably starving.

Their young throats ready

To gulp full tubs of peanut butter

Hot quesedillas, burned at the edges

Fresh grapes, too greedy to chew

Swallowed whole.

Both boys

Broke open wide

Hearths thumping in full view

One still burrows in our bed at night

My arm draped across his small, hot chest

The other, fifteen and fierce in his resolve to shed us

Somewhere along the way

My role settled against resigned shoulders

Observe, not direct

Stand so still

Planted feet

As youth races through

Save a white pillow between our heads

Where the night fears can't find perfect, growing boys

Buy new shirts to fit their expanding shoulders.

Protect them,

When they allow it

And fill the cupboards with peanut butter.

I love you, I love you

I love you

NaPoWriMo

We get Sundays off from the A-Z Challenge, but not so for NaPoWriMo. Juliet writes today's poem.

Clowning Around

This is going to hurt.

In sidelong smiles, deceptive nods of agreement

Confusion will settle itself into your bones

Rattle at your neck

I’m sorry to say it but you simply aren’t smart enough to figure this out

You will think the best, or try to

You will dance in a small room, swaying with a liar

Only hearing the pretty music

Not the rumble underneath

In other places

You are an abstraction

As they sit at a restaurant, excited hands held under the table

In a wood, sneaking hungry kisses

On the school playground

Saying what she really means

To someone you never talk to

So you won’t guess

In a baseball field

Where your mother-in-law

Makes you nervous

And its time to nurse the baby

Or in the black of a theater

Because the niggling unease

Sent you seeking the feeling of

Disappear

Remember your mother?

All those times with the bathroom door closed

Otherworldly howls rising up as you secreted

Pints of honey vanilla in your room

Didn’t you learn from the train whistle she blew?

But you, you run laughing into the arms of dissemblers

Charm wins you over

Every damn time

I really wish you weren’t so human

Because,

When it finally comes

A punch in your throat

No air, no air

I warned you this would hurt

They make clowns of themselves, yes

But they make a fool of you too

©2013 Juliet Bond all rights reserved

NaPoWriMo

We get Sundays off from the A-Z Challenge, but not so for NaPoWriMo. Regina gets honest in today's poem.

The Guilt of Honesty

Looking over a cliff

and if I don't take the first step

I will fall

or be pushed by circumstance

into the jagged rocks below.

 But if I jump

calculate my velocity,

I will hit

the cool water

below,

where I can swim

uninhibited,

free.

Maybe even bask on a rock

cleansing in sun and water,

before I climb

back up the cliff face

inch by inch.

And onto the path

that Leads

Home.

A to Z Challenge

For the A-Z challenge, we decided to post a new and original poem every day (yipes!)  Today, Regina tackles the letter "B" with a poem about her body. What does your body call for?



All My Body Calls
dedicated to David Whyte


All my body calls for
water rushing between rocks,
the small of wet moss that sits like
a guardian.

All my body calls for
nakedness in Lake Superior
beneath a full moon where a
beach fire waits for me.

All my body calls for
thimbleberry picking in
late August.

All my body calls for in this life
is to find wholeness in nature,
to find sanctuary beneath the
chapel dome of pine.

To find substance in a mouthful
of sea air and wing beats in Redwoods,
my feet dug into the dirt,
all my body calls.

Anticipation

April is almost here and I start to salivate for all things poetry. To say that I love poetry would be an understatement and celebrating poetry for a month with others is better than Christmas for me. Here is a poem that I go back to every year at this time to wet my appetite.


Eating Poetry
Mark Strand


Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.