Tag Archives: my poetry

Portrait of a Trembling Poet

The madness continues, and I find myself (unexpectedly) in the sweet sixteen.  I do not recall forty years ago celebrating my sweet sixteen, and am delighted to join the poetry party.Unknown

This round brought me to my knees.  I was filled with the angst and self-doubt of my sixteen year-old self.  And unlike the last two rounds, I had an unscheduled day in which to write.  As a result, I have three versions of my contest poem to share (not to mention the aborted starts of several others) and…warning…a long and self-indulgent story.

I waited up for the words to post Tuesday night, and started brainstorming immediately.  My word for the round was gnawing.  Here are my rough notes on what it inspired:

Gnawing pawing clawing thawing hem and hawing guffawing chawing
Gnawing in the pit of your stomach
Gnawing sense of unrest, unease, pain
Gnawing keeps teeth from overgrowing
Something gnawing at the door (take off on thus spoke the raven?)
POV of termite or other gnawer?  gnawing at my tail? termites, a gnawing problem?  an appetite for wood?

I seemed to be focusing on termites, until I got this crazy idea Wednesday morning:


My recent stack of poetry books from the library included these two collections of shape poems: Doodle Dandies by J. Patrick Lewis and Paul Janeczko’s A Poke in the Eye.  I especially loved the elegant, simple ones, like Lewis’ giraffe.  So I emailed Ed DeCaria, the mastermind and host of March Madness Poetry, to ask if a shape poem would pose a difficulty for posting.  He suggested that he could do a series of different length indentations, like someone taking a bite out of a poem.  Not sure he meant to suggest something, but what a simple, elegant, brilliant idea!  Did I take that gnawing gem and run with it?  No.  I still was stuck on my crazy mouse.

Screen shot 2013-03-21 at 4.53.11 PM

My mouse looked a little squished.  His head was too large.  His tail too low.  The eye a bit hidden in darkness.  The whiskers unnatural.  But I was kind of fond of the little fellow, especially his ready, steady paws.  And I’d spent hours on him, having absolutely no idea how to make a shape poem.  I sent a draft to Ed, who thought it would be challenging to format and couldn’t guarantee that the layout would translate.  I was not surprised by this news–I had suspected that this would not work.  He said he read the poem as straight text, and thought it read fine…I didn’t need little mousie.

I read it myself, without the shape, and thought it was the worst drek I’d ever written.  Panic set in.  I tried to write about porcupines, woodchucks, and a termite’s grocery list.  Nothing worked.  Finally, I returned to my mouse.  I put in some stanzas, trimmed some words.  I read it to my husband (who had patiently listened to my ranting) but he was unable to hear how truly awful it sounded.  I emailed it to Debbie Diesen, a member of my critique group who has an amazing ear for poetry.  Debbie has young boys, and I doubted she would still be online.  I was correct–I was on my own.

I rewrote, adding more rhythm and rhyme.  My computer crashed.  Twice.   I added a touch of humor near the end.  At 1:15 am I had turned my original poem into something that I no longer hated.  I thought of rereading it in the morning, but decided to send it in.  I was ready to be done.

I was about to go to the Y the next morning, but had time to check email.  Debbie had written back, saying she really liked the poem as I had sent it to her!  She gave me a few suggestions for changing emphasis with punctuation, including the brilliant idea of italicizing breathe.  She thought perhaps I should revise the last lines with a recall of the opening.  I read it again with Debbie’s suggestions.  Why had I hated it the night before?  This was clearly much stronger than the poem I had sent in.  The short phrases showed the mouse’s panic.  Why had I gotten rid of the sharpness/darkness that my husband loved? Why had I added all those extra words???  There was still another hour before the deadline.  Should I see if I could swap this version for the one I sent?

I read one version and then the next.  Over and over again.  I could not decide what to do.  Now I was 20 minutes late for my exercise date.  I decided I had probably bothered Ed enough the day before with my shape emails.  I went to the Y, and tried to stop second-guessing myself.

If you have managed to read all the way through my tale of poetry under pressure, you get to decide which you prefer.  Feel free to tell me in the comments!

Here’s the version that’s not on the March Madness site:

Portrait of a Trembling Mouse10-18-10-deermouse-img_3433

Ears atune to tiny sounds;
gnawing, clawing, underground.

Peer in darkness, sniff a sharpness.
Muscles tense, whiskers twitch.
Racing heart.  Panic pitch!

Terror spreads as weasel bounds —
Hurries, scurries, all around.
Choose a runway.  Dart and flee!
Tunnel’s empty.  Tremble.  Breathe.

Safe for now.  Underground.
Feet alert to every sound.

And to read my official entry, visit here.  It’s a match between anteroom and gnawing.

While you’re at it, enjoy the other poems on March Madness.

18923_originalPoetry Friday is at GottaBook.  Check it out!


Surfing for Inspiration

Recently I’ve participated in a couple of online poetry challenges.  On Thursdays I usually head to Laura Purdie Salas’ 15-Words or Less Poems blog.   Laura’s photos spark interesting poems, and she’s generous and encouraging with her comments.  And a fifteen-word limit is perfect for my attention span!

I’ve also enjoyed the poetry challenges on David Harrison’s blog.  David often hosts U.S Children’s Poet Laureate J. Patrick Lewis, who serves up unique forms to get the writing gears engaged.   This week’s challenge was to write Tailgaters, which our Poet Laureate described as, “a couplet, a verse form (not original with me) that begins with the first line of a well-known poem, and follows with the poet’s own nonsensical second line in the same meter.”

I have to admit that I’ve never been to a tailgate party.  I’m not a football fan (almost all the football games I’ve attended were to watch my kids’ marching band.)  But writing tailgaters was a whole ‘nother ballgame.  Here are my contributions to the party:

Playing in this week's snow inspired a couple of poems, too!

Playing in this week’s snow inspired a couple of poems, too!

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,
shake your booty on a pogo stick.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did rock ‘till midnight at the rave.

Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,
couldn’t get a date in junior high.

What are little girls made of?
sugar and spice and no birth control device.

Five little monkeys jumping on the bed,
snatched an ipad to watch cats instead.

Little Boy Blue, stop blowing your horn,
the traffic’s atrocious, our nerves are all worn.

Do you enjoy other online poetry challenges?  Share them in the comments section.  Thank you!

Head over to A Teaching Life for more Poetry Friday posts.


Let there be light!

Welcome to my brand-spanking new blog!  I plan to share poetry books that inspire me and a few poems of my own.  Perhaps I’ll also write about what’s happening in my backyard, as the natural world often worms into my writing.

This post was prompted by Heidi Mordhorst’s invitation to write a winter solstice poem for her celebration today on Poetry Friday.  I had given myself a goal of starting a blog in 2013, so I’m grateful that Heidi gave me the impetus to start early.

The dark days of winter mean Chanukah for my family.  This year the holiday was early and Chanukah has come and gone.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t light some cyber-candles and enjoy the holiday again:

Colored Candles

Frying latkes
sizzle, pop with
pungent smells that
leap and drift
menorah_for_blog  from
iron skillet,
cloud the kitchen
waft through halls and
draw us in.

In the window
colored candles
dance and flicker
flame and glow,
drive away the
frozen darkness,
keep the moonless
night at bay.

Voices join to
sing of wonder,
fingers toy with
melting wax;
drizzle-drips that
sputter-spill as
candles shrink and
spirits soar.

–Buffy Silverman, all rights reserved