 Poetry: April 17, 2019 Issue [#9497] |
This week: Hide and Seek Edited by: Fyn  
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Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.~~Robert Frost
Life makes writing poetry necessary to prove I really was paying attention.~~Mark Strand
The dance can reveal everything mysterious that is hidden in music, and it has the additional merit of being human and palpable. Dancing is poetry with arms and legs. ~~Charles Baudelaire
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests. ~~Pablo Neruda
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Spring cleaning is the worst! Why? Because I end up sorting through a ton of things that ended up in boxes, or haphazard piles all winter long. I am constantly besieged by odd juxtapositions of things that scream, "There's a poem in this mess somewhere!" Yesterday, a bill from the medical center for an eye injury from a breeze full of seeds and chaff my husband endured was next to the receipt for a new bow which both were piled on an article about 'no baiting in Michigan next year.' Yeah, there's a poem in there somewhere. A box of former favorite coffee mugs sidetracked me for way longer than the 'why did I ever put this and this in this box to begin with?' question. (They are back on the shelf necessitation others to be (at least until next time) boxed. A bit of ribbon, Christmas Magic confetti and an oddly shaped owl box got my brain going again. I finally got a notebook handy to scribble down ideas or I was never going to get anything accomplished.
Bits and pieces, the flotsam and jetsam of a life: these odd combinations scream at me to write their existence because they are tiny moments that fill my days. My daughter says I am a collector of collections. She's not wrong! But I don't only collect things; I collect moments. Not memories, necessarily, (although I collect them as well) but isolated moments of laughter, tears, frustrations, sheer silliness and times my husband adds a 'hon' instead of using my name. (A treasured rarity!)
Bubbling over giddiness when he finishes getting his bike running again after six years. The same bike he will get insured and put tags on it so that he can ride it once or twice before deciding that there are just too many crazies out on the roads. But in that moment, he is a kid on Christmas morning bursting at the seams with a zillion emotions. Or when he's playing his drums. He's a most accomplished drummer. I get a charge out of his dancing sticks, he gets geeked over nailing a difficult sequence. He plays with his eyes closed. 'Wipe Out' --with his eyes closed. Never fails to amaze me. Or when the dog 'buries' a new bone in the yard. Barely scratches the surface, pushes air over it, gets filthy none-the-less and then hunts for it for hours. Little moments that are still, part of an overall picture. Each a thread in the tapestry that is our life. That tapestry with its frayed edges, worn smooth places and others where it is so threadbare that you can poke a finger through the holes. Moments I string together into poetry and then look again and see that same tapestry pristine for a moment or three.
That first daffodil. Seeing the look on an author's face as they literally 'pet' their book cover. Listening to a litany of problems besetting one of the most well-put-together women I know as she determinedly fights off the fact she is now a 'woman of a certain age' and fights coming to grips with the fact that it is okay not to be perfect every moment. Trying to figure out how to say she is still more 'together' than many people I know who are half her age. Getting up at the same old-same old time even though it is Saturday because I don't have to get up.
There is such joy in 'odd' moments and poetry celebrates them!
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penntonic writes: That. That bit there? Originally it was just a sentence or two. Then I played with spacing, took out some 'it's' and a poem popped into being. Is it the greatest poem ever penned? No, of course not. But here's the thing: It. Doesn't. Have. To. Be! Do I like it? Yeah, actually. It expresses my thoughts. It serves its purpose.
I like this. I'm not a great poet, but (typically) I like what I write.  I've gone back to poems I wrote some time ago and think, "Hey, that's wasn't all that bad!"
🌕 HuntersMoon  says: Thank you, Fynn, for publically embarrassing me 😂 OK, I'm really not embarrassed. 🤣 No, I don't find it that hard to write structured poetry. Some folks think in rhyme. That said, I have the devil's own time with free verse. What I've discovered, however, is the golden rule of poetry: It's not the form but the content! As Robert Frost said, "Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words."
Lilli 🧿 ☕  comments: Thank you for a wonderful and timely newsletter; reminding us that poetry is subjective. There is a poet in all of us, and somewhere there's a reader that will understand our words. |
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