Posts Tagged ‘poems’

This is some advice I’ve received about writing poetry. I’m just relaying it:

  1. Concrete images trump metaphorical or abstract concepts. “Red grit bricks” trump “the voice of God,” “calloused knuckles” is better than “soul.” No one knows what a soul looks like. Concrete images are usually examined under the lens of metaphor anyway.
  2. It takes years to cultivate your voice. Try new and different things. Try traditional forms. Experiment with perspective and tone. Stay on things for a while. Try writing lists for a month, then try sonnets, and then try love poems.
  3. Write early in the day, or late at night. What you think is great in a moment may turn out to be crap later. Come back hours later and look at what you’ve written. Keep what you like. Cut what you don’t like. Don’t just try to change it. Get rid of it.
  4. Your heart is the center of your poetry. Get in touch with that, and let it pour out. You have time to rein it in later.

Happy writing. 🙂

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I’m not sure if I’m isolating myself

in my shut mouth, my closed door,

by the groups I hang out with,

in my flannel shirts, in rehearsals.

I keep thinking how nice it would be

for two arms to wrap around my waist,

pull me close to a warm chest,

a beating heart.

If I open my door,

there’s no guarantee I’ll open my mouth.

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Posted: June 25, 2015 in Poetry
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If I set my Face like Stone,

would not I be- only- Alone?

I would not choose to be a fish,

always staring with jelly-globe eyes.

True, glittering scales are one consolation,

but always the threat of being eaten,

and always (excuse my vanity) that stupid, gaping mouth.

I would not choose to be a frog,

gulping air by the barrel-full each day,

and always the threat–

if I keep my current sense of direction– of

dessication, because I leaped

far away from a blue crystal pond,

and ended up far from any body of water.

I would not choose to be a bird,

for if the human sense remains,

I would never soar too far off the ground, and

would wind up tangled in a telephone wire,

because I have to wonder if both my and a bird’s attention

spans are about the same short length…

If a minute were longer then so,

long enough to wonder

if my decisions will be transparent

or if they will last and people will know.

And long enough to wander

through the dark streets at dawn,

through the narrow streets accompanied

by a body of yellow fog,

and walk until the morning yawns into existence,

and then proceed through the halls I have come to know,

but with each step

I continue to grow, as all people do,

in that unseen way.

 

And who am I to leave something

more than ephemeral

on an otherwise simple scene, on an otherwise

simple day? Is it right

for me to ask for a bit of permanence,

to ask for more than a footprint

in the snow or in the sand?

Is it right for me to deny something grand?

Is it right for me to ask

for nothing more than the seemingly infinite warmth

in the clasp of a hand?

For, in a minute, what I announce

will be read, forgotten,

or- perhaps- renounced.

 

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Posted: November 17, 2014 in Poetry
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An Eye of Blue is like a Dream-

a Sea is that One’s Soul!

A Field Aflame in Eye of Green,

and Brown will calm or enthrall.

 

My eyes are Amalgamations,

a collision of two Souls;

three Colors combat and Glow-

My mind, it always reels.

 

written 22 October, 2014

edited 16 November, 2014

Here’s a plank to think.

A response to an oral: an assembly.

Assemble quickly,

silently, or not so.

Better to think than preach, so they say.

So they say there’s a way. Even in.

An even you don’t. You catch.

An assault of lights.

A wink. A thousand brights. Yellow globes of strobe.

Yellow burning white.

Little planets.

Comets. Of whirring and flash

there is no worry.

And so to stick to mind.

And so stick a tongue, so stick a lip;

there are worse, and there are white lights.

And there are purses, there are people.

Where there are purses, there are people.

Mind not the blinding, the light

from up.

Think aloud.

“So they say.”

You say.

And there’s applause.