Posts Tagged ‘writing’

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. 🙂

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.

Kiss Me and See

Posted: September 16, 2015 in Love Poems
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I am the ember

to your flower;

but I can’t stay red,

and you won’t remain evergreen.

Let’s use each other up

while time allows

our beauty to be seen.

I didn’t expect to be so scared.

I’m just going back,

but there’s so many new things in my life.

I want to explore,

and yet I’m scared of the unknown.

I want to succeed,

but I’m terrified of failure.

I’m hoping someone will be there

to lend a hand and help me through this.

Please tell me this isn’t dread, just nervousness.

The sun is shining

yet I sit inside,

daydreaming of places I’d like to go:

the beach, I used to go

all the time, but then teenage insecurity crept in;

a bike ride, I love the rush of wind

against my skin, but the way back

is uphill;

the forest, always

with such mystery,

such a quiet and mystical place

with sounds from sources unseen,

the scent of earth and trees,

but there’s danger lurking somewhere

and there are bugs that bite.

I sit inside

and think about the places I want to go,

waiting for courage or boredom

to take me there.

of when your eyes connect with another’s

and heat jumps through your body

and you want to know them,

and you want them to know you;

you want them to want

to understand

like you want to

understand

them.

9

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

would not I be- only- Alone?