Introduction

Unlike the Basic Poetry Tutorial, this one is not being taken from a book as much as from my own experience as a poet and things I have learned from other poets I have personally interacted with. I have categorized the types of inspiration sources by what I call them - so don’t be surprised that when you talk about a “poetic snapshot” to someone who hasn’t had this course, if they have no idea what you are talking about. I’m sure that someone, somewhere, has created “official” terms for these things, I just like my terms better.

The most common type of inspiration, the spontaneous, I will not discuss here since the main purpose of this class is to give you a direction when you have no idea of what to write about. Just remember that some of the best poems are a mixture of spontaneous and directed inspiration, which will feed each other.

If you haven’t taken the Basic Poetry Tutorial already, I strongly suggest you do. What is the point of telling what you can paint, if you only have one paintbrush?

Event Description

Probably the first source of inspiration to be developed, describing an event in poetic form was the way much news was passed on by ancient cultures. Likewise, describing a defining moment of our own lives can create not only poems that speak to other people, but help us to understand ourselves.

The easiest events to visualize are usually those that have had a profound effect on us. They can also be the scariest ones to write. It is a good idea to start these poems by writing things down as prose and then ask yourself what about this event you wish to stress. You need to narrow your focus or you will diffuse the effect of your poem. Go back over what you wrote and remove those parts that aren’t a part of your focus. Then rewrite the piece to smooth it out. There is a very good chance that by this time you have created a fine piece of poetic prose that only needs to be fine-tuned by some of the other techniques I will cover in this class. It is up to you then whether or not you wish to make it more poem-like.

I did this when my father drove me past the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial for the first time. I decided to focus on the conflicting images and feelings I experienced - and to leave it as a piece of poetic prose. After the events of September 11, 2001, I hesitated to put it in this lesson, but it is probably the best piece of poetic prose I have and I don’t want you to restrict yourselves to pure poetry forms in your poetic expression.

A Building Should Be Here

==========================

"Have you driven by the bombing memorial yet?"

It was a casually spoken question. The late morning sun shone brilliantly upon us as we traveled with the Sunday traffic. New to this city, I had still to familiarize myself with its landmarks.

"No, I haven't had a chance to yet."

"Do you want to drive by it now? There shouldn't be as many people visiting it this morning."

We drive down streets I had been on only a few days earlier - not realizing until that moment that I had actually seen it in the distance. The gleaming buildings downtown call for my attention as I ignore the deserted ones around me.

"Most of these building are too damaged to use," he says. "That's why no one's using them."

With reluctance, I look forward at the square black wall. There are people walking in and out, wearing casual clothing.

"It's always busy," my father tells me. "People come from all over to see it - foreigners too."

I have seen memorials before. Walked their sacred grounds. Pondered the lives of those who died. Sometimes, when in the midst of my thoughts, I cried for them and their loved ones. Driving past them, however, only evoked curiosity.

Usually...

How does one comprehend the incomprehendable? As we came closer, my mind split into layers, each registering a different aspect.

A building should be here.

I don't even read the words over the entrance. My eyes are drawn to the solemn dark stone - the chain-linked fence against it - the bright flowers, ribbons and flags - the photos and stuffed animals – the casually dressed people in reverent movement. Noticing on one level the clash between them all - realizing on another level the harmony between them. The functionality - a more fitting memorial than any other I had seen before.

We turn down a street a block away and I desperately seek out its ornate stonework for equilibrium. Even though my mind shies away from the victims, I feel the tears in my eyes as I fight the tension in my chest. We turn again to see the other side.

A building should be here.

My father tells me how he walked across these streets, when they were still covered in glass, with my mother and some people from church. I can see the reflecting pool now and the green lawn.

"They had to rope off the chairs," my father informs me. "The grass was being killed by all the people walking around them."

The chairs shine coppery in their geometric testament. Part of the parking garage is all that is left of the original structure.

A building should be here.

On the side, I see "Federal Building". I turn as we go past to read the words "Alfred P. Murrah". My father is telling me that there are actually several buildings between here and the building he use to work at. There is no emotion in his voice – just matter-of-fact casual conversation. I look at the bright silver tower to my right, knowing that all the glass in it was new.

We turn down Main. On the other side of Broadway is a black tower.

"Yep, there is where I was when it happened. Up on the fourth floor."

There is no mention of grabbing his desk. No comment about the confusion. Not a word about the cuts he got when he brushed away the glass from his vehicle to go home. He continues to point out the places he used to have lunch at, the new canal, the Brick Town Sector. No further reference to that April day is made as we go back home.

I do my best to mirror his calm, knowing very well that someday I will have to walk those grounds and consider those who died there. Knowing that when I do, I will be overwhelmed by the emotions I hid from now. I must come to terms with the facts.

A building is no longer there...

I did a few things when writing this piece to give it more of an impact. They are things I learned from a linguistic expert about charismatic speechmaking. First, I picked a summarizing statement and repeated it three times in the poem and ended the whole piece with a modified version of it to tie the whole piece together and anchor it in my reader’s mind.

There are also three areas of the piece where I have also repeated phrase structures three times in a row.

Walked their sacred grounds. Pondered the lives of those who died. …. cried for them and their loved ones.

… no mention of grabbing his desk. No comment about the confusion. Not a word about the cuts…

… the places he used to have lunch at, the new canal, the Brick Town Sector.

For whatever reasons you wish to subscribe to, there is no denying that sets of three appeal to the human psyche. I wouldn’t go out of my way to introduce sets of three, because too much of anything can ruin a piece. But if you have an area of your writing that seems weak, introducing a triadic pattern of some type can make all the difference.

As I hinted to earlier, you can write about other – less traumatic – events. Though easier on the emotions, these can be more of a challenge because it’s harder to pick out a focus for them.

One such event was something my son did when he was four. He loved it when Mommy read to him, even more so when she actually made up a story for bedtime. He also knew that Mommy was working on a very special story – one that she had been working on for half of his life – and he really wanted to hear that special story. I tried to explain to him that he was too young to understand the story, but that when he was older, I would let him read it. Finally, I told him that it was just too long for Mommy to read out loud to him. That solved the problem.

Or so I thought. Then one day I had printed out a section of my practice novel to proof read it. I left the papers next to the computer and went to make breakfast. Later that afternoon, my son walked up to me with a half sheet of paper and a bright smile on his face. “Here, Mommy!” he said, “read this to me! I cut it for you.”

I sat there in shock as I realized he handed me a part of my novel. Sputtering, I said, “That’s nice, sweetheart, but why did you cut it?”

“You said it was too long to read,” he explained, looking very worried. “Now, it isn’t. You’re not mad, are you?”

“No,” I told him. I quickly scanned the section and realized that without the rest of the story, not even an adult would have a clue what was going on in it, but I went ahead and read it to him. When I finished, my son had a very blank look on his face. Then he took a deep breath and in an encouraging, mature tone, he said quite firmly, “You did a very good job, Mommy. You keep writing and I’m sure you’ll be really good at it someday.”

Three years later, I wrote the following poem for him to share with his class. He didn’t. He realized it was about him and decided that maybe taking Mom’s poems to school wasn’t as great of an idea as he thought in the first place.

Mommy Likes to Write

=====================

My mommy likes to write.
She does it day and night.
She tells stories to our computer.
And prints them out on white paper.

I asked her one day,
What one of her stories did say.
She said that I was too young
To read stories which were so long.

So, I cut in half one of her papers,
And walking proudly, handed it to her.
Mommy's eyes went wide with surprise,
But she only asked me, "Why?"

"I didn't mean to do something wrong,
But you said your stories were too long.
But this one isn't, you see.
Could you please read it to me?"

She sighed and went ahead
To tell me what that paper said.
I didn't have the heart to tell her -
Dr. Suess writes a whole lot better.

Obviously, I left a lot of details out of the poem. As entertaining as my narrative might be, for the poem I had to condense things to get to my point and focus on my son’s disappoint in my story-telling skills. At times, sticking to a poetry form can help by forcing you to leave out extraneous information. By sticking to my overall iambic meter and A-A-B-B rhyming scheme, it was easier to convince myself to leave certain things out, allowing me to write a less cluttered version of the event.

Assignment: Choose an event from your life (it does not have to be traumatic) and write about it in either a poem or poetic prose form, identifying your piece’s focus.

Sensory Exploration

Something that is very fun to do is to describe the physical sensations one experiences in a given situation. Basically what I do is think “Now what would I be sensing if I was…” and go from there. I usually do these at work when I am wishing I could be somewhere else.

Sun Song

==============

Warm sand under my feet
Caressing them as I walk
Along the beach--blank as a page
A few pieces of driftwood and shells
Break up its placid smoothness

Gently the waves wash in and out
Removing the marks of those
Who dare this pilgrimage
I sit just out of their reach
Hypnotized by their rhythm

The sun beats upon my shoulders
Forcing muscles to relax
Burning out the daggers in my back
Nothing outside of this beach exists
My mind is as empty as the sky above me
A hunger makes itself known inside me
A hunger to be physically alive
To live in this body
Instead of ignoring its presence

I lay on my back
Nature communes with me
Reminding me that just being
Is cause for celebration
Grateful, I accept this lesson

Some of you may have noticed that I snuck in another triad in the third stanza. Actually, I overlapped two. First, I had the Sun acting on me in three ways. Then I have three consecutive phrases starting with '-ing' words.

In the last stanza, I tightened things up by omitting the word 'as' from the beginning of the second line. Some poets like to eliminate almost all prepositions and articles like 'the' and 'a'. I personally feel that it should be done with restraint, not automatically - unless your main goal is to impress other poets. Normal people don't like reading things where everything is stressed and I prefer to let them have some resting spots. However, if a part of your piece lacks the punch you want it to have, then removing the prepositions and/or articles would be a possible way to get your readers attention.

Sometimes I write about my current sensory input when I am not feeling well and I am having a hard time thinking beyond my physical discomfort. The following poem was written when I had a nasty summer cold and could hear the insects outside.

Fever Dreams

===================

The summer air sticks to me,
As the locusts scream,
From trees thick with leaves,
Inspiring feverish dreams.

My vision of reality fades,
And I see hot, white sand,
Through a distorted maze,
I shade my eyes with a hand.

As I walk through the heat,
My body burns itself clean,
Turning me into a bare sheet-
A pure living being.

Soon, movement seems unreal.
I stare at the royal blue sky,
Wondering at this thing I feel,
Burning into my soul's eye.

I melt onto the scorching plain,
Spreading myself thin in the heat,
And visions, wild and strange,
Open their arms as consciousness retreats.

I awake, no longer a being of air and fire,
But once more in my body of water and earth.
Yet, to recall those rare visions, I desire-
For I sensed something I'd forgotten in birth.

Obviously, I was running a fever at the time. After three decades of writing poetry, I tend to automatically produce rhyming quatrains when I am not mentally coherent. (When I am really out of it, I produce rhyming quatrains loaded with alliteration. It is absolutely scary.)

When I am in more control of my mental facilities, I find rhymes by just writing a phrase I like and then finding something that rhymes with the last word and writing a phrase around that, which fits the rest of the piece. Sometimes I have to rewrite the first phrase to give myself a better rhyme.

The way I actually find rhymes is almost ridiculous. Take the phrase –“Let morning rise, our work is done.” Now what I usually do (if a rhyme does not present itself immediately) is go over the keyboard and come up with words for each letter using the ending sound of my ending word. Quentin Tarrentino might not be able to write poetry on a computer, but I do it all the time. Anyway, here would be my list:

Q - nothing comes to mind

W – won

E – eon

R – Ron or the assonance (i.e. not a true rhyme but close) run

T – ton or town

Y – yon or yawn

U – upon

I – ion

O – on

P – pond

A – anon

S – sun, son

D – original word to be rhymed

F – fun, fond, found

G – gone, gun

H – hone (not really good enough), hound

J – Jon, John

K – (I’m coming up with ‘c’ words)

L – lawn

Z – nothing comes to mind

X – usually skip

C – con, icon, come

V – Avon, Devon, seven

B – bond

N – non

M - demon

Now, if you took Poetry I, you would noticed that I included assonance words in addition to true rhymes. Sometimes, if I really want to use my original phrase, I will then go ahead and go through the keyboard again finding rhymes to the assonance ones. You must exercise some sense and restraint. The vowel sound in ‘hone’ doesn’t really sound close enough to ‘done’ for me to use, but hound is close enough to satisfy my ear.

However, I think I will use ‘come’ for my little couplet.

Let morning rise, our work is done.

We disappear before the tourists come.

You, of course, might prefer to use an online rhyme finder.

Assignment: Write a poem describing physical sensations. (Keep it appropriate for young readers.)

Metaphor Expansion

A metaphor is a figurative comparison between to things that does not include the words ‘like’ or ‘as’. If those words are being used, then you have a simile. When I do a metaphor expansion, I basically substitute the metaphor for the original thing and go with it. For instance, in the following poem I compare skyscrapers to mythological giants.

Dallas

=========

I like my giants

Standing tall and straight

Embracing the sun

With photonic laughter

They are a friendly sort

They do not try to overwhelm us little people

They stand apart

Giving us room to drive around them

So we can admire their stone and glass

Reflecting their neighbors

Without a hint of envy

The older ones downtown huddle

In noble conference

Benevolently overseeing

The sunlight embracing them

I wish them good morning

My friendly giants

And greet the sun

That loves us all

In the next poem, I actually have two metaphors. One is based on the euphuism of calling freckles ‘sun kisses’ and the other is comparing my skin to a painter’s canvas.

"Sun Kisses"

============================

Sun kisses scattered

Here and there.

Gold and brown speckles

Upon skin ivory fair.

Gentle little kisses

That are never felt -

Only leaving signs

Where sunbeams have dwelt.

Does the sun take offense

When from him I hide?

Does he feel rejected

When I stay inside?

Does he see me as a child

To be bathed with affection?

Or am I a lover

To be won over by attention?

Perhaps my shyness

Intrigues him

And he courts me -

My mysteries to win.

My skin, an ivory canvas,

He speckles brown and gold.

His reason a secret

I will never know.

I use anthropomorphism (giving human attributes to nonhuman things) a great deal. It creates more of a connection between the reader and the elements of my poems.

Assignment: Write one poem based on a metaphor.

Vanity Poems

A great way to make friends and influence people is to write vanity poems or poems about a person. In general, these poems are only considered wonderful by the subjects and the people close to them. It takes a great deal of restraint to write one that doesn’t sound too sappy or corny, but it’s a great challenge. Luckily, even if you end up writing something you would rather not claim authorship of, chances are your subject will still be thrilled with it. Personally, I do my best to forget most of the vanity poems I write, but a few actually are good enough to be shared with humanity in general

I write two types of vanity poems. The first is what I call a “trait highlight” poem. This is where you pick one of the subjects more endearing traits and write about it. In the next poem, I write about a friend who used to email me the most beautiful things when I was down.

Quiet Flower

(for Chanda )

A quiet flower partially hidden amongst the riot of life.
Whose sweet scent finds me despite the

decaying odor of my dreams.
A seeker of sweetness and beauty who shares her

treasures -
Bringing my soul much needed nourishment.
Such quiet beauty needs no adornment
For there is little that can improve it.

It can be very difficult to write one of these if you don’t know much about a person. Not long after I made the acquaintance of one woman, she asked me to write her a poem. All I knew about her at the time was that she had cerebral palsy, an abusive family and was suffering a great deal from her lack of contact with the rest of society. Still, I knew she really needed something to validate her existence, so I punted. I wrote about her potential traits, in the hopes that it would inspire her. We became good friends after that.

A Poem for Lisa

===================

A brilliant soul encased in a tabernacle of clay.
Its radiance shining through the imperfect outer cover.
Some people see only the clay vessel,
But I see the light contained therein.
And I know that such illumination
Can only come from a beautiful heart.

There other type of vanity poem I write is the “persona caricature” and it’s even harder to come up with one of them suitable for the general public. Basically you are doing a written exaggeration of someone’s pretend self, or persona. A successful caricature usually only makes sense to the people who interact with the persona. That’s because the most enjoyable persona poems are laden with inside jokes and allusions. They should be humorous, but you must make sure not to write anything in a negative way. The trick is to see the persona as the person playing it sees it – not necessarily how everyone else sees them. Persona caricatures are extremely tricky to write well, but can give a great deal of enjoyment and when I write one, I usually get a dozen requests to write more. It’s a good idea only to do these for a small group that you know well.

As I said earlier, I don’t keep many of these, so I had to write one especially for this lesson. For the sake of peace and harmony, I did one about one of my own online personas – Professor Mysteria Paracelsus.

Mama Slyth

===============

Roaming the dungeons with a twinkle in her eye,

The old Wood Dragon dotes on her little snakes.

Cunning and subtle is she and quick on the reply,

Holding back nothing when something important is at stake.

She’s not afraid of fire -

Impervious to ice.

She’ll pin you to the wall with venom

And then do something nice.

For her ambition is not for her alone,

Like the Paracelsus of old,

Her goals are farther reaching.

Scoffing at the rest of the world.

But she does adore her little serpents

And prepares them for future success.

Short-term losses mean nothing.

The long-term achievements are the best.

One side note about persona caricature poems – you might as well make them rhyme. Rhyming persona poems usually delight people more because it makes them feel special knowing you care enough to go the extra effort of making it rhyme.

Assignment: write a vanity poem about someone or one of your own alter egos.

Mood Analogies

When I do a mood analogy, I use one situation to illustrate the mood one might feel in another. I often use metaphors in them too. First, I pick an emotion and a situation that would generate it. Then I pick another situation that would create the same feeling and compare the two.

The first poem compares the abandonment of being betrayed by a friend with that of a homeless pet. I imply myself as the subject, but I actually wrote it for someone else to show her that I understood what she was going through.

The Stray

============

Words are not enough

To heal the frost-bitten

Abandoned stray

Looking sadly at warm windows

Encouraging smile

A moment of attention

Sweet words

A feast for the lonely heart

The window stays close

Curtains then pulled across

The patient tail wags

Waiting for hope

Until it is obvious

The glimpse of affection

Was only a mirage

Of magnanimous fraudulence

Returned to the wooden crate

Alone and cold

Rejected and self-despised

Still a sliver of hope remains

But the world is painfully cold

With resignation

The crate's lid shuts

To protect the tender heart

A glimpse through the crack

A reflection off the window

No warm illusion

But a harsh truth

The stray is me

The second poem explores loneliness by comparing being different to a candle in dark place.

I am a Candle

==============

I am a candle

I was meant to stand alone

To light an area of darkness

No one wants to be in

Alone I stand

Brightly burning

To keep the tendrils of despair

From capturing me

But my flame is too hot

My illumination is too bright

For me to have a companion

Beside me in this lonely spot

The moths

They come

Fascinated by my brilliance

I love to hear their songs

They flutter so gaily around me

Telling me how pretty my flame is

How warm

How bright

But when they come closer

The warmth becomes searing

The brightness blinding

And they retreat

Singed by the very thing that attracted them.

I cry tears of hot wax

As they fly away

I cannot burn less brightly

Without going out

And they cannot come close

Without meeting their death

Our friendship

Only possible at a distance

Someday I will accept this

And be happy for those brief moments

For I am a candle

I was meant to stand alone

Ending a poem the way you start it can give it a sense of completeness or definition. It’s like saying, “This is it”. It can also give the impression of a continuous cycle, especially when writing a pantoum.

Assignment: writing a mood analogy.

Focal Point

A focal point is a good start for a poem. Focal points can be almost anything. A fun trick is to look around you and pick an object and write whatever inspiration comes up with. I sometimes do this when I am bored. As I was when I wrote this piece.

Catseye

========

Captured swirl

Sparkle of light

Colored curl

Luminous sight

Kaleidoscope spheres

Inelastic collisions

Speaking tears

Of random visions

Velvet paws

Scattered glass

Mental pause

Times long past

Twitching tail

Questions deep

Ask for details

I cannot keep

In some ways, this poem is like a diamante – a diamond shape poem that goes from one concept at the top and then slowly changes to a different concept at the bottom. I go from the marble to the actual eye of a cat. It wouldn’t take much for me to regroup the phrases to make it a true diamante, but I like the form the way it is. The only thing that irks me about this poem is its obscurity factor, but some readers want poems they can put their own meanings to.

You can use something abstract as a focal point too. I have this thing for writing poems about math and science. I don’t do many, but I do enjoy doing them.

Spirals

============

A spiral is continuous
Ever circling
Never touching
Appearing the same - yet different

Forward onward it searches
Ever looking
Never seeing
The actual progress it makes

Something I have always wondered
Ever thinking
Never speaking
Is it seeking inwards or out?

Actually, I should berate myself for the obscurity factor on this poem too, but it’s so much fun when I show this poem to someone who actually understands the mathematical representation of a spiral line. It’s like a test for math geeks.

Some things are so charged with meaning, that they demand attention. This third poem is about a photograph that I could not ignore.

AT THIS DESK

==============

There is a picture at this desk

A picture of two people starting life together

Tenderly held by two pushpins

Probably rescued from a scrapbook

Or so I guess

The picture is not mine

Nor is the desk

I'm just helping out

There are other pictures too

Hinting at a history of affection

Beautiful smiles

Joyful days

Children and friends

But that one picture hits the hardest

I know those two people

Will soon be separated

And I am only here

To allow them those last days together

Assignment: Pick a focal point and write a poem about it.

Contrast Comparison

Taking contrasting things and comparing them creates a lot of drama in a poem, especially if there is an attempt to create a union between the two. The next poem compares two opposing personalities.

The Rain Goddess

==================

Wrapped in robes of dark gray mist,

Which hugs her form like a lover,

Her pearl white face and neck

Glows softly in the flash of sheet lightning.

She is the Rain Goddess.

Queen of the Storms.

Giver of Moisture.

Sustainer of Life.

Her realm has no landmarks.

No signs, no trails,

Save those she opens

With a mere application of will.

She walks the storm clouds.

Molding them.

Caressing them.

Dispatching them to do her bidding.

She climbs stairways,

Of swirling vapor,

To survey her domain

And check for intruders.

Annoyance enters her calm face.

He has done it again.

The Sun God has dared to mark her clouds

With his golden scars.

She storms down her billowy tower,

Lightning cracking in her wake,

To confront the brash being,

Who insists on taunting her.

He sits there on his golden chair,

A half-smile to greet her ire,

And shoots a brilliant ray

For her to cross upon.

She ignores the proffered path

And creates her own

Of blinding white

Jagged energy.

"Why," she demands,

"Do you insist on irking me?

Are there not others

You could annoy?"

He closes his eyes and sighs,

"You know that answer, my stormy one,

Must you begrudge me

The simple pleasure of seeing you?"

The Rain Goddess bites back a tear.

"I cannot change what I am.

The world needs me to be

This being before you."

"And," she continues softly,

"You must be the one who burns bright

And bathes the world in warmth and light.

We cannot leave our realms."

The Sun God walks to her,

Stopping a few yards away.

Close enough to see the gray of her eyes,

But far enough that their powers do not conflict.

"And when the world has no need of us?

When it has finished its purpose

And can live without us?

What then, my stormy one?"

She stands there, face again calm and says,

"When life can exist without us

And the world had reach it perfection,

Then we can be together."

"But until then," she continues,

"You must leave my realm.

For the sight of you

Is too painful to endure."

"I cannot promise that," he says.

"For the sight of you

Is what gives me hope.

Cannot you not find some compromise?"

She surrounds herself as she turns away

In a sheet of rain.

He reaches forth with a shaft of light

To dispel the barrier.

The barrier holds,

But the Goddess does not move.

Mesmerized by the colors

That have enveloped her.

"See?" he says softly.

"We can work together.

How can you hide from me

When together we created this?"

"This," she points out,

"Is only a fleeting thing.

You know what would happen

If we stayed together."

"Still, isn't this beauty

Worth the agony of not touching?

Could we not grant this world

A small token of our love?"

She closes her eyes and hangs her head.

"I suppose that I could bear the pain

Once in a while, to give

My children below something to treasure."

The Sun God beams brighter

And with a bow and blown kiss,

Leaves the misty realm

Of his beloved Rain Goddess.

She instead becomes darker,

As she walks back to her billowy tower.

And with her soul filled with agony,

Cries.

The yin-yang symbolism of this piece came of its own accord. Symbolism in poetry can give pieces levels of meaning, making them more intriguing. A good poet is often well read. I know a country poet who sneaks all sorts of classical symbolism into his pieces. It’s great, because he lures us into this simple, down-to-earth world and then catches us off-guard with a literary allusion, creating the most vivid mental images – like Thor on a Harley, zooming down a dusty road. I can’t remember the rest of the poem, but I’ll never forget that image he painted in my mind.

The next poem is not about personalities, but opposing desires working together. It actually achieves the balance that the contrasting elements in the previous poem could not.

Channeled Passion

===================

Deep within me is a fire I cannot explain

With the structured lattice of my mind

Yet I know its power is there for a reason

And that when I try to suppress it

I can feel my mind destroying itself

But I cannot let it loose unchecked

For then it destroys my will

And I accomplish nothing

But without it, my body is too weak

The stress of years has robbed

My physical form of its natural strength

This fire within me is strong

It drives me when I an weak

It illuminates the visions

Carefully constructed by my mind

And says I can become much more

Than what others believe of me

My mind tells me that if I let it

It can focus this energy within me

That I should trust it

For it needs the fuel of my passion

To accomplish my goals

"But," I cry, "they say that this is too risky

Wouldn't it make more sense to do

What works for everyone else?"

No, my reason tells me

You have given thought to these goals

They have not

You have done the research

You have honed the skills

They have only given you doubts

Look at them

Do you really want to be like them?

Could you really be content

Following the path of mediocrity and disdain?

Don't let your fears

And their envy stop you

The fire is the for a reason

It cannot be ignored

Nor can it be turned off

Without it you cannot survive

You have used too much energy

To quiet the insecurities of others

Reason alone will no longer work

It lacks the fuel

Channel your passion

Before it explodes

Or you disintegrate

From the near-sightedness of others

Sometimes comparisons show up on their own. I wrote this third piece because the poetry club I belonged to had a monthly challenge to write a poem about a certain subject. The subject for that month was ‘eggshells and/or rebirth’. I did not plan to deal with the rebirth aspect, much less to compare the different types of eggs, but the analogies were too strong to ignore.

Ego Shells

==============

Driven to the point of madness.
The ego can be such a fragile thing.
This thin shell which encases my mind,
Threatening to crack under the stresses
Of other egos more fragile.

I wonder,
As I watch them attack those around them
And lash out at the well-meant comment,
If they really believe that breaking
The shells of others will make their own stronger?

Do they try to pick up those shattered pieces
And paste them on their own ego shells?
Thicker the shell may then be,
But not stronger.
For the winds of insecurity
Whip through those cracks
Making the original shell even weaker.

And they change into a creature -
Insensitive to the feelings of others,
While supersensitive to any remark
Directed to them.

Still they scurry frantically
To paste on more stolen shell fragments
And more brittle becomes their ego shell.

Birds have thicker egg shells than reptiles.
Yet reptile shells are more flexible.
Does one really need to be protected by brittleness?

Perhaps not.
For humans are not born from brittle egg shells,
Nor are they born from leather ones--
They are born from a membrane much more flexible.

Then let birds have their brittle shells.
Let the reptiles have their leathery ones.
Let my ego shell be more flexible.
Let me follow the path of my nature
And be happy with my choice.

And if my ego shell finally goes away,
Then let me be born a true person--
In whom is reflected
The image of God.

Assignment: Write a poem with contrasting comparisons.

Viewpoint Shift

In “My Mommy Likes to Write” I write the poem from the view of my son, instead of my own. This shift of viewpoint challenges the poet to think outside of his or her own perceptions. Just as challenging is to write about a well-known story from another character’s point of view.

Cyrano

=======

You never noticed me,

Working in my father's tavern,

But I use to pause

And listen to you speak

Poems exquisite and fair,

Imagining you meant them for me.

How I would despise Roxanne

For not seeing the beauty behind your nose.

How could she be so shallow and blind

Not to see that Christian's words

Were actually spawned from your mind?

But she was a lady

And I was not.

She had golden curls.

And I, a brownish mop.

Her skin was fine cream.

Mine was custard with spice.

People called her beautiful.

I was just someone nice.

Brushing my hair in front of my mirror,

I often asked it why -

Why couldn't she see the wonderful soul

That dwelt deep inside?

Then my father laid his hand on my shoulder,

His eyes meet mine and smiled,

"I never thought there could be anyone

As beautiful as your mother, my child,

But now I see that I was wrong.

A young man is sure to win

Your gentle heart before long."

A terrible thought entered my soul

As Father walked away -

Could you, my shining hero,

Also have feet of clay?

You bemoan your physical appearance,

But did you ever once tried

To see beyond the outward beauty

And take a look deep inside?

Could it be that you have judged others

In the same way they have judged you?

Did it ever occur to you

To look at people from a different point of view?

And what of me,

The foolish maid,

Do I also bear this guilt?

Have I cherished an illusion?

Was my admiration fantasy built?

Have I ignored the truth

Because I loved the music of your words?

Did I turn a deaf ear

To others who deserved to be heard?

Taking my shopping basket,

I walked through the marketplace.

This time I made an effort

To see beyond the face.

Did you know the baker's laughter

Makes Thor's thunder sound petite?

That the seamstress on the corner

Smiles at everyone she meets?

And the gaunt cobbler leaves out food

For the street urchins to eat?

The butcher sings his songs

So his bedridden mother can hear

His charming baritone

And know her family is near.

One more thing I found,

When I opened my eyes to see -

While I had been admiring your poems

One of your guards was admiring me.

So, while you mourn pitifully

Your self-inflicted state,

Feeling noble in your misery,

I will no longer with envy regret

What I do not have in this short life -

For after all has been said and done,

It's really a matter of one's own insight.

I wasn’t planning to write a rhyming poem when I started this piece, but alas, I was again running a fever when I wrote this and finally the rhymes became too hard to fight against. I think the whole piece works well despite the various rhyming patterns within it.

Another viewpoint shift is the “what if” approach. What if Santa came to visit the dorm dungeons of Hogwarts Online’s Slytherins? Well, you might get the following parody.

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas – Slytherin Style

=============================================

‘Twas the night before Christmas
When all through the dorms
Not a creature was stirring
Especially the flobberworms

The Slytherins were all tuck
Snuggly in their canopied beds
As visions of glory and power
Danced in their heads

The professors closed the cages
And secured all the doors
To ensure that none of their pets
Had student de jour

When from the dungeons
There arose such a clatter
The professors bolted from their rooms
To see what was the matter

And what to their wondering eyes did appear
A guy in a red suit and several reindeer

"Was there something wrong with the door?"
Professor Paracelsus asked with a scowl.
"Or do you always enter buildings
Like a burglar on prowl?"

"My dear woman," the old man said.
"It isn't often I come to this dark hole.
I stopped a long time ago handing out coal."

"It's the Coal Fairy!" exclaimed Professor Acadius.
"Oh, how well I remember the warmth that he gave us."

"He's called 'Santa Claus'," corrected Professor Razorwire.
"And I also remember those nice winter fires."

Professor Cordelia Callidus shook her head.
"You still haven't told us why you're here," she said.

"I was checking my list and then checked it twice,
When I found there was Slytherin who was actually nice."

"Excuse me!" interrupted Professor Nitehawk.
"We Slytherins are the epitome
Of grace and style.
I seriously doubt you have met any
As civilized as us in awhile."

"But you usually do it for personal gain,"
Santa tried valiantly to explain.
"My gifts are for good children,
Not those who want fortune and fame."

"You give gifts to only those
Who fit your idea of right?"
Asked Professor Mortinus,
As he stepped into the light.
"Excuse me for being a little naive,
But isn't that a form of bribery?"

"I prefer to see it as encouragement,"
Santa said, wiping his brow wearily.
"That's interesting," said Professor Saxton,
With a wink, "Because so do we."

"So which student is it?"
Paracelsus asked with a sigh.
"Which child decided
To take the moral ground high?"

"Well, the Slytherin isn't human,"
The professors were told.
"I came to give a gift to Malumbrabas,
Your house Lethifold."

The Slytherin professors stared
At each other in disbelief.
Unsure if they should feel
Amusement or relief.

Then Professor Razorwire coughed nervously
And said, "You really shouldn't have tried.
Because while we were talking,
One of your reindeer have died.
Malumbrabas wasn't full from his Christmas Eve meal
And chose to have some venison to chase down the veal."

Santa's eyes went wide with shock.
He looked very pale.
Then he and the other reindeer
Disappeared in a gale.

Professor Paracelsus said,
As the old man blinked out of sight,
"Serves him right for trespassing.
Now let's have a good night."

Assignment: Write a poem from an uncommon point of view.

Poetic Snapshots

“Poetic snapshots” are what I call the poems that most of my fellow serious poets seem to love. They are almost all imagery and I really don’t find them that challenging, but I guess I can’t argue with their appeal. In this busy world, people like to be able to stop and recapture a moment of innocence. I use to write these poems during lunch. On average, it takes me 15 minutes to write one. I can only blame the experience I’ve had writing other types of poetry. It will probably take you longer until you get use to thinking in literary comparisons.

My recipe for writing poetic snapshots:

1) pick a small moment from the past

2) freeze it in your mind

3) reduce it to the most memorable aspects of the moment

4) put yourself mentally back into it

5) describe what you experience using metaphors, similes, etc.

6) trim off as much excess wordage as you can stand

Step 6 is the one I have the hardest time with. I’m very fond of my phrases. Still, there is power with restraint.

Missed Connection

==================

"Hold it to your ear," he says

It looks like an ear

I avoid touching the smooth interior

Enduring the discomfort of the spiny exterior

Rather than damage its hearing

Ear to ear

I stand quiet

Experiencing the rushing air

I bring it before me

About to whisper into it

Until I see my friend's eyes

Flustered

I hand the shell back

He tells me about beaches and oceans

Half-listening

I stare into the sky

Still holding my whisper inside

Of course, you don’t have to stick completely to actual events…

Fall Wandering

====================

I walk beneath the mistletoe canopy

Amid poison ivy trails

Covered with dead leaves

And I feel safe

Death walks silently beside me

Using the breeze to point out his handiwork

I smile and nod

Appreciating his artistic touch

We enjoy our walks together

So few realize what care he takes

How subtle he can be

The wind becomes just a little sharper with chill

He is telling me to go home now

Leaving me with a warm kiss of sunlight

Reminding me that when I do finally join him

I will be welcomed with open arms

Assignment: write a poetic snapshot.

Story Epics

Now to the opposite end of the spectrum… Long story poems not only take a lot of time because of their length, but you have to be careful not to bore the socks off your readers. It’s not a good idea to get too fancy in them. Unlike its ancient counterpart, the modern audience is too busy with keeping track of the daily routines to bother with rambling. With sitcoms and video games to contend with, a poet must remember to get to the point and then keep it in line.

Even poetry buffs like me have a hard time reading the old epics and other long poems due to the demands of today’s life. I have found that I need to be somewhere where the pace of life is slower to enjoy these pieces. It’s a shame, because these works are rich and full of wonderful imagery.

I stumbled across the idea of a modern-audience-friendly long poem by accident. I had the image of two characters and an opening scene in my mind and I role-played them. I kept the phrases short and tight. When I shared the finished product with my friends, the response was incredible. I wrote another one soon after, but I let myself write longer phrases and get a little fancy and although a few people adored it, it just wasn’t as good as this first one.

Lady in the Mist

=============
The thick mist swirl around me,
Shrouding the path from my view.
Faint lights prance before me.
I hesitate, unsure of their intentions.

The lone melody of a flute calls
From somewhere to my left.
I turn to find only dancing swirls
Of carbon black and charcoal gray.

I look to the right and behind
For other signs of animation,
But there is nothing there
To suggest a destination.

I gently prod the ground around me
With a slipper clad foot to see
If I can discern a pounded trail,
But find only loose gravel underneath.

I bite back my tears of indecision
And resist the impulse to sit down.
I can't stay here forever lost -
I must choose a path or make one.

I turn to the flute's melody
And walk slowly towards it -
Making each step firm before
I advance to the next.

The thick mist envelopes me -
Coldly caressing my skin.
I cannot even see my own hand,
As I creep closer to flute player.

Closer and closer, I carefully step,
As the sounds of a crackling fire
Adds counterpoint to the melody.
There is only a faint glow before me.

Suddenly the music stops
And I freeze in terror,
Wondering what went wrong,
Yet still the fire crackles.

I swallow the fear in my throat
And walk towards the warm glow,
Hoping that I will not find
The claws of death when I get there.

Finally, I feel the fire's warmth
And I step to the fire pit's edge.
The mist is still thick around me,
But I can see the flash of blade metal.

The wind begins to howl around us
As I face the readied warrior form.
Totally vulnerable I stand before him,
Waiting for him to decide my fate.

He steps closer, his sword to my neck -
Searching me for some form of danger.
In the fire's inconstant light,
I can only vaguely see his face.

"What type of phantom are you?" he asks.
I searched his eyes for answers
And find only wary distrust.
"I am real," my whispered reply.

Slowly, he lowers his weapon
And caresses my face in his palm.
I dare not move for fear of what
He may have planned for me.

"You seem real enough," he says,
As he gently takes my hand
And sits me on a cold rock,
Near the fire's crackling edge.

"Have you eaten lately?" he asks.
I shake my head,
Unsure of time's passage.
He hands me some travel bread.

"Where are we?" I timidly ask.
"I do not how I came here.
I was walking down a darken hall
And found myself surrounded by mist."

The warrior shakes his head.
"I was in the midst of battle
When this accursed fog rolled in
And swept away my troops."

"What shall we do now?" I ask,
As I finish eating my piece of bread.
"We shall take turns sleeping," he says.
"Then, rested, we will find a way out."

He seems so much more tired than I,
So I take the first watch -
Too petite to raise his sword,
I promise to sound alarm at danger.

Huddled near the fire,
I scan the misty swirls
To find anything more worrisome
Than my active imagination.

When I think he will never wake,
The warrior arises from his slumber
And stretches his stiffened limbs
As he urges his senses to life.

He hands me his thick cloak
To wrap around my tired body.
I curl up small within it
To take my chance at sleep.

When I awake, the mist has thinned,
But it still has not retreated.
I yawn and stretch and yawn,
Trying to convince myself to stand.

From his meager rations, I eat
And drink a little for breakfast.
I start to remove his cloak,
But he stops me and won't take it back.

Assured that I am ready,
He chooses a direction
Into the ever present mist
And we march forward.

We travel for several hours
Before we come across a rocky ridge.
We follow along it, hoping
It will lead somewhere.

Finally, there is a break in the ridge
And we stumble through it,
Into the faint traces of sunlight
Still hidden behind the clouds.

A chasm opens hungrily before us,
Threatening to swallow us whole.
Looking down its length,
We find an odd wooden structure.

Closer examination reveals
A drawbridge operated by counterweights,
Waiting for someone to pull a rope
And extend it across the void.

The sounds of battle are softly heard
From the chasm's opposite side.
A shaft of sunlight falls upon a standard
And the warrior freezes in place.

"It's your troops on the other side,"
I observe with whispered voice.
He nods, confirming my guess,
And turns to operate the bridge.

But the bridge only comes down halfway -
The counterweights are too light.
I watch his growing frustration
As the warrior tries to force the bridge down.

Quietly, I climb onto a counterweight,
Giving it the extra mass needed
To lower the wooden bridge
Across the deep chasm.

He hesitates, unwilling to leave me alone,
But I tell him not to worry for me.
His duty is to his men
And they need their leader.

He tells me to wait there,
So he can return to retrieve me.
I watch him re-enter the battle
And rally his tired troops.

Then I slip off the counterweight
And go back through the ridge.
For my own duty calls to me,
As I disappear into the mists . . .

I have written a sequel to this called “The Foot Soldier’s Tale”, which is also a good piece, but I’ll spare you from reading it now.

This next story poem was created because someone challenged me to take the transliteration of an ancient poem done in another language and make it a poem in English. It is probably the greatest challenge I can think of poetry-wise. I wrote six versions of the poem for her to choose from. Version 2 (now residing on a hard drive not connected to anything) matched the voice of the original poem, so I bequeathed it to her. (I suppose I could ask her to email me a copy back.) In the sixth version, however, I took a completely different approach from the realm of normal storytelling and wrote a monolog. We both agreed that it was more interesting and dramatic than the other versions, so I decided that would be the one I would share with people.

Soma and Remi

===============

Did you know, Man?

When the Is breathed you into existence

Soma came too.

And when the Is saw your potential

Remi was born.

Did you know, Man?

That the Is blessed you

With two of his eldest daughters

To guide and comfort you –

Wisdom, though you may think her cruel,

And Ingenuity, though you may think her obscure,

Serve you faithfully through

Your days of strife.

Yet, you chose to be ignorant

Of the desire of the Is

For you to take a period of rest.

And Soma watching over you,

Full of grace and fair,

Could not leave matters there.

For your own good,

She slew your conscious awareness

And sent you into a pseudo-death

Exhausting the powers

Bequeathed to her by the Is

Unable to do more than stop your body.

It was then, Man,

That you irritated Remi.

For had you rested on your own,

Soma's action would not have been necessary.

Still, Remi loved you just as much as Soma.

So, she stepped forward and spoke into your mind

Words of inspiration and rejuvenation.

And you dreamed, Man.

Assignment: write a story poem.