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Poetry Friday: Poetry Potluck

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 29 May 2026 10:00:00 +0000

We're kicking off the summer season with a Poetry Potluck. At first, it was any topic, any form, but then we thought it would be fun to theme our challenge around real life potluck contributions. (For a quick history of the potluck in America, including "The Church Lady Law," see this article.)

My inspiration came from a book of poetry, and a bag of chips. For my birthday, my dad gifted me the fantastic collection, A Century of Poetry in the New Yorker, and I've been dipping into it whenever I need a poetry fix.

It shouldn't amaze me any more, but I'm still stunned when the act of reading a poem can change my day. Even if the poem at first seems simple on the page. Maybe, especially then....I'm not resisting it, or studying it, or trying to make it be something it isn't....I'm simply munching on the words.

I wrote my poem about that.

her poem

is like a bag

of chips at a potluck—

you want to scoff

at the lack of effort—

who does she think she is,

a college kid with no kitchen?

but somehow her poem—

bagged like a plump, slightly creased pillow

and tossed on the hard bench of the table

is effortlessly inviting—and

when it pops open

(before any other dish has been

stripped of its foil shield)

you pinch out the ridged wafers

in two clumps to snack on —

you know, just until the late-comers

with their farro-gorgonzola croquettes

arrive—

and her words become

the friend everyone wants

to sit next to—

the one who can champion

marshmallows in salad,

and dissect the day he died,

both with humility;

who can discuss two-letter Scrabble words

and cry-choking in the car

each with authority;

who speaks of the soaking rain yesterday

and of burnt faith today

as one and same—

of necessary anger

and ridiculous love,

each invited to this potluck—

as she passes you the bag

of chips, rolling down the corners

so you can reach in, deeply—

even as the salt

of her meaning

stings your chapped lips,

she is feeding you.

this is not luck

this is poetry.

More poetry dishes from my Poetry Sisters (who are all friends everyone wants to sit next to):

Laura

Poetry Friday is hosted today by our own Mary Lee Hahn at A Year of Reading.

Poetry Friday: A Clogyrnach for my Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

April's challenge was to write a poem to an image, any form, any topic. Such freedom! Too much, perhaps, so I sought refuge in a form I'd tried earlier: the clogyrnach. It's a traditional Welsh form, "rarely used by today's poets." Well. For special occasions, then? Like my birthday?

I love this photo (I'm on the right) but questions come to mind. Is my head really that rectangular...and who gave me that haircut? Why don't I always eat cake with a spoon? Why do I look like I've been caught stealing? I have no answers, but questions are always a great place to begin a poem.

On in years

Do you believe life boomerangs?

In old age, will Frankenstein bangs

feather my forehead?

Will I leap from bed

Arms outspread, greedy pangs

for crumbled cake to smash and spoon?

Close my eyes dark and warm as prunes

as the day’s end nears?

Sing through icing smears?

On in years... same sweet tune.

If you're curious, the form is below. You can repeat, as I did, the form in more stanzas, to tell a longer story.

8 syllables - x x x x x x x a

5 syllables - x x x x b

3 syllables - x x b

3 syllables - x x a

(you may combine last two lines into one line)

My poetry sisters poems, written to images of their choosing, can be found here:

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Irene Latham at Live Your Poem.

Poetry Friday: The Ovillejo

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 10:00:00 +0000

I left this month's challenge until late. What was I waiting for? I don't know, but when I saw the rules of the ovillejo, I was afraid. It's so tightly arranged. Take a look:

Line 1: a rhyme in 8 syllables Line 2: a rhyme in 3-4 syllables

Line 3: b rhyme in 8 syllables Line 4: b rhyme in 3-4 syllables

Line 5: c rhyme in 8 syllables Line 6: c rhyme in 3-4 syllables

Line 7: c rhyme in 8 syllables Line 8: d rhyme in 8 syllables 

Line 9: d rhyme in 8 syllables Line 10: (Line 2) (Line 4) (Line 6)

On the other hand, the punchy short lines and the rhyme seemed fun. But how to make it all work together? My poetry sisters advised starting with the last line and reverse engineering. But...I didn't do that. Nope. Part of why I write poetry is to discover what I think, and if I write the last lines first, I can't think well...my head is too full of where I'm going. So I just wrote a first line, then another silly one, and so on and so on, until I had...well, a mess that fit the rules but was as goofy as a bad commercial.

Fortunately, revision came to the rescue. Even in a tight form, you have wriggle room. Even on busy days, you have time.

Oh, when will the cherry blossoms bloom?
Wait. Wait. Ka-boom!

Bursting, busting, bruising the shocked air—
now, everywhere.

Time roots down as petals swirl; they free
you and me

from overflow; we can be empty
of questions of when; they sticky kiss
our foreheads, they croon: Time is but this:
Wait. Wait. Ka-boom!— now and everywhere—you and me.

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

My poetry sisters' poems are found here:

Poetry Friday is hosted by Marcie Flinchun Atkins.

Poetry Friday: Inspired by Poet Laureate Arthur Sze

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 27 Feb 2026 11:00:00 +0000

The Tree of Life

February's challenge was to write a poem inspired by/in conversation with a poem by the new Poet Laureate of the U.S., Arthur Sze. I first found him via a podcast transcript, which featured Sze in an interview for Poetry Magazine's 110th anniversary. In it was this gem:

Sze introduces the ancient Sanskrit idea of Indra's net: Everything that happens in the cosmos is like a crystal. If you imagine the cosmos as an immense chandelier and shine light into it, each hanging jewel reflects and absorbs the light of every other. “That’s one of the things poetry does,” Sze says. “We’re not writing in competition—we’re all trying to create poems, and they’re all shining light on each other."

Wow. Each poem, shining a light on the other. That's what the Poetry Sisters are all about.

Next, I went in search of some of his poetry. I admit to not knowing much about his work, even though he's been around for decades, writing reams of poetry. So this article (Selections) was helpful in narrowing the field. In it, I learned about Sze's translation of Chinese poetry, and his even wider interest in the struggle of every poet to "translate life to the page." The poem given as an example of this struggle was "Pe‘ahi Light," which I read, and fell hard for these lines:

Drizzle, rain, downpour—
I have no words for these kinds of rain;

I mark a conch shell doorstop, a dictionary
of etymology: rain, from Old English,

regn—a frond emerges out of the dark—
rain stops, water beads at the tips of ferns.

Words. Where they come from. What they say. What they can't say. I thought I could write a poem in response to that.

No Words

ache, pain, sting—

I have no words for these kinds of pain

bite, gnaw, twist, rip—

words caught in teeth, as if we must feed

on this pain we have no words for

burn, spasm, catch—

words of unregulated jerking, as if our hearts

cannot steady this pain we have no words for—

but maybe no one does—

for in my dictionary, pain roots

from the Latin poena:

penalty, cost, fine—

it is that which is taken,

like a pound of flesh

hence, the chart with grimacing faces

or the numbers by which we rank

sensation, moving pain away

from words, which are, at base,

untranslatable from the body

which only knows how

to bead and quiver

in the light that shines

on all the others,

giving words to

no words

My poetry sisters all picked different poems by Sze to respond to. You can find them here:

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Margaret Simon.

Poetry Friday: A Trio of Tricubes

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 11:00:00 +0000

The power of three
in storytelling

The challenge for January was tricubes, a short non-rhyming form--just three stanzas of three lines each, with only three syllables per line. (Get it? 3 x 3 x 3 = a cube) It was supposed to be a low-key entry to a new year of poetry... and surprise! it actually WAS pleasantly dreamy to write these...Liz even used the word "meditative" (which is poet speak for wild fun.) We also had a discussion about the well-documented magic of three in storytelling, and about all the ways one could approach tricubes. If you want to write one, here are six ideas for to begin:

1) Write a story in three parts: beginning, middle and end for each of the the tricube's three stanzas

2) write a list poem, as if you were jotting three-syllable notes to yourself (or someone else)

3) Pick a three-syllable word and write your poem as a definition of that word.

4) Or simply use a three-syllable word as inspiration, weaving it in as a line in the final poem (or let it go after you've revised it into something better.)

5) brainstorm a grab bag of three-syllable lines about any topic. Then play with the order of the lines, mixing and matching to make the most interesting stanzas. Tanita likes to "intensify" the poem as she moves through the stanzas.

6) Be inspired by the math itself, and play with the rich lore of numbers

...which is what I did, writing three tricubes, all about the number three:

Threesomes

Valentine
math is odd:
adding one

to two shakes
up old ties...
classic love

triangle,
new friendship,
or fifth wheel?

Caution

in Japan
sugar cane
field warning:

Don’t be third
in a line
of walkers:

one: snake sees
two: snake coils
three: snake strikes.

Fortune

Bad luck sprouts

in threes, spreads
like poison

But good luck
falls like trees:
a rich rot

thick with life
green with love
multiplied

Please visit my poetry sisters to see their tricubes:

Laura

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Amy VanDerwater at the Poem Farm

Poetry Friday: End of Year Poems about Light, Hope and Peace

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 26 Dec 2025 11:00:00 +0000

Christmas, 2019
(Year of the Bûche de Noël)

December's challenge was designed to be simple: a poem, of any form, about light, hope and/or peace. Like many simple things, however, it took work to get to the heart of what I should do with this task. In the end, I decided to lean upon our yearly theme of conversation, and seek out a poem about light that I could be in conversation with. With Liz's help, I found Lucille Clifton's poem, "the light that came to lucille clifton." Do you know it? It begins:

the light that came to lucille clifton

came in a shift of knowing

when even her fondest sureties

faded away. it was the summer

she understood that she had not understood

and was not mistress even

of her own off eye

That's how I've felt lately. My fondest sureties faded away, driven from me by the death of my son, Wade. I haven't written about it, not a word, because I haven't been able to--and because some piece of me didn't want the Internets to have him, strange as that sounds. I wanted to hold him close, not scatter the news of him out there for garish ads to devour. But it's time to say his name. After less than a year of battling cancer, Wade was buried at Arlington National Cemetery this past summer. My grief is never-ending. But there is still light. Light he would want me to see.

I didn't write this poem with him in mind, but it enabled me to tell you about him. That is a gift I wasn't expecting from this simple challenge. And I'm deeply grateful to my poetry sisters, who have grieved with me, and supported me in the most beautiful, tender ways.

In conversation with Lucille Clifton poem,

“the light that came to lucille clifton”

I brought the recipe for the light

to my daughter’s house one Christmas—

it was in the shape of a Bûche de Noël—

that clever, cocoa-tinged log of sponge,

spiraled about a layer of espresso buttercream,

then slicked with frosting as dark as walnut bark,

combed with the tines of a fork to mimic the roughness

of woodgrain, and garnished with clustered bulbs

of creamy marzipan mushrooms, meticulously made—

all to be destroyed, sure as the Yule Log

it mimics used to blaze, crying for the sun to return—

what a burst of merrymaking, yes?

So I brought the recipe for the light

to my daughter’s house one Christmas—

and asked her to make it. She was much better

at that kind of thing, and she would enjoy

the making of it, right?

I can see that you can see

where this is going: The cake, in the end

was correctly, beautifully, gloriously made,

perfect, even. But I was wrong.

I only saw that years later, because

that is how light works. It takes forever

to get from a combusting star to your blind eye,

and in the meantime, you stumble

in the darkness, not knowing that

you are not mistress

of the cake, not mistress of Noël,

not mistress of even your own “off eye”

as Clifton so mysteriously says—

You are servant to the light,

which instructs you to make toast,

if that’s what you can do, and butter it

all the way to the edge, and let it be enough—

or light might say: make the same damn soup,

the one with lentils, and lots of garlic,

and lovely curls of greens, and a wedge of gooey

parmesan melting in the middle. Light might say:

Noël was, and will be; see it there, it comes.

It is on the table. Amen.

You can find my poetry sisters' poems about light (and hope and peace) here:

Tricia (who is hosting Poetry Friday today!)

Poetry Friday: The Burning Haibun

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Yeah, who thought of this one? A prose poem, burned down to a second poem, burned down to a haiku? Oh, and please use something actually burning in the poem. And don't forget our yearly theme of conversation!

No wonder that in our Zoom meeting, no one would admit to proposing the burning haibun as our October challenge, but there we were, stuck with it. We discussed various ways of "cheating"---starting with the end haiku, planting needed words, etc.---but in the end, I just went with my normal free-write process, which generated a sort of story, which I then worked into a prose poem. Burning it down into the second and third poems was much harder, because it felt easy to lose control of meaning as I strove to use the words in fresh ways. In the end, (to quote "Burning Down the House") I fought fire with fire, leaning into honing words in the first poem to give the next two more fuel. Here it is:

Time is funny

My father knew my mother a year before this story, and (I can’t verify this, time is funny) she asked him to a dance (he said no, he was not a dancer, but later, double that age ((time is funny)) he learned how to waltz for my wedding, whaddya know) but it was only when he saw her, curled up, asleep, on a couch in a study lounge, that he talked to her (I suppose this was after— keeping time is funny, right?— she awoke, but who knows?) He said he planned to be a doctor, and that second (not later, or sooner, time was not funny, but only NOW) her eyes met his, and she said: you’ll be a good doctor. It was but a flicker of conversation—but for sixty years, those bright words consumed his coal-black doubts as he sliced into his patients, who floated on the operating table. Oh, time, so funny for those adrift in sleep! He lifted tumors from organs, and repaired bullet holes, and danced inside people’s bodies with his scalpel until it was time (the light was harsh and hot) to bind skin to skin as he closed. Years later, my mom’s lung sunk into her chest, and she curled up again on a couch. She did not wake. Time, always funny, became a riot, slowing and racing, twisting and bucking, until he, living alone, fell. He was only—at the time— reaching for the phone, for connection, for conversation—but it tore the hell out of his thigh muscle, burned it right off the bone. When he saw me, he said: it’s too much, it’s too much. Time told bad jokes while another doctor (who must have believed he could be a doctor, too) picked through the damage, salvaging what was left of my father’s snapped tendon. He emerged, still beating and flowing, too much, and too little. Time to go look in that drawer, he said. Those are her rings—-a promise ring and a wedding ring—they are yours to take. I slip the rings on my pinky finger (my other knuckles bulge) I feel time push me, like gravity, into my shoes. I’m awake. I hear what he’s saying to me: She believed in me. She believed love is round, and (if time is funny enough) that you can return ashes to light.

A year is a waltz, keeping time,

a flicker of bright bodies—

harsh time, a riot of damage,

too much, and too little time.

Go, look! those are rings,

a promise to slip time

I hear she believed in love,

and if time is funny, that you return

Bright bodies riot,

damage, and promise, I hear—

Love, time is funny

You can find my poetry sisters' links here

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Jone Rush MacCulloch.

Poetry Friday: The Raccontino, once again

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 27 Jun 2025 10:00:00 +0000

This month's poem
is dedicated to my Dad,
who celebrated
his 88th birthday this June

June's challenge was the raccontino, a form we've tried before (although I had no memory of it until I went back to look at my post in 2015.) Tricia summarizes the form nicely:

composed of couplets (any number)
even number lines share the same end rhyme
the title and last words of the odd numbered lines tell a story

As usual, our Zoom conversation was about how to best approach this form, which on the surface, is similar to last month's golden shovel in that the end words spell out something. For a golden shovel, you borrow a line from another poem for those end words, and there's no requirement for couplets or rhyme. For the raccontino, you ideally use the end words to create your own story, or (as some of us did) you might use a proverb or short quotation as inspiration-- and in between, you insert lines that have to use the same rhyme all the way through, which complicates things.

I chose a quote from Hamlet---"More matter with less art" which is what the Queen says to Polonius when she asks about her son's madness, and he pontificates instead of answering. It's not exactly a story, but it does provoke interesting conversation, which is our theme for 2025.

For example:

In writing poetry, is nailing down the matter (content) your first concern? Or is following the specific rules of the art form (style) the backbone of your approach? Which serves your process better?

For me, the last time I wrote a raccontino, I dove into content headfirst, not even bothering to to shape the rhyme or end lines until after I had my content. The rest of the group thought that was insane. This time, I began with "art"---choosing the form's end lines and rhyme scheme and letting that shape the content. I found that surprisingly freeing!

And what about the "conversation" between that end line story and the rest of the poem? Is is supposed to repeat the message? Contradict it? Or, maybe--more subtly-- create tension with it?

So much potential for conversation! Which is one reason I love poetry. It doesn't have right answers, only good questions. And (hat tip to Hamlet) perhaps a respect for both plain speaking and madness.

Here's my take on matter/art, in a raccontino:

More

To write a poem that will matter,
disregard (for now) rhyme; reason, too;

listen to the words that lurk with
furtive shifting feet, out of view;

the shy dance of poetry is less
about what the sane will say is true

and more about what is left when art
pares away everything not you.

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

My poetry sisters' poems can be found here:

Tanita (who is hosting today)

Poetry Friday: Golden Shovel

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 30 May 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Spotted owl,
Encyclopedia Britannica

May's challenge was to write a golden shovel, using as inspiration one line from Elizabeth Bishop's poem, "Letter to NY." To refresh your memory, a golden shovel uses each word of the chosen line as the last word of new lines in a new poem while still maintaining some connection, or conversation, with the original poem. (A more in-depth explanation and history can be found here.)

I wasn't familiar with Letter to NY (maybe you aren't either; if so, please read it here.) On first glance, I found that Bishop wrote a rather sad, cynical take on a relationship that seems to have been tarnished over time.

Here's a hint of that sadness:

In your next letter I wish you'd say

where you are going and what you are doing;

how are the plays, and after the plays

what other pleasures you're pursuing:

taking cabs in the middle of the night,

driving as if to save your soul

where the road goes round and round the park

and the meter glares like a moral owl

(more here)

For me, the line choices were hard to re-imagine in a new context. (For example, using the perfectly wonderful in context "where you are going and what you are doing" as end words in a new poem seemed to be asking for a vague mess.) So, I just picked a line that had interesting words in it, and fiddled around. (Most of poetry is fiddling around, right?) And in the end, I found I'd written a poem that maintained a connection with the original by writing about the beginning of this fictional relationship, instead of its sad present state.

The line I chose: "and the meter glares like a moral owl"

The golden shovel I created, with still a hint of foreboding (I hope)

In the beginning

The conversation is poetry: you and

me, dropping words into the

snapping fire, not measuring meter

yet, not forcing rhyme, our bashful glares

into the flames heroically funny like

we weren’t feeling the rising heat; a

log cracks, loudly, expending its moral

energy, but we lustfully ignore it—and the watching owl.

You can find my poetry sisters' golden shovels here:

Mary Lee

Poetry Friday is hosted today by the wonderful Karen Edmisten.

Poetry Friday: Writing to a Vintage Photograph

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 25 Apr 2025 10:00:00 +0000

April's challenge was to write a poem in response to a vintage photograph (we were free to define "vintage" for better or worse.) I chose a photo that has been on my bookshelf for years---one of my mother, catching me on a slide. When I took the photo out of the frame to see if she'd written any identifying information on the back, I saw only a date--April 1965. So sixty years ago, this month.

I intended to share this poem with my mom when I visited her this week, because on my visit a couple of weeks ago, she said she liked seeing my poem links on Facebook, and often read them. She never commented because she thought a mom shouldn't do that (I would've been ok with it, Mom!) But after I had drafted this poem on Monday night, I found out on Tuesday that she had passed away after a short illness.

I haven't been able to make myself revise this draft as much as I could've, but I can't let it sit unpublished either. In writing it, I realized how much my mom and I had in common, and how many things children take for granted.

April 1965

It is April, 1965.

She is my mother.

Later, in college,

I will have the same haircut

as hers—(except my bangs

will split at a cowlick)

Later, I will be blindsided

by blood and lose a baby—

as she did (except her losses

were many)

Later, I often parented

alone, like she did

(except I will flee

to her house where

every cooking pot is a toy

every fat wondrous bean

is eaten with glee

and ladybugs light

on my children’s fingers.)

Later, she will tell me hard

stories of her long-gone

mother (but only once,

and never again)

Later, she will return letters

I’ve written to her, gifting me

a history of myself

(nevertheless I will

often forget who I should be)

Later, much later,

I will fix her a plate

of food, and sing

a snippet of the song

she once sang to me,

to soothe my

fever dream (even though

my voice will break on the notes,

and she will eat hardly

any of the food)

But in this photo,

on this day,

I’m a heedless two-year-old;

Her arm curves over my lap,

keeping me from spilling

into the dirt.

It is April, 1965

and she is only

(but forever)

my mother.

You can find my poetry sisters' vintage photos and poems here:

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe.

Poetry Friday: In conversation with Lucille Clifton's Notes to Clark Kent

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 28 Mar 2025 10:00:00 +0000

The challenge for March stayed close to our 2025 theme of conversation: we were to be "in conversation" with a series of four poems written by Lucille Clifton, loosely known as Notes to Clark Kent. Here's an excerpt:

they had it wrong,

the old comics.

you are only clark kent

after all. oh,

mild mannered mister,

why did i think you could fix it?

See how with that question she so easily invites you to talk with her about this? After all, she's writing to Clark Kent, and letting us eavesdrop. It feels like she would be open to conversation with us ordinary folk, too. And she is--all four poems are spare but rich with feeling, and the casual tone makes it easy to engage with her words---to talk with this great poet about superheroes, admiration and disillusionment, rescue and risk...and so much more. Please read more here (all four poems are very short.)

At first, I simply imitated one of her poems, beginning with her line "They had it wrong..."

They had it wrong,

the bishops—

you can’t slide

across the board

slicing through armies

on the sly to meet the queen;

how you must have puzzled

at my idea that I was

invisible, able to slip

between worlds,

to Narnia or Prydain.

What did I expect?

That the shadow

of my pointed hat—

the open book a peak

over my eyes—

would make me

less of a pawn,

plodding my way

from chamber

to chamber,

from dark to light

and back again?

On my second try, I veered off, and decided to address the poet directly, triying only to match her easy flow of ideas and emotions, as if I were writing her a note, too:

Dear Lucille,

I didn’t crush on Superman,

my comics were Casper,

that pudgy, good-hearted ghost

and Scrooge McDuck,

whose pert-tailed nephews’

names rhymed like rap,

so I guess that’s why my questions

are different. I didn’t wonder who

they were—human or superhero—

I only wanted to float through

fights, misunderstandings, and darkness—

or to waddle, flanked by friends,

into schemes and out again, unchanged—-

to be the reason the story took you

out of this world into that one,

but didn’t leave you heartless.

You can find the conversations my poetry sisters had with these poems here:

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Marcie Flinchum Atkins

Poetry Friday: ".....is a word" Poems

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 28 Feb 2025 11:00:00 +0000

February and I have a history. So when we choose this month's challenge to be "....is a word" poems, I knew my word had to be February. And yet---February (as I've complained before) is often brutal, temperamental, and generally unlikeable---which means it's hard to be "in conversation" with it, as our 2025 theme suggests. Luckily, in contrast, "....is a word" poems are full of word play, and clever imagery, and sometimes humor---all things that I love. This form came to life with the great Nikki Grimes, and you can find several of her excellent poems here. Laura Purdie Salas has a complete lesson plan on them, as well as one of the best examples of the form I've ever read: Sheep is a Solid Word. But in short, these poems are free verse, and celebrate one word and all its implications, including the shape of the letters, the sound of the word itself, and any colors, smells, tastes, and other sensory details the word evokes.

Here's where that led me in conversation with the word February:

February is a Fancy Word

February is a fancy word,

longer than it should be for

a month so short.

Perhaps that’s because it has to hold

plumply grumpy groundhogs,

two pretty perfect presidents,

eons of evidence of black history,

and cartoonish contradictory candy hearts—

MAKE ME/YES/WHY NOT?

And then I tried again, with the same opening line:

February is a fancy word

it trips your tongue

for if you try to say that “r”—

that’s just trouble fe-brewing—-

another foot of snow—

or maybe twenty-two?

Then I moved on to some etymology:

February is an Ancient Word

February is an ancient word

in many languages, meaning:

a month of scrubbing,

a month of mud,

a month of cabbage;

but in Finland,

it's named for

icy pearls that

decorate the trees.

How feb-ulous is that?

And finally, I concluded, as I usually do, by complaining about February:

February is a Messy Word

February is a messy word,

the snarl of snotty sneezes

the blackened dregs of dirty snow

the stink of soppy boots

toppled in the doorway

And worse of all—

the sloppy way it gains

and loses days—giving

babies disappearing birthdays

for the rest of their lives---

messy!

What do YOU think of February?

Please read my poetry sisters' less whiny (probably) poems here:

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Denise Krebs.

Poetry Friday: The Tanku

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 31 Jan 2025 11:00:00 +0000

It's a new year of poetry challenges! And this year, I've vowed to be more prepared, more present, and more committed. Will it hold? I don't know, but I do know that writing poetry with my poetry sisters---and the wider world of all of you who observe Poetry Friday--is good for my soul. Let's encourage each other, ok? And more specifically, let's be in conversation, because that's the overarching theme we've chosen for 2025. All our poems will be aware of the value of listening, responding, and interacting with others with the purpose of deeper understanding.

With that theme in mind, January's challenge was a tanku--a hybrid form that consists of one tanka (5/7/5/7/7) followed by an answering haiku (5/7/5) It's shorter challenge, by design, since January always jumps out at us like an unexpected snow storm while we're still digging out from the holidays...am I right?

But like all forms new to me, it took some fiddling about to realize the potential here. In a conversation, the "offer" (as it's often called in improv) and the "response" should be connected but distinct. We can both affirm (say yes) and move the conversation forward (the yes AND part.) So, too, with the tanku. The tanka sets up imagery, and the haiku responds to that in a fresh way. Or so we hope. And--here's where I saw the potential--you can also string the tanku together so the conversation meanders on a bit, if you find the topic interesting or have a lot to say.

And I did have such a topic because luckily, a friend had invited me to the symphony at the Kennedy Center the evening before I began to draft my poem. I'm a neophyte to symphonies, at least live ones, and so I came to the performance with extra excitement of not knowing what to expect, which was compounded by the fact that there was no paper program, only a digital QR code (which I did not use until the intermission.) I was immediately struck by how different the pre-game is for the symphony than it is for the theater I'm used to, with no curtain to hide the warmup. I was intrigued to see performers quietly laughing and occasionally talking to each other in a relaxed way as they tested their bows and reeds before the conductor arrived, with no visible jitters, at least not to me. And then there was the matter of the dress code---no one wants to upstage the music, so the orchestra was a sea of black uniformity. Again, so different from the diverse costumes of the theater. And yet...when the show got down to business-- the amazing, focused, terrifyingly challenging business of making complicated music as one voice---it was very much like the team work of a great play.

I enjoyed it all thoroughly, even though I knew little about the music being performed. Later, I read this review in the Post, and understood more of what was happening, including the unique greatness of the first piece (which I adored) and the fact that the guest conductor was making his debut. But in the moment, I saw little things amongst the big things, and that is what I chose to write my series of tanku about---a mini conversation between what my "beginner mind" saw and the complexity of what I was hearing. It was my self-made program if you will.

Gabriela Ortiz's Téenek — Invenciones de Territorio

at the symphony

no curtain; warm-up exposed;

casual notes blare—

bodies jostle, cozy close;

the baton lifts; our hearts heat

a storm strikes the stage

birds scatter, wildly singing

ravishing thunder

Beethoven’s “Piano Concerto No. 3 in C Minor

at the symphony

a black-limbed army of bows

salutes Beethoven.

I scout the dark-footed ranks

for a flash of rebellion.

all tidy on stage

but bouncing in seat four F:

a white pom-pom hat

Sergei Rachmaninoff’s “Symphonic Dances"

at the symphony

the QR code is useless

I'm disarmed, bootless

at the edge of the known world

dizzied by movie music

those who know the score

are no more free than you from

the map of whirlpools

You can find my sister poets' posts here:

Tricia

Poetry Friday is hosted today by BookSeedStudio.

Poetry Friday: Inspired by Jane Hirshfield's Two Versions

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 29 Nov 2024 11:00:00 +0000

November's challenge was to take a line or theme from Jane Hirshfield's lovely poem, "Two Versions," and create a new poem with it. I can't link to the poem online, but it can be found in her latest collection, The Asking.

I love this kind of challenge because great poets distill so much into their lines that if you choose one--almost any line, really---you are already super-charged with striking imagery and potent ideas. For me, the line that stood out was the second in Hirshfield's poem, which begins:

In the first version, I slept by a stream

All night awake things traveled near.

"Awake things traveling near" immediately made me think of my childhood, of discovering I could manipulate my vision as I fell asleep. (It's possibly a remembrance of lucid dreaming--who can say?) I took the line as the title of my new poem, and dived in:

All night awake things traveled near

(inspired by Jane Hirshfield's Two Versions)

This is my remembrance of magic:

in the darkness, I floated

on the lake of half-sleep

where the islands of faerie,

glinting with life, drifted

in the black satin air.

With eager, powerful strokes,

on purpose, on purpose,

I swam to them, to witness

thumb-sized women stringing

washing on cobwebs;

giggling boys sloshing

water in acorns from wells;

messy-haired girls wielding

brooms of beetle legs--

the most ordinary

of tasks to spy upon,

a holy observation

of awake things

traveling near.

My poetry sisters' inspired poems can be found here:

Liz

Laura

Tricia

Kelly

Mary Lee

Tanita (who is hosting Poetry Friday today!)

Poetry Friday: Seven Ways of Looking

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 27 Sep 2024 10:00:00 +0000

September's challenge was to write a poem in the vein of Wallace Stevens' Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird---except we were only going to attempt SEVEN ways of looking at something.

It turns out the hard part was not the number of stanzas (looks?) but deciding on a thing worth looking at. In theory, all things are worthy of poetry, but the brilliance of the original poem begins with the fact that Wallace Stevens chose to feature a blackbird-- something that is both ordinary and symbolic, and also dynamic--the bird can move, swoop, circle. As a result, we get a gorgeous swirling, dipping in and out of reality feeling as we read his poem.

Oddly enough, though, we learn little of the blackbird itself, for this is not fact-based poem, seeking to illuminate the bird's unique qualities. Instead, after we read the poem, we wind up thinking less about the blackbird and more about how everything is connected. (Or at least I do---here's my extended dive into the poem, if you're interested.)

How in the world to replicate that?

I was at a loss during our ZOOM writing session, so I decided to hew closely to the original poem, seeking to imitate its rhythms. I find that approach often works as a place to begin, and then I can manipulate the draft so it isn't a complete copy-cat. However, I still had the problem of what to write about, so I took the object at hand---the poem itself. Yup. Maybe a dodge, but this poem has always called to me, and writing about how it made me feel was the best I could manage this month.

Here it is:

Seven Ways of Looking at a Poem

The poem is beating its wings.
My heart must be flying.

I know free fall,
and updrafts. But
I know, too— this poem
is dense as spun glass.

The poem circles
and circles and circles
the snowy mountain.

It was morning
all day. I eat
nothing. The poem
preens.

I don’t know which
to prefer—reading the poem,
or the silence afterwards.

Later, when I
walk between the hedges,
the poem shoots a bird
out of the sky,
lays it at my feet.

On the page,
the only thing breathing
is the poem.

My Poetry Sisters "ways of looking" can be found here:

Mary Lee

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Irene Latham.

Poetry Friday: Wabi-Sabi Poems

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 28 Jun 2024 10:00:00 +0000

Ruins of a banquet hall,
Sudeley Castle, UK

June's challenge was to write a poem capturing the idea of wabi-sabi, the Japanese concept of impermanence and imperfection. Here's a quote that Tricia shared from the book, Wabi Sabi: The Japanese Art of Impermanence by Andrew Juniper:

Wabi-sabi is an aesthetic that finds beauty in things imperfect, impermanent and incomplete. Taken from the Japanese words wabi, which translates to less is more, and sabi, which means attentive melancholy, wabi-sabi refers to an awareness of the transient nature of earthly things and a corresponding pleasure in the things that bear the mark of this impermanence.

Now, I've written about wabi-sabi before, and seemed to remember it being about celebrating "the crack in everything." And, on our recent trip to Wales and England, I reveled in taking photos of glorious ruins of castles and abbeys. (I do love a good ruin.) But this time, the phrase that haunted me from that quote was "attentive melancholy."

I'm not by nature a pessimistic person--not that I can't be negative or grumpy at times, but melancholy implies a sort of marination in sadness that I'm not capable of sustaining. But what was I missing by not looking with that sort of attention--the kind of attention that doesn't try to change things for the better, but acknowledges what is unfinished, and imperfect, and sees the beauty in that?

I'm so curious to see what my poetry sisters came up with in answer to that question. As for me, my only idea came from looking at my hands and thinking that I'm as spotted now as an old leaf.

This leaf

this leaf will dry

the color seep away

the veins break

this leaf will fall

lose its light

unmoor from the tree

the road will go away

the fence, the barn, too

the house where I met him

this leaf will crackle

under muddy boots

this spotted hand let go

Explore my poetry sisters' posts here:

Poetry Friday is hosted by our own Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect.

Poetry Friday: Impossible Questions

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 26 Apr 2024 10:00:00 +0000

Do tulips know how to kiss?

April's prompt was a fun one: write a poem inspired by "an impossible question." It came to us via Laura Purdie Salas, who was inspired while listening to Georgia Heard talk about using this prompt with kids. I'm not sure how Heard normally uses this exercise, but we kept it simple. During our ZOOM meet-up, we brainstormed impossible questions for five minutes, and then shared the pool of questions with each other. Then we chose one (or two or ten) and were off and writing.

Of course, there was some discussion of what an "impossible" question was. Maybe impossible only meant "hard to find out in a reasonable time frame"....like how many grains of sand in sandbox, or something "highly subjective"....like what is love? In the end, I don't think it matters---the whole point was to get our brains spinning in new ways.

For me, this prompt brought up memories of my dad telling me a riddle, which began like this: Why is a bicycle? Of course, there is no why, but he had an answer ready: Because a vest has no sleeves.

YUP. I didn't get it then, and don't get it now, but still....I LIKE it. I like it in the way I like poems that I don't fully understand. It's absurd, but then so is life, sometimes. So for my poem this month, I celebrate impossible questions, and their impossible answers. (Many thanks to my fellow poets whose pool of questions led me down this road, and to my dad for the riddle.)

I want answers...

How many dandelion wishes in a summer?

Do balloons cry when they burst?

How do you hold onto a smile?

I would tell you—

if only I knew how many

winks in “a while.”

Why is a banana not an apple?

Do tulips know how to kiss?

Who stole the sleeves from a vest?

I would tell you—

if only I knew which subjects

fish schools teach best.

How far do ants travel in a month?

Do trees remember your face?

Who first tried to carry a tune?

I would tell you—

if only I knew where

to find East of the moon.

Do whales see themselves in the sea like a mirror?

Where does the Leap Year go on off years?

How deep is the deepest hole you can dig?

I would tell you—

if only I knew when something

little becomes big.

Which days do birds paint the sky?

How long does kindness last?

How far does an echo fall?

I would tell you—

if only I knew anything—

anything at all.

My fellow poets impossible question poems can be found here:

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Ruth.

Poetry Friday: Animal Pantoums

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 29 Mar 2024 10:00:00 +0000

My flowerpots,
pre-squirrels

March's challenge was to write a pantoum featuring an animal. Mine is a modern pantoum, which repeats lines in the right order but doesn't use rhyme like a traditional pantoum would. Usually, I love playing with rhyme (even making up words) but I kind of liked attempting this without rhyme this month---it forced me to focus on images and verbs instead of word play.

A pantoum is not complicated but it does have strict rules. If you're intimidated, or feeling stuck, you can do as some of us did, and use this lovely exercise. Just answer the questions about something "ordinary" in your life, and a pantoum practically falls into your lap. Or at least a rough draft of one!

Here's something ordinary that I mined for my pantoum:

Squirrels in the Flowerpots

Spring blooms, gone,

scattered soil on the steps,

holes big as my fist

a hail of empty walnut shells

scattered. Soil on the steps

near thin-fingered roots, torn;

a hail of empty walnut shells—

something no longer buried

near thin-fingered roots. Torn,

my hands twist and clutch;

something is no longer buried

in this broken pot that

my hands twist and clutch.

Time and earth were found

in this broken pot—that’s

nothing, really—

time unearthed; found

holes big as my fist;

nothing, really—

spring blooms, gone.

My poetry sister's pantoums can be found here:

Kelly

Poetry Friday is hosted today by our own Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect.

Poetry Friday: Love Letters to February

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 23 Feb 2024 11:00:00 +0000

The challenge this month was to write a poem in the form of a love letter, taking a cue from Valentine's Day, I suppose. I don't have anything against V-Day, but somehow, February brings out a stubborn streak in me. In 2010, and again in 2020, I wrote a semi-tirade to this month, chastening it for its behavior. And (maybe because it's a leap year again) I'm returning to my old friend this year, too.

Here's a record of our correspondence:

(2010)

Oh, February, oh February

You make my heart sing, you do,

were it not for blinding blizzards…and the swine-iest of flu.

Oh, February, far too short the days

to count the shades of grayest grays

you send me, year after weary year.

If I were you, I'd watch my back, dear;

such nuanced love cannot last

before I exchange you for something less…overcast.

Oh, February, love is patient, love is kind;

love doesn't leave you disinclined

to climb from underneath the warmest covers

to join the bitterest, iciest, and brutalist of lovers

on the barren street, no less! to watch how much snow

you can blow and blow and blow---some beau

you are. But how can I call it quits

when you bite my cheeks and grab my wrists

kissing color into my frozen face---

Oh, February, let's March on apace!

(2020)

Oh, February, oh February

You make my heart sing, you do…

Were it not for days of sixty degrees, and nights of minus two!

Tulips bloom, then crack to ice before they can be kissed;

Lovers sweat, then freeze to death if they dare outdoor trysts.

And what’s with the extra day you want to stuff

Into a month that already has it rough,

What with viruses ravaging the land,

And Astros not apologizing for whacking on a can?

February, I know claimed I was no quitter,

But that was when I thought you merely icy, brutal, bitter—

Now you unleash forest fires, and dump tornados in my lap;

I wouldn’t swipe right on you, not on any dating app!

So cut it out, February, you heartless fool.

Be true. Be you. Go back to being cool.

And here is my letter to February for 2024:

Oh, February, oh February,

It’s been four years since my last note,

and fourteen since I first wrote—

and since your time is almost through

I really shouldn’t be emailing you—

but last night I dreamt a frost with bracing

fingers crept into my bed, lacing

the worn stairs of my cheeks with steely filigree

and veiling my silvering hair with blustery

crackling snow, until I shone slick

as glacier ice; as bright as magic—

cold breaking stone,

once again that girl, half-grown

you teased with bitter wind and bite—

oh, February, waking in slanted winter light,

I know better than to warm my heart

to you, even now years apart;

I’ll delete this letter, even if I do—

occasionally— think very coldly of you.

My poetry sisters love letter poems are here:

Kelly

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Tabitha at The Opposite of Indifference.

Poetry Friday: Writing to the Art of Roberto Benavidez

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 26 Jan 2024 11:00:00 +0000

It was an easy choice to kick off 2024 with an ekphrastic challenge. Writing about or in conversation with a piece of art automatically gives a poet several places to begin:

What do you first notice? What lingers with you after you look away? Is there more to the story, things beneath the surface that you're curious about? What questions would you ask the art or the artist if you could?

All these ideas (and more) were on my mind as I engaged with the work of Roberto Benavidez, who describes himself as "sculptor specializing in the piñata form." Benavidez came to my attention through my brother, John, who sent me a link to an episode of Craft in America (streaming on PBS) which featured Benavdez's amazing pinatas. I then quickly lost myself in his creations, which play with themes of "race, sexuality, art, sin, humor, ephemerality and beauty." If you can't find something to write about in that list, look again!

But what most drew my eyes were Benavidez's paper sculptures that were inspired by another piece of art, Hieronymus Bosch's famous The Garden of Earthly Delights (also concerned with above said list...heavy on the SIN part.) It was from that body of work that I found my muse, choosing to engage not so much with sin, but with the art's humor, and the ephemerality of any physical form, be it a lifetime in a rat's twitching body or one quiet moment in a yoga pose.

Please do go look around at Benavidez's work. And if you feel inspired, pick one to write to. Here's mine: (and apologies to this beast if he's not a rat...there's no tail, but he just felt like a rat to me.)

Artwork by Roberto Benavidez
from his collection "Beasts in the Garden
of Earthly Delights."

RAT YOGA

His torso is plump as an avocado,
his bandy forelegs balancing
only ripe mischief and bravado

He’s cleared his mind of the fury
of the glinting trap, the gasping terror
of a tail wrenched off in a blurry-hurry

Weightless, he’s free to grandstand,

to steady his lurching heartbeat
to a joyful march inside the bandstand

of his puffed paper chest—oh so zen,
this posing rat, only his nose
twitch-twitching now and then.

-----Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

Each of my fellow poets chose an artwork to write to, so go and be inspired by more of Benavidez's work, and their poems:

Kelly

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Susan at Chicken Spaghetti.

Poetry Friday: In the Style of Valerie Worth

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 24 Nov 2023 11:00:00 +0000

One of my favorite small things:

French green lentils

November's challenge is one of the most fun: an invitation to write in the style of a well-known poet. It's a chance to learn by imitation, and an opportunity to delve into the choices each poet makes when they create. This time it's Valerie Worth, who's best known for close observation, spare lines, attention to the "small things" (either in size or in importance) and an affinity for a child's viewpoint. One of my favorite quotes about her work comes from Valerie herself:

“It has always seemed to me that any tree or flower, any living creature, even any old board or brick or bottle possesses a mysterious poetry of its own, a poetry still wordless, formless, inaudible, but asking to be translated into words and images and sounds—to be expressed as a poem. Perhaps it could be said that written poetry is simply a way of revealing and celebrating the essentially poetic nature of the world itself.” ---as quoted in a profile of Valerie Worth, written by Lee Bennett Hopkins for Language Arts, Vol. 68, October 1991

I tried to honor that approach by picking two small objects and finding the "mysterious poetry" in them.

The first poem was inspired by a soup I was making during our Sunday ZOOM meet-up, and by Worth's poem, "Safety Pin" in which she explores a pin both open and closed. I did the same for a humble lentil, plucked from a bag, and examined both raw and cooked.

Lentils

Raw,

they chatter

against the bowl,

a patch of pebbles

blotched as

turtle shells.

Cooked,

they fatten

to a chorus, sing

of one hundred days

in snug pods,

unspoiled sun.

By the way, did you know there's a MasterClass in growing lentils? I relied on that as I revised my poem, making it more specific with details like how long lentils take to grow, and how much sunlight they need. Research for the win!

The second poem was a response to the most humble thing I could find in my office: the doorstop. At first, I thought: I can't write about that. But then I thought: but Valerie Worth would. So I did.

Doorstop

an outstretched arm,
its white rubber tip
a gloved fist, dampens

the fling of an opening
door, the coiled spring
catching the energy

of the wild children
who enter.

Funny story: the first picture I took of the doorstop showed me a dust bunny hiding behind the door. Had to grab that and take another photo. But maybe I should've written a Valerie Worth ode to the dust??

Find out more about Valerie Worth from my poetry sisters' explorations of her style and their wonderful poems. Grateful to be writing all these years with these kind and talented poets:

Kelly

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Ruth.

Poetry Friday: Let's play with Bouts-Rimés

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 27 Oct 2023 10:00:00 +0000

Quotes fill the walls
at Planet Word,
Washington, DC
(highly recommended)

This month's challenge is another game, or as Mary Lee puts it, "a word puzzle." Bouts-Rimés is an old game, played by poets since the early 17th century. The name means "rhymed ends" and the game is played by giving a poet a list of rhymed end words, and challenging her to write a poem to fit. Supposedly, the harder the end words, the better the game. We weren't too cruel to ourselves, but the list did have a few doozies:

A: profuse/abtruse/chartreuse/truce

B: incline/shine/resign/supine

C: various/gregarious/hilarious/precarious

D: ceasefire/quagmire/higher/dryer

E: transform/barnstorm/uniform/conform

F: humility/futility/nobility, tranquility

G: perturb/superb/reverb, disturb

We also decided to use these rhymes in any form of a sonnet. I always have to look up the variations, so here they are:

Petrarchan: ABAB ABAB CDE CDE or ABBA ABBA CDC DCD

Shakespearean: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG

Spenserian: ABAB BCBC CDCD EE

Other: AABB CCDD EEFF GG

And of course, we should try to work in our theme for the year of transformation (conversion, alteration, metamorphosis, mutation, growth, evolution, revision, modulation, change)

Whew. Enough with the rules...on to the game! What would you do with these words and that theme and these rhyme patterns? I chose to pick an A word, ask a question with it, and use the "other" sonnet form to think out my answer.

My solution is below:

Change (no, you change)

What is the nature of our truce?

Is our pause deadly quiet or sharply profuse?

If we decide to lie, hand in hand, supine,

unspeaking, could we still re-sign

with anxious fingers passionately gregarious

the terms to end this battle; quit this precarious

stumbling over words, un-mine this quagmire

and declare, with silent volumes, a ceasefire?

Or must we open with a hail of words, barnstorm

mutual defenses, stun by direct apology, and with uniform

speed, sheath every confession with disarming humility,

and wordily, warily, negotiate renewed tranquility?

Either—but choose, no truce lasts undisturbed,

Speak then the piercing language of love, superb.

My poetry sisters' solutions to this poetry puzzle can be found here:

Kelly

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Carol Labuzzetta at The Apples in my Orchard.

Poetry Friday: Exquisite Corpse (Clunker Edition)

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 25 Aug 2023 10:00:00 +0000

Dead or not?
Mystery photo taken
November, 2016

August's challenge was a fun one. As a group, we played a version of the "Exquisite Corpse" game, where one poet passes a set of two lines to the next poet, who adds her own two, and then sends only the new ones on to the next person, and so on, until everyone has added (in secret) two lines to the whole poem. The big reveal of ALL the lines was during our Sunday ZOOM session. And there was a twist: each of us added one original line and one "clunker" taken from Linda Mitchell's clunker exchange and comments here.

Wow. At first sight, our draft poem actually held together (see it below my poem.) We couldn't believe it! Still, the challenge for the year was transformation (conversion, alteration, metamorphosis, mutation, growth, evolution, revision, modulation, change) so we couldn't stop there. Each of us took the raw material and created something new. Here's how my transformation ended up:

Cuttings

I’m no longer winsome to the world—

I’m a yesterday shadow of the sun’s rise,

the one that got away, a nub of flower,

plucked, no snap, no sass to sweeten September

when trees turn so orange the road looks blue;

when words tangle, colors muddy the palette

and thoughts of you sprout. I bury

them, and yet in they creep, weedy-thick,

until the prickly buds of odd logic bloom:

I don't cry anymore, so why do I sing all the words—

each line in a different language as the light shifts,

every scattered petal saying “but you loved me”—

and then I remember

love was exactly what you wrote

about the green beans.

Here's the raw material we all had to work with:

They say the mind is garden-like, with thoughts as sprouting seeds

but I'm left holding cuttings I'm not sure where to plant

Weedy-thick, the prickly buds of odd logic bloom:

You don't cry anymore, but you sing all the words.

Each line in a different language as the light shifts,

trees turned so orange the road looked blue.

Words tangle, colors muddy in the palette.

I am no longer winsome to the sun.

a whole sun’s rise to share

there goes the one that got away

found a bit of sunflower

and plucked every petal (by the way, he loves me)

and then I remembered

that’s what you wrote about the green beans

Stockpile, then, that snap and sass to sweeten your September.

See what beauties my poetry sisters created here:

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Linda at TeacherDance.

Poetry Friday: The Monotetra

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 28 Jul 2023 10:00:00 +0000

Of course we stopped
at the "world's smallest Bigfoot store"
because that's what you do
on vacation.

The July challenge is the monotetra. If you parse that name, you'll see it means something like "single-four" because each stanza has a repeated mono-rhyme scheme---yes, every single line rhymes with each other!-- and four "feet" per line. (A foot has two syllables, so this means eight syllables for each line.) You can write as many stanzas as you like, and (thankfully) vary the singular rhyme between stanzas, but each stanza is only four lines, and each ends with four repeated syllables.

Confused? Here's how Writer's Digest explains it.

So...do all those rules make writing a monotetra easier or harder? I say easier because it tells you what to do...and harder because it leans towards sounding forced. Add in our 2023 theme of transformation (conversion, alteration, metamorphosis, mutation, growth, evolution, revision, modulation, change.. ) and I had myself a job to do. At least I had Bigfoot and the new Star Trek series to put me in mind of how exploration spurs transformation....

The Lagoon Nebula,
image courtesy of the
Hubble Telescope

Strange New Worlds*

Dust hangs like ochre chandeliers
over the trails of pioneers;
the ragged edge of their frontiers
unstrung by years; unstrung by years.

A parchment map, the cloth unwound
in a graveyard of ships gone down
still threads the rocks without a sound;
calls the unfound, calls the unfound.

Now nebulas expand, efface
starlight, a crown of crocheted lace
knotting this fringe of outer space
with dark grace, with dark grace.

Again we'll blind-twist, one by one,
from rough hems of times overrun,
fresh seams; an old revolution:
the world undone; the world undone.

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

*I'm enthralled by the Star Trek re-boot called Strange New Worlds. Have you seen it?

My poetry sisters' monotetras can be found here:

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Bookseed Studio.

Poetry Friday: The Ghazal

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 26 May 2023 10:00:00 +0000

"The Weather" by Laurie Anderson,
Exhibit at the Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC

I'm not sure about this one-- maybe because lore has it the ghazal takes its name from the noise a gazelle makes while dying? I certainly gasped my last a few times, working on this non-narrative form which is held together with one rhyme that comes directly before a repeated ending refrain. The first couplet signals the ghazal form's arrival by doing this twice; the rest of the couplets only have the rhyme/refrain combo in the second line.

And I say again: it's non-narrative. No story telling allowed. The effect is supposed to be one of a string of beads, each sufficient unto itself but tied together by the refrain. Or perhaps a mirror, shattered into revealing shards. Finally, it's traditional for the poet to mention herself in the last couplet. Ooof.

I dunno. To me, writing this felt like being made to comply with strict rules and yet, being completely adrift without narrative at the same time. But enough about process. This is about trying. DOING. Letting things be as they are and inviting the reader to make their own connections. Perhaps that, too is a form of our 2023 theme of transformation (conversion, alteration, metamorphosis, mutation, growth, evolution, revision, modulation, change.. ) I'm still not sure, but as I sprinkled a few of those transformation words into my ghazal, I could feel a poem forming....

Half the world

They say the ad is for oysters, yet there she is, but half

mutated—her mermaid tail the gut half;

They say if we bow to modulation twelve times a day,

our risk of dying (but they only studied men) is cut by half.

They say: Someone else. Somewhere else.

Can’t you see evolution dictates we shut out half?

They say we can’t write of overflowing life-altering loss, of not now,

not whole, of not even close to having somewhat half.

They say: would we like roast chicken with homegrown kumquats

and kale salad or hey, catch! one stale doughnut half?

They say I shouldn’t laugh at the erupting fountain