I mentioned last time that I’ve been thinking about making some changes here at Poetical. I struggle with posting too much new work here because the majority of journals and magazines that publish poetry will not accept submissions of previously published poems. For most of them “publication” includes sharing a poem on social media, on a personal website or blog. So lately I’ve been pulling back, not sharing finished poems here.
But I’ve missed you all. I’ve missed writing to you each week, reading your comments, getting your feedback. I need to figure out a way to make this work.
I’d like this to be a place that provides some encouragement and weekly-ish inspiration to poets, the kind of encouragement I need and appreciate. So I’m going to try to get back into the weekly habit with more of a focus on prompts, or exercises to get us all writing. I might share a rough draft of a poem, or just the notes I’ve taken in response to a prompt. If you find this helpful, I’d love to know about it. And if any of these prompts helps you write a poem you’d like to share, that would be truly lovely. As always feel free to share your words, or a link to them, in the comments. Let’s see how it goes.
As ever, thanks for being here.
I sometimes need a kick in the pants to write something. It’s why I love prompts. Don’t make me come up with something deep and meaningful to write about. Give me an easy roll-on application, a pop-top poem, a Mad-Lib, a running start.
I haven’t been writing much lately. But that’s summer for you. You’d think I’d get used to the intellectual lethargy that comes with the warm weather. So much energy directed outward - the garden, the porch, the beach - while the weather beckons. I should let myself off the hook, and I’ve tried to this year. But still, but still.
On Monday, looking for inspiration, I turned to the poets on my shelf, eventually ending up, as I often do, with Billy Collins. After turning a few pages I came to “Monday,” from his collection The Trouble with Poetry (2005), which begins
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The birds are in their trees, the toast is in the toaster, and the poets are at their windows
And there it was, my kick in the pants. Because I am very fortunate in the view from my window which takes my eyes across the driveway, first to the bird bath, with its constant assortment of fluttering wings and graceful sipping, and then to the garden, full of flowers and buzzing things this time of year. If a poet can’t manage a few lines about flowers and bees, well, that’s a dire state of affairs.
So here’s my Monday morning attempt at a window poem. It needs work. I’m still fighting with the lineation, among other things. I may pull it apart completely and make something else out of it. But I offer it to you as a suggestion. Look out your window. I’ll bet you find some poetry waiting out there.
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Late Summer in the Garden, or What Do I Know
Mid-August and blooms are dropping
from the hibiscus, like the crumpled skirts
of bridesmaid's gowns, all matching
in their garnet gloss, worn once for a single day,
then cast to the floor, forgotten, on the way
to a late night bed. Around the base
of the tithonia, its shaggy tiers adorned
with the suggestion of buds to come,
with the promise of fire, clenched in a tiny fist,
are the dried stalks of daffodil and iris, once
our delight, now proof I have spent too little time
deadheading. The hydrangea outside the window
vibrates with the buzz of winged inebriates,
nuzzling each blossom, desperate and pawing,
noses buried deep, industry driven by need,
while the redbud, humming only a few weeks ago
with the same intensity, flowers sprouting
from its very bark in its urgency to be loved,
stands feet away, quiet and leafy,
an almost silent witness to the bacchanal
it once hosted in its candy-coated boughs.
I hesitate to trim away the skeletal spring
alliums, some standing as tall as me
on straw-colored stalks, heads once violet,
now spectral orbs, sculptural, rattling
in the breeze. I imagine they look
over their cousins, low, green, glowing,
the strivers of the late summer garden,
and lament their time that passed
too quickly. But what do I know of their loss,
of their life? Those dried and clacking bones
of flowers are not the story at all. The story,
the magic, is the bulbs, hard at work for weeks
underground, unseen, drawing back
all that was quick and sappy and luscious,
readying themselves to be the first green things
to emerge when the world is still white, the sun is still cold.
If you’d like to read the rest of “Monday,” by Billy Collins, you can do so here.
Things I’m Glad I Read This Week:
This gorgeous and thoughtful piece by Nelly Bryce at Journaling Wild about celestial events, and star jumps, and living in the moment was a highlight for me. Just go read it. This was one of my favorite parts: “Perhaps our only job is to remember. Remember that there is nothing we HAVE to do, only stuff we GET to do. Remember that we are just the current cohort of humans looking up at the sky and asking big questions - there have been so many before us.”
Mary Roblyn routinely delights me, but this latest, The Month of Letting Go, about August, and endings, and $5 jeans was particularly special. After fiddling with this poem about August all week, it was a wonderfully kismet feeling to read Mary’s thoughts about the same month.
Jenna Park at Everything is Liminal shared this piece, In Defense of Sharing Bad Art, which got me thinking about sharing bad poems, or parts of bad poems, or sharing thoughts about how to maybe write a bad poem. In short, it was a persuasive argument against perfection, and in favor of making and sharing attempts, even (perhaps especially) the unsuccessful ones. And it’s also always lovely to see her artwork. Even the things she’s not wild about look pretty wonderful to me.
What have you read this week that delighted you? Drop some links in the comments.
Thanks for reading, everyone. Here are a few more flower pics for you.
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