Poetry Friday: The Raccontino, once again

 

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)

Liz

Tricia

Laura

Mary Lee

Poetry Friday: Golden Shovel

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.

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

You can find my poetry sisters' golden shovels here:

Liz

Laura

Tricia

Mary Lee

Tanita

Poetry Friday is hosted today by the wonderful Karen Edmisten.

Poetry Friday: Writing to a Vintage Photograph

 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. 

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

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

Liz

Tanita

Laura

Mary Lee

Tricia

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