Poetry Friday: Haiku Sonnet

 

Greetings! I've missed the last few challenges, so I'm glad to be back...even if it's to side-eye the confusing mashup that is the haiku sonnet. (No one does side-eye quite like the Highland "coo." Although the one below was a bull.  A very friendly fellow.)  

The form is defined by four three-line haikus, and an ending couplet, for a total of the sonnet's traditional fourteen lines.  Sounds straightforward enough, but could two things be more opposite?  Haiku doesn't use a rhyme scheme, celebrates brevity and images, and is rarely narrative. Sonnets have a myriad of rhyme schemes, and while not epic, are much longer, and written in iambic pentameter or other meter.  I suppose they do have imagery in common, so I decided to focus on that, drawing on memories of my recent trip to Scotland.

Lichen fuzz beards rocks,

their caved cheeks sharp underfoot

we dodge, dip and twist

Black slugs share the trail

while we talk of unicorns,

not white, but mist-grey

Fords laid yesterday

are now rain-swallowed crossings

we must haul new stones

A roofless shelter

sinking in gathering clouds

births reedy saplings

We pause for tomato soup, 

hot and red, it is our sun.

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

You can find my Poetry Sisters' haiku sonnets here:

Liz

Tricia

Tanita 

Mary Lee

Laura

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Mona Voekel.  

Poetry Friday: Poetry Potluck

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. 

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

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

Liz

Tanita

Laura

Mary Lee

Tricia

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

Poetry Friday: A Clogyrnach for my Birthday

 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.

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

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

8 syllables - x x x x x x x a

5 syllables - x x x x b

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:

Tanita

Mary Lee

Liz

Laura

Tricia

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