Poetry Friday: "It was all my fault"

One of the many waterfalls
we visited in Oregon. For the record,
there were eleven switchbacks to get to the top.

September's prompt was simple:  write a poem using, or inspired by, the phrase "it was all my fault..."  The prompt is courtesy of Colby Sharp, from his book, The Creativity Project.  (Our own Mary Lee says it's on page 257.)  In our ZOOM meetup, we laughed about things we'd done that were clearly, embarrassingly, undoubtedly our fault---like me spilling an entire red berry smoothie into my cute summer straw purse as I was juggling too many things on the way to a fancy event. Or me, accidentally telling my MIL as I put an item into the donation box, that I'd "never used" that thing, which OF COURSE she'd given me. (How, oh how, could I have forgotten?"  

So I suppose I could've written about those blunders, but for me, they make better anecdotes than poems.  What I wanted to explore was the crazy line that popped into my head when I thought about this prompt:

It was all my fault... that the river ran downhill.  

What? That's not my fault, clearly.  But isn't everything connected? How are we entwined with the natural world?  I suppose I was thinking these odd things because I'd just finished the Mary Oliver documentary, Saved by the Beauty of the World. Her poems (and her life) declare that there is no separation. So I wrote about that. 

It was all my fault...

It was all my fault

that the river ran downhill,

I should’ve told it

that the occasional hiccup

and spume as it bumbled 

into stones

presaged the cliff 

ahead

But if I had, then it would not

have found itself

stretched into steel ropes

that cut the earth with ease,

vibrating like vocal chords 

proclaiming with throaty

belches that nothing

ends.

        ---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

And then, for fun, I thought of other parts of nature I was not responsible for, and wrote about my connection to them, too. 

It was all my fault

that the sun wearily rose today,

wan and hung-over.

I was doing yoga, see—

and those salutations work like

a charm. 

It was all my fault

she was dragged, dizzy

with heat from the muscled 

arms of the night.

I was writing a poem, see—

and who can do that in the dark?

It was all my fault

the birds arrived next,

feathers awry and twittering

with hunger.

I was alive, see—

and their song 

filled my belly with 

now. 

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

You can find my Poetry Sisters' responses to "It was all my fault..." here:

Liz

Tanita

Laura

Mary Lee

Tricia (who is hosting Poetry Friday today!)

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.