Poetry Friday: Inspired by Jane Hirshfield's Two Versions

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.

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

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

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.

                                                ---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

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

Liz

Tanita

Tricia

Kelly

Laura

Mary Lee

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Irene Latham.

 

Poetry Friday: Wabi-Sabi Poems

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

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

Explore my poetry sisters' posts here:

Liz

Tanita

Laura

Tricia

Mary Lee

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

 

Poetry Friday: Impossible Questions

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. 

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

My fellow poets impossible question poems can be found here:

Liz

Tricia

Tanita

Mary Lee

Laura

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Ruth. 

Poetry Friday: Animal Pantoums

 

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.

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

My poetry sister's pantoums can be found here:

Liz

Tricia

Laura

Tanita

Mary Lee

Kelly

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

Poetry Friday: Love Letters to February

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!

               ---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

(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.

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

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.

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

My poetry sisters love letter poems are here:

Liz

Kelly

Tanita

Mary Lee

Tricia

Laura

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

Poetry Friday: Writing to the Art of Roberto Benavidez

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:

Liz
Tanita

Laura

Mary Lee

Kelly

Tricia

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Susan at Chicken Spaghetti.