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.

Poetry Friday: The Ovillejo

 

I left this month's challenge until late. What was I waiting for? I don't know, but when I saw the rules of the ovillejo, I was afraid.  It's so tightly arranged.  Take a look:

Line 1: a rhyme in 8 syllables
Line 2: a rhyme in 3-4 syllables

Line 3: b rhyme in 8 syllables
Line 4: b rhyme in 3-4 syllables

Line 5: c rhyme in 8 syllables
Line 6: c rhyme in 3-4 syllables

Line 7: c rhyme in 8 syllables
Line 8: d rhyme in 8 syllables


Line 9: d rhyme in 8 syllables
Line 10: (Line 2) (Line 4) (Line 6)

On the other hand, the punchy short lines and the rhyme seemed fun. But how to make it all work together? My poetry sisters advised starting with the last line and reverse engineering. But...I didn't do that.  Nope. Part of why I write poetry is to discover what I think, and if I write the last lines first, I can't think well...my head is too full of where I'm going. So I just wrote a first line, then another silly one, and so on and so on, until I had...well, a mess that fit the rules but was as goofy as a bad commercial.  

Fortunately, revision came to the rescue. Even in a tight form, you have wriggle room. Even on busy days, you have time.  

Oh, when will the cherry blossoms bloom?

Wait. Wait. Ka-boom!

Bursting, busting, bruising the shocked air—

now, everywhere.

Time roots down as petals swirl; they free

you and me

from overflow; we can be empty

of questions of when; they sticky kiss 

our foreheads, they croon: Time is but this:

Wait. Wait. Ka-boom!— now and everywhere—you and me.

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

My poetry sisters' poems are found here:

Liz

Tanita

Tricia

Mary Lee

Laura

Poetry Friday is hosted by Marcie Flinchun Atkins. 

Poetry Friday: Inspired by Poet Laureate Arthur Sze

The Tree of Life

February's challenge was to write a poem inspired by/in conversation with a poem by the new Poet Laureate of the U.S., Arthur Sze.  I first found him via a podcast transcript, which featured Sze in an interview for Poetry Magazine's 110th anniversary. In it was this gem:

Sze introduces the ancient Sanskrit idea of Indra's net: Everything that happens in the cosmos is like a crystal. If you imagine the cosmos as an immense chandelier and shine light into it, each hanging jewel reflects and absorbs the light of every other. “That’s one of the things poetry does,” Sze says. “We’re not writing in competition—we’re all trying to create poems, and they’re all shining light on each other."

Wow. Each poem, shining a light on the other.  That's what the Poetry Sisters are all about. 

Next, I went in search of some of his poetry. I admit to not knowing much about his work, even though he's been around for decades, writing reams of poetry. So this article (Selections) was helpful in narrowing the field.  In it, I learned about Sze's translation of Chinese poetry, and his even wider interest in the struggle of every poet to "translate life to the page."  The poem given as an example of this struggle was  "Pe‘ahi Light," which I read, and fell hard for these lines:

Drizzle, rain, downpour—

I have no words for these kinds of rain;

I mark a conch shell doorstop, a dictionary

of etymology: rain, from Old English,

regn—a frond emerges out of the dark—

rain stops, water beads at the tips of ferns.

Words. Where they come from. What they say. What they can't say. I thought I could write a poem in response to that. 

No Words

ache, pain, sting—

I have no words for these kinds of pain

bite, gnaw, twist, rip—

words caught in teeth, as if we must feed

on this pain we have no words for

burn, spasm, catch—

words of unregulated jerking, as if our hearts

cannot steady this pain we have no words for—

but maybe no one does—

for in my dictionary, pain roots 

from the Latin poena:

penalty, cost, fine—

it is that which is taken,

like a pound of flesh

hence, the chart with grimacing faces 

or the numbers by which we rank

sensation, moving pain away 

from words, which are, at base, 

untranslatable from the body

which only knows how 

to bead and quiver

in the light that shines

on all the others,

giving words to

no words 

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved) 

My poetry sisters all picked different poems by Sze to respond to. You can find them here:

Liz

Tricia

Laura

Mary Lee

Tanita

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Margaret Simon.

 

Poetry Friday: A Trio of Tricubes

The power of three
in storytelling

The challenge for January was tricubes, a short non-rhyming form--just three stanzas of three lines each, with only three syllables per line. (Get it? 3 x 3 x 3 = a cube)  It was supposed to be a low-key entry to a new year of poetry... and surprise! it actually WAS pleasantly dreamy to write these...Liz even used the word "meditative" (which is poet speak for wild fun.) We also had a discussion about the well-documented magic of three in storytelling, and about all the ways one could approach tricubes.  If you want to write one, here are six ideas for to begin:

1) Write a story in three parts: beginning, middle and end for each of the the tricube's three stanzas

2) write a list poem, as if you were jotting three-syllable notes to yourself (or someone else) 

3) Pick a three-syllable word and write your poem as a definition of that word. 

4) Or simply use a three-syllable word as inspiration, weaving it in as a line in the final poem (or let it go after you've revised it into something better.) 

5) brainstorm a grab bag of three-syllable lines about any topic. Then play with the order of the lines, mixing and matching to make the most interesting stanzas.  Tanita likes to "intensify" the poem as she moves through the stanzas. 

 

6) Be inspired by the math itself, and play with the rich lore of numbers

 ...which is what I did, writing three tricubes, all about the number three:  

Threesomes

Valentine

math is odd:

adding one 

to two shakes

up old ties... 

classic love

triangle,

new friendship,

or fifth wheel?

 

Caution

in Japan 

sugar cane

field warning:

 

Don’t be third

in a line

of walkers:

one: snake sees

two: snake coils

three: snake strikes.

 

Fortune

 

Bad luck sprouts

in threes, spreads

like poison

But good luck 

falls like trees:

a rich rot

thick with life

green with love

multiplied

            ---all poems, all rights reserved by Sara Lewis Holmes 

Please visit my poetry sisters to see their tricubes:

Liz

Tricia

Tanita

Mary Lee

Laura

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Amy VanDerwater at the Poem Farm 

 

 

 

 

Poetry Friday: End of Year Poems about Light, Hope and Peace

 

Christmas, 2019
(Year of the Bûche de Noël)

December's challenge was designed to be simple:  a poem, of any form, about light, hope and/or peace.  Like many simple things, however, it took work to get to the heart of what I should do with this task. In the end, I decided to lean upon our yearly theme of conversation, and seek out a poem about light that I could be in conversation with.  With Liz's help, I found Lucille Clifton's poem, "the light that came to lucille clifton."  Do you know it?  It begins:

the light that came to lucille clifton

came in a shift of knowing

when even her fondest sureties

faded away. it was the summer

she understood that she had not understood

and was not mistress even

of her own off eye

That's how I've felt lately. My fondest sureties faded away, driven from me by the death of my son, Wade.  I haven't written about it, not a word, because I haven't been able to--and because some piece of me didn't want the Internets to have him, strange as that sounds. I wanted to hold him close, not scatter the news of him out there for garish ads to devour. But it's time to say his name. After less than a year of battling cancer, Wade was buried at Arlington National Cemetery this past summer.  My grief is never-ending.  But there is still light. Light he would want me to see.

 I didn't write this poem with him in mind, but it enabled me to tell you about him.  That is a gift I wasn't expecting from this simple challenge.  And I'm deeply grateful to my poetry sisters, who have grieved with me, and supported me in the most beautiful, tender ways.  

In conversation with Lucille Clifton poem,

 “the light that came to lucille clifton”

I brought the recipe for the light

to my daughter’s house one Christmas—

it was in the shape of a Bûche de Noël—

that clever, cocoa-tinged log of sponge,

spiraled about a layer of espresso buttercream, 

then slicked with frosting as dark as walnut bark, 

combed with the tines of a fork to mimic the roughness 

of woodgrain, and garnished with clustered bulbs

of creamy marzipan mushrooms, meticulously made—

all to be destroyed, sure as the Yule Log 

it mimics used to blaze, crying for the sun to return—

what a burst of merrymaking, yes? 

So I brought the recipe for the light

to my daughter’s house one Christmas—

and asked her to make it. She was much better 

at that kind of thing, and she would enjoy 

the making of it, right?

I can see that you can see

where this is going: The cake, in the end

was correctly, beautifully, gloriously made, 

perfect, even. But I was wrong. 

I only saw that years later, because 

that is how light works. It takes forever

to get from a combusting star to your blind eye,

and in the meantime, you stumble

in the darkness, not knowing that

you are not mistress

of the cake, not mistress of Noël,

not mistress of even your own “off eye”

as Clifton so mysteriously says—

You are servant to the light,

which instructs you to make toast,

if that’s what you can do, and butter it

all the way to the edge, and let it be enough—

or light might say: make the same damn soup,

the one with lentils, and lots of garlic,

and lovely curls of greens, and a wedge of gooey

parmesan melting in the middle. Light might say:

Noël was, and will be; see it there, it comes. 

It is on the table. Amen.

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

You can find my poetry sisters' poems about light (and hope and peace) here: 

Tricia (who is hosting Poetry Friday today!)

Liz

Tanita

Laura

Mary Lee

Poetry Friday: The Burning Haibun

Yeah, who thought of this one?  A prose poem, burned down to a second poem, burned down to a haiku? Oh, and please use something actually burning in the poem. And don't forget our yearly theme of conversation! 

No wonder that in our Zoom meeting, no one would admit to proposing the burning haibun as our October challenge, but there we were, stuck with it. We discussed various ways of "cheating"---starting with the end haiku, planting needed words, etc.---but in the end, I just went with my normal free-write process, which generated a sort of story, which I then worked into a prose poem. Burning it down into the second and third poems was much harder, because it felt easy to lose control of meaning as I strove to use the words in fresh ways. In the end, (to quote "Burning Down the House") I fought fire with fire, leaning into honing words in the first poem to give the next two more fuel.  Here it is:

Time is funny

My father knew my mother a year before this story, and (I can’t verify this, time is funny) she asked him to a dance (he said no, he was not a dancer, but later, double that age ((time is funny)) he learned how to waltz for my wedding, whaddya know) but it was only when he saw her, curled up, asleep, on a couch in a study lounge, that he talked to her (I suppose this was after— keeping time is funny, right?— she awoke, but who knows?) He said he planned to be a doctor, and that second (not later, or sooner, time was not funny, but only NOW) her eyes met his, and she said: you’ll be a good doctor. It was but a flicker of conversation—but for sixty years, those bright words consumed his coal-black doubts as he sliced into his patients, who floated on the operating table. Oh, time, so funny for those adrift in sleep! He lifted tumors from organs, and repaired bullet holes, and danced inside people’s bodies with his scalpel until it was time (the light was harsh and hot) to bind skin to skin as he closed. Years later, my mom’s lung sunk into her chest, and she curled up again on a couch. She did not wake. Time, always funny, became a riot, slowing and racing, twisting and bucking, until he, living alone, fell. He was only—at the time— reaching for the phone, for connection, for conversation—but it tore the hell out of his thigh muscle, burned it right off the bone. When he saw me, he said: it’s too much, it’s too much. Time told bad jokes while another doctor (who must have believed he could be a doctor, too) picked through the damage, salvaging what was left of my father’s snapped tendon. He emerged, still beating and flowing, too much, and too little. Time to go look in that drawer, he said. Those are her rings—-a promise ring and a wedding ring—they are yours to take. I slip the rings on my pinky finger (my other knuckles bulge) I feel time push me, like gravity, into my shoes. I’m awake. I hear what he’s saying to me: She believed in me. She believed love is round, and (if time is funny enough) that you can return ashes to light.

A year is a waltz, keeping time,

a flicker of bright bodies— 

harsh time, a riot of damage, 

too much, and too little time.

Go, look! those are rings, 

a promise to slip time

I hear she believed in love, 

and if time is funny, that you return

Bright bodies riot,

damage, and promise, I hear—

Love, time is funny

          ---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

You can find my poetry sisters' links here

Tricia

Liz

Tanita

Laura

Mary Lee

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Jone Rush MacCulloch.

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.