Poetry Friday: Anagram Poems

Anagram poems are wily.  They seem easy, but run you ragged. Also, they come in a myriad of forms, but for this challenge, we'll stick to the variations below (Each is linked to an example.)


1. lines or stanzas with word pairs that are anagrams (composed of the same letters), or
2. lines made up of all the same set of words, or
3. when end words all use at least four letters from words in the title.

I'm also going to add this definition (found by Tanita Davis):

4. a poem which anagrams the poet's name to find a title...and any poem you can create out of said title (usually humorous.)


All that to say:  I didn't really follow these rules.  (No one is surprised, right?)

Anyway, I landed instead, on a form that combines variations #1 and #3. (Honestly, #1 was fine, but I got tired of trying to find multiple pairs. #2 seemed too hard....and not really anagram-y. And #3 seemed more like a word search game.) 

So...  instead of multiple pairs, I decided to use only ONE set of anagrams, a list of six words which all use the same letters, and I used them all as end words, too.

Oh, AND I learned a new word.

From Creative Joys

Forgive me, I never knew your name

Unsung, sepal

props bud as it leaps

to bloom after long lapse,

sturdily bells to full calyx, but pleas

for love are unheard peals.

Beside blossoms, all pales.

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

More about sepals here (one of the four basic parts of a flower, how could I not know?)

And for more beautiful pictures of sepals by one who obviously DOES appreciate them, please see here.


Readers, I confess: the temptation to go silly was strong.  I made myself attempt a "serious" poem first.  Then I indulged in Variation #4.  Yes, I anagrammed my own name.  Found a title.  Wrote a poem to match.



WHOLESALE SIMARS
 by Sara Lewis Holmes

For sale! For sale!
A simar or two….modest shifts for you and you!
Or is it better hawked as “wispy” dress?
Or say, a trailing scarf? Brought in at yonder wharf?
Or maybe it’s actually a jacket? With fur-lined placket?
Definitions diverge. Still, prices low. Splurge!


I'm saving you from my other anagram title:  "I am Showerless, Al."


My poetry sisters anagram poems (of all variations) can be found here:

Liz
Tanita
Laura
Tricia
Andi


Poetry Friday is hosted today by the delightful Karen Edmisten.

Poetry Friday: Mask Poems (or How to Hide Behind Everyday Objects)

The challenge this month (courtesy of Laura Purdie Salas) was to compose a mask poem from the point of view of an everyday object. After briefly reading about mask poems, and discovering they have almost no rules (yay!) I chose to be inspired by an everyday book I keep on my desk.  

Thesaurus

I’m an open book,

an orderly muse;

I’m easy to dip into 

rifle  peruse

Need style? I’ve got

svelte   hip   rad

Lack range? Go ahead: 

roam  wander  gad 

Need an RSVP? Choose

overwhelmed  busy  engaged

Feeling mad? Upgrade to

furious  irate  enraged

Am I rich? Hardly.

Not a bit; in a word: no.

But if you're at a loss,

I’m overflowing with bon mot. 

I’m a depository, a nest egg,

A dragon’s lair of words;

A treasure house for all:

seekers writers nerds.

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

Afterword:

I was reminded of the richness of my thesaurus not only because it's on my desk in easy view, but because I recently discovered a delightful picture book biography of Dr. Peter Roget. From it, I learned that Thesaurus means "treasure house" in Greek.  Find it if you can.

The Right Word
 by Jen  Bryant,
 illustrated by Melissa Sweet

My poetry sisters have written an amazing array of mask poems.  You may find them here:

Rebecca (welcome!)
Liz
Laura
Tricia
Tanita


Poetry Friday is hosted today by TeacherDance. 

Poetry Friday: Minor Miracle (in the style of Marilyn Nelson)

Writing "in the style of" poems is lovely because you have a guide to follow. It can also make you wonder exactly which parts of the mentor poem to imitate, and which to let slide. The shape of the whole thing....or only the beginning and ending?  Something as small and as potent as the word choices? Or something as large and as nebulous as the theme?

All of those options were there in Marilyn Nelson's poem, "Minor Miracle," which Tanita suggested as our inspiration.  Go ahead, read it now, if you haven't already. 

Here's what this poem illuminated for me:  

how narrative it was, reading like lean unself-conscious prose, until at points, it broke into enjambment or poetic description.  

how matter-of-fact it was, too, letting the reader provide the emotion (brilliantly making us terrified for the characters in the poem, for example)

and, finally, how it began in medias res with the provoking words “which reminds me.”

I tried to use all of these things.  



Minor Miracle

Which reminds me 
of the day my baby boy was tucked
in a borrowed room. I’d left him, nestled in his Pack-n-Play,
next to a twin daybed, while I ate Tennessee turkey,
which is what he would later call bar-b-que, and in the closet
was a jumble of toys: a sturdy shopping cart, and plastic food
to put inside it; harmless Tonka trucks, and above that, a squashed line
of church dresses, hanging around, waiting. Of course, I knew

there were needles and pins in that room, and other sharp sewing
things, and a ironing board that unfolded from the backside
of the closet door. No room in that house was for one purpose
only. But after lunch, I thought we could nap together, me on the daybed,
and baby boy in his unfolded crib. I didn’t fit, though. A bolster,
the daybed’s length, made it serve as a couch. In the dim
light behind drawn blinds, I lifted that lumbering noodle of a pillow
into the air, making space for myself. But it struck
the etched square of glass—that thing, you know—that covers
the lightbulb—that thing on the ceiling! the shade, 
yes, that’s what it’s called. And it shattered. 

A rain of shards, each a needle, each a pin
fell into my baby boy’s nest. In the dark, he didn’t cry out. 
I threw open the closet door, the ironing board banging 
down. Dresses, covered in plastic, swayed. I yanked 
the tail of metal chain that ran to the weak bulb no one
much used except if they were ironing. Light.
A blurred circle of light. A holy-hand-me-down-halo of light.
My boy’s eyes were closed. A dagger of glass, five inches long,
lay beside his ear. No blood. No sound.
He napped on, as if nothing
had happened. I’m sorry, I said.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

                ---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved) 



I'll admit, what I found most difficult about this style was making myself not condense it, or stuff it with extra emotion...but just to let the story be, and have power on its own, as Minor Miracle does. Thank you for the illumination, Ms. Nelson. 

I'm excited for you to see what my poetry sisters have created for this challenge, too. (Kelly had some tech issues this month.) 

Liz
Tricia
Laura
Andi
Tanita


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