This photo wants to be a poem

thanks to Margaret at Reflections on the Teche. I love writing to photos and surprising myself at what first comes to mind.

FROZEN IN TIME

Was it Lot’s wife 

who froze them

in  place?

Pillars of black salt

clinging to outstretched branches,

solidified

in mid step.

Did they not have faith

that they would emerge

as butterflies

or did they have regrets

that their lives

as they knew them

were over.

Found Poems

I’m starting a new course with Laura Shovan on poetry techniques for verse novels. I am very excited to be in a group of like minded individuals. One of our homework assignments is to find a conversation on Youtube from someone the same age as the main character of our book. We were to transcribe that conversation and make it into a found poem. I had a hard time finding regular conversations, but this one statement jumped out at me as I scrolled by. Not a regular conversation at all, but a sort of confession on the Dr. Phil show from a 12 year old girl. Although it doesn’t help with my book, the piece felt powerful in it’s own rhythm and form.

FROM AN INTERVIEW WITH DR. PHIL (A 12 YEAR OLD GIRL)

My behavior 

is pretty bad. 

Violence, 

physical abuse, 

verbal abuse. 

On a scale of 1-10 

my anger would be ten. 

Trust me.when that happens, 

you do not want to be in my room. 

One time I got really angry 

and I jumped off my bed 

and I pushed my mom

and it really hurt her bad. 

I call my dad 

stupid, 

idiot, 

moron, 

dumb. 

If my brothers and my sisters 

do something annoying, 

they are in big trouble.

One time 

they made me really angry 

and I chased my siblings around with a knife. 

Violence makes me feel comfortable.

It’s just a bad situation.

from: This photo wants to be a poem: Surprise Lily

@ https://reflectionsontheteche.com/

Fireworks

of floral .

Ribbon arms

explode

and fade

with pops

of pollen.

Surprise!

Lily for a burst

of Autumn.

draft: Diane Davis

Emotions in Verse Novels

Many years ago, when I first started writing poems and discovered my passion for verse novels, I was asked in a writer’s group, “Do poems in verse novels need to be about emotions?”. Of course not, I thought. They are amazing in description and voice, in creating mental pictures and making you hear, feel, smell or taste things you might have overlooked. They are about senses and delightful word choices and rhymes or rhythm or repetition.

But now, years later, I unequivocally say, yes, it is all about emotion. I read “Take a Sad Song” by Ona Critz yesterday and cried. That is the best testimonial to a great novel. All those other things help you feel that emotion, to emphasize with the characters, to put yourself in that person’s place. But without the emotion, the books might be just pretty word play.There is a place for that too, in poetry. But in verse novels, you are taking the reader along for a ride. Letting them see your subject through your eyes. Sharing an emotional journey of ups and downs through the plot of the entire novel.

As I go through editing my novel, I keep asking myself, who is this girl and what is she feeling. I don’t want to just walk you through my character’s day. I want you to feel her day. So a big part of my rewriting is adding in poems that let you understand how she reacts to things happening by what she feels.

My novel has changed so many, many times as I try to understand this genre, and what I have to say. Focusing on emotions is my latest lesson. But I think in the end, it will be my most important lesson. My novel starts with a plea against the worst of circumstances, having to move at the end of the school year.

When Mom says 

we have to move to Texas 

for three months

so she can train for 

her new job,

I say No!

Please.

Don’t make me go.

But Mom says

that’s not possible.

Please, I beg

barely able to breathe

as my throat closes tight

around my words.

It’s the end of the school year,

I’ll miss my birthday,

I’ll miss my Dragon Boat Festival.

Tears flood my eyes,

painting my face

like striped pajamas..

There must be a way

I can stay…

Which is why

now

I share a bedroom 

with my best friend,

Grace.

.

Pink Dragon Boats

I’ve been writing my verse novel, and am at the point where I am going to talk about the pink dragon boat racers at the Dragon Boat Festivals. Women who have had breast cancer gather to race these boats (thus the pink) during the Dragon Boat Festivals. It’s. a tradition that started in 1997 in Canada, in order to prove that women who have had beast cancer can do better with vigorous exercise, and that there are no detrimental effects from post treatment exercise. Since then however, it has become a symbol of fighting breast cancer ( the dragon) and finding the dragon within yourself to become your very best. It is a way to find a community of people who have gone through what you’ve gone through, and to find support as you continue on your cancer journey. I admire everything about pink dragon boat racing.

But why is it that this is beginning to seem like a right of passage? Recently another friend has told me she has breast cancer. I think this is the fifth friend who has had to fight this battle. Is it that we are living older, and nothing else has killed us so it is cancer’s turn to show up? Is it that we detect cancer earlier, and so it seems as if more people get breast cancer? Are we environmentally broken? I don’t know what to do but to write it into a poem and let some of this frustration loose.

Pink

is for girls,

blue is for boys,

at least when it comes to Cancer.

But why must we wrap this deadly invader in pink?

It is such a pretty color,

a delicate color,

a fragile little girl dressed in lace color.

There is nothing fragile about cancer.

It requires you to be the strongest of your life,

to gather all the grit and gumption and stoicism

that you’ve built up over the years

just to get through

another day.

It runs you down like a freight train

then does it again and again.

But when we take that color

and use it to brand our dragons,

to signal to other survivors

that we are one, that we belong,

that we recognize the hardship and pain

and we will celebrate every tiny inch forward-

that is when pink

becomes worthy

of wearing.

And then, maybe

we can say

Pink is for girls.

(draft-not part of my book)

Picasso speaks the truth

On the back of my car is a wall design that I turned into a bumper sticker. It’s a statement by Picasso that says, “Every child is an Artist”. It was always my mantra as an art teacher and I’ve had a version of this on three cars. But my newest car is white, which screams to an artist that this canvas is waiting for something more. So I asked my granddaughter if I could put one of her drawings on my car. Now it feels complete.

I truly believe that every child is an artist, whether it be through visual art or words or dance or music. It is natural to try to express one’s self. And I smile whenever I see a child dancing down the street, learning to whistle and sing, or decorating their driveway with chalk drawings. I wish everyone had a way to release their emotions as freely as kids do.. I know poetry does that for me. When I really want to write about something, it comes out in a poem every time.

(draft) Picasso speaks the truth

“Every child is an artist. The problem is

how to remain an artist once we grow up.”

When was that moment

you stopped creating?

Was it from competition

or criticism,

wanting perfection

or was there just

too much emotion to let your heart

open wide.

Every child is an artist.

Let that child in you

speak its truth.

Inspiration

Hymn For The Hurting
by Amanda Gorman

Everything hurts,
Our hearts shadowed and strange,
Minds made muddied and mute.
We carry tragedy, terrifying and true.
And yet none of it is new;
We knew it as home,
As horror,
As heritage.
Even our children
Cannot be children,
Cannot be.
Everything hurts.
It’s a hard time to be alive,
And even harder to stay that way.
We’re burdened to live out these days,
While at the same time, blessed to outlive them.
This alarm is how we know
We must be altered —
That we must differ or die,
That we must triumph or try.
Thus while hate cannot be terminated,
It can be transformed
Into a love that lets us live.
May we not just grieve, but give:
May we not just ache, but act;
May our signed right to bear arms
Never blind our sight from shared harm;
May we choose our children over chaos.
May another innocent never be lost.
Maybe everything hurts,
Our hearts shadowed & strange.
But only when everything hurts
May everything change.

Puppy Cuddling

There is a job,

yes, a real job,

whose title is “puppy cuddling”

where employees must cuddle their way

through litters of puppies

being trained as working dogs.

For no matter what their futures

or how much good they will do in the world,

today they are still puppies

and need love.

If only we could remember that more

with our own children,

and worry a little less

about their futures.

A short bit

Responding to “This photo wants to be a poem”

Partners for 47 years (first version)

Walking on water
seems like an impossible thing to do
and yet, we are asked
to do it every day.
Difficult problems
are more the norm
than the abnormality.
Let me be your pebble
just below the surface
to hold you up
long enough
to get to the other side.

—————————-

This was a fast response to the photo. Someone called it a love poem.

Perhaps the entire poem should just be this last part. (revised version)

Walking on Water for 47 years

Let me be your pebble

just below the surface

to hold you up

long enough

to get to the other side.

Anthologies and peaceful vacations

I read a lot about anthologies, and love to see them come out with so many types of poems focused on a theme. But I don’t know how to find a “call for poets” to submit to an anthology. I used to have great fun with ezines and web sites that played with themed poems. But how do I find out about them so that I can submit to them? I’ve been reading blogs, but mostly after a book is out with celebrations of a poem being accepted. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

Last week we went to visit our eldest in their new home in Nova Scotia. What an amazing trip. The non-stop conversations mixed with little or no news provided a well needed rest from the world. The scenery was beautiful, familiar to New England but with a red clay twist. The fond memories of student teaching in Halifax were as clear as they were 47 years ago.. And the food was tremendous, rich with Canadian pride and .homemade goodness. Yes, we had to jump right in again to troubles and tribulations upon returning, but the peaceful, restful experience hangs in the background of my mind, reminding me that I can be calm and happy. Even in turbulent times.

The sun

bathes me in quiet.

No politics.

No decision-making.

No end-of-the-world warnings.

Just a baby chick

squiggling in my palms,

it’s newly formed feathers

soft like a dandelion puff

while the quiet tumble of water

paints undulating circles

on the fountain pond.

I try to imprint this peace

on my mind,

sear it into my memoriy

for those moments

when I need it most.