19  April  Posted by admin
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April 18th & 19th Mom’s April Poem a Day Challenge 2013

The Trimeric

 

The trimeric is a form that I understand was invented by Dr. Charles A. Stone. They are fun to write. A trimeric has four stanzas.  The first stanza is four lines.   The second, third and fourth stanzas are each three lines long.

 

The second line of the first stanza becomes the first line of the second stanza.

The third line of the first stanza becomes the first line of the third stanza.

The fourth line of the first stanza becomes the first line of the fourth stanza.

 

It is a very simple form, but moves down the page like a slinky on the stairs, in much the same way that a pantoum does.

 

If we wait every day

on poetry’s front porch,

sooner or later

something surprising appears.

 

On poetry’s front porch

the worn rockers know

the rhythms of life.

 

Sooner or later,

as you rock the rhythms,

the word children gather.

 

Something essential appears —

the word children shout and run out

toward it with open hearts.

jch 9/21/2012b

 

 

Do you have

to be no one

to enter

the emptiness?

 

To be no one

one must step

beyond ego.

 

To enter

the eye of the needle

unload your camel, your baggage.

 

The emptiness

is really the fullness.

Don’t you just love paradox?

jch 9/24/2012a

Telling Time

Jeanne Poland

 

Introduced the “clock-man” to my 4 year old:

Little hand, big hand, forward move: one, two, three.

Time passes on the clock, on the calendar too

But touchstones stay the same for you and me.

 

Little hand, big hand, forward move: one, two, three.

Tick-tock, click-clock arrows speed to lead

Us to the dreams we paint: the hopes, the deeds.

 

Time passes on the clock; on the calendar too

Weeks, to months, to years, to lives…

Then on to memories worn on our hides, insides, tribes.

 

But touchstones stay the same for you and me.

The elders molt to spirits; the new reach for our care

Our nostrils scent the musk of need and nurture everywhere.

————————————————————————————————

2952006386_81a70fc957Just Beyond Words

 

In a poem, talk about the attempt to put into words that which is essentially ineffable.  Fill your poem with image.

 

A Tao of Poetry

(an excerpt) Sam Hamill

 

Each word carefully

tied to the next, the poem

is a net, and no

single knot is strong enough

to bear the burden alone.

 

Some nets are small, cast

for shrimp or herring.  Some nets

are meant to hold whales.

In the ecology of

the poem, the fish is not

 

prey, but the surprise

catch of the day, a diamond

in the coal, a way

of awakening to something

just beyond what words can say.

 

 

Let’s go in search

of the nearly silent poem

which delivers us

to the blue door

 

and smiles

gentle encouragement

as we struggle out

of our everyday thoughts

 

to try on

the ineffable

extraordinary,

 

always dancing

outside any circle

words can draw.

jch 1/17/2009

 

 

Everything

 

I want to make poems that say right out, plainly,

what I mean, that don’t go looking for the

laces of elaboration, puffed sleeves.  I want to

keep close and use often words like

heavy, heart, joy, soon, and to cherish

the question mark and her bold sister

 

the dash.  I want to write with quiet hands.  I

want to write while crossing the fields that are

fresh with daises and everlasting and the

ordinary grass.  I want to make poems while thinking of

the bread of heaven and the

cup of astonishment; let them be

 

songs in which nothing is neglected,

not a hope, not a promise.  I want to make poems

that look into the earth and the heavens

and see the unseeable.  I want them to honor

both the heart of faith, and the light of the world;

the gladness that says, without any words, everything.

Mary Oliver

(New and Selected Poems Volume Two)

 

 

Writing the Poem

                  Gary Holthus

 

Trying for some

Clean economy

 

These things I left out…

 

The arduous journey, the drifts,

The boots, the pain;

Any discussion of death.

 

What was left was hope

For essence of

Movement, of cold;

Of emptiness and loss.

 

The idea, lean

As a needle

Sharp as the edge

Of shadow

 

Trying to close

That thing straining toward me

The ultimate openness

The poem without words

The indelible thing itself

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