This week I had a clear poetry dream. I woke with the words floating around me and I managed to capture a few of them in my journal. The entire concept of the poem, however, isn’t complete. I’m hoping when the school year is over and we get through graduations and parties, I’ll have time to sit and fully complete my strange little cheese grater poem. Stay tuned.
I want to thank the WordPress poetry community. You have created such a positive and safe space. I’m honored and humbled so many have read and commented on my poems. Thank you. You sure do know how to make a gal feel welcome and encouraged. I haven’t had as much time to read and comment lately, but this summer I’ll be deep-diving into all your wonderful words. There is an abundance of talent and inspiration here. Thank you for making me feel so welcome.
My offerings this week:
Free-verse poem processing my feelings after dropping my daughter off in the woods (pictured above) for her 8th-grade trip. She’ll be fine. I mean, right? Right??
Erasure poem created from a page of “A Court of Wings and Ruin” by Sarah J. Maas
Erasure poem created from page one of “The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue” by V.E. Schwab
Both of the Erasure poems were a gift for a dear friend’s birthday. I didn’t get a great photo before handing them off, but still wanted to include the process and the words.
Erosion
tiny increments of sand tiny toes and hands barely perceptible yet unbreakable changes everything changes nothing
wind, water, waves
latched together we begin as not two but one plus one merging all moments hearts beating, meeting together in time
wind, water, waves
tempest tantrums force skinned feelings as two become two linked by still fused hearts beating, meeting together in time
wind, water, waves
finger by finger hands pry free, move toward monkey bars and swings pushing, pulling as still hearts beat, meeting together in time
wind, water, waves
warring words rage as torrential tears fall between two who don’t see how to keep hearts beating, meeting together in time
wind, water, waves
standing taller than mother, biting hard at tethers outgrown, words sting eyes, burn places where hearts beat, meeting together in time
wind, water, waves
spring becomes winter winter becomes spring old-growth gives way to loves eternal connection hearts beat, meeting together in time
wind, water, waves
acres and acres of sand brushes between same-sized hands barely perceptible yet unbreakable changes everything changes nothing
*Thank you Chris for inspiring me to record myself reading my poetry
The Artist
Painting a lie bright pale, blooms fat sunshine, idle rose lurking, open thorns, satiny hills distance—unrelenting.
Last week, I heard Neil Gaiman and Michael Gallowglass read poetry in person. Both experiences were vastly different and I learned quite a bit about why I’m so drawn to this form of writing. It’s like a powerful treasure hunt of meaning, and when it’s done well, it lingers with you and leaves its mark.
My poetry class ended, but I think I’ll continue to share poems each Wednesday. Most likely it will be something related to my weekly short story, but I’m not going to limit myself. I hope to experiment with different poetic forms and find my own voice.
This week I’m sharing six poems. The first two are ekphrastic poems written as class assignments, the second two are free-verse poems written to accompany my short story The Red-Haired Beauty, and the final two are a nonet and triolet written as an afterthought for my latest short story Playing Games.
Thank you to everyone who continues to read my blog and give me feedback. It means the world to me.
The Blue Woods
Ancient woody arms with hunched-back shadows, press through darkness to where children walk alone.
Follow the moon with cold bare-toes pressed firm. Ignore whipping sounds clawing at innocence.
Into blinking dark night’s warm bosom, shaking-unsteady, my dearests—for nightmares aren’t real.
*This was based on looking at the cover art of “The Ocean at the End of the Lane”
To Be Them
Mother says keep moving, the waters can rise up again in an instant, but I want to see twisting wires, and climb to the top like kids without parents do.
Mother says don’t question our lot, our struggling, fumbling life but the faded colors of towers built for them, mock me—joy not meant for those who look like me.
Mother says be kind, but they come to hallowed ground, our sacred birthplace. Blood mixed soil infused with ancient seawater—ancestral fragments of us, but they do not see us.
Mother says don’t hate, like brother does when we find pictures of smiling pink cheeks, white hats on colorful cars. They eat fluffed candy without thinking of who lives here.
Mother says don’t wonder what cream smothered on white skin smells like. Or how they keep clothes sparkling while screaming through steep dips. We know the real danger is us.
Mother says find things to sell them on return, but the waters might never stop coming. She still believes we need them to survive. She doesn’t see hope in me.
Mother makes more jewelry for thin necks and tiny wrists, but if they don’t return maybe they can drape my thick dark ones, and she’ll call little me beautiful too.
Mother cries for lost toys crushed by the sea. Not me. I hope they stay away, in their honey- colored love boats. So we don’t disappear back into shadows again.
*This was based on an art image of carnival-type rides fallen into disrepair
Bubbles I
Saliva pools inside puffed pink cheeks as the squishy bubble bursts between molars, exploding juices down my scratchy throat. Burning it fizzles inside; soda pop madness, sweet as jars of candy swiped from dark corner shops while peers sit behind rows of school desks. Her face, the one swallowed by the slinky shadow creature while I walked unknowing into the wrong silent place, comes now with painful throbbing to sing words I’d heard long ago but forgotten, and to brush the stray hairs off my sticky cheek with soft fingertips. The thoughts of love once mine, unasked for but given anyway, are pinpricks of pain, nerves awakening after pinched off so long, messages to tell my body to really feel. I stuff more into my mouth, craving sensations of the forgotten, much too much, but oh how my true name echoes and changes everything.
Bubbles II
Plucked from our icy home deep within the salty brine of life’s starting place, we slumber in grains of sand tinier than eyes can perceive. Minute flecks of light, rays of sun mixed with moonlight, we live far below scuttling claws and slippery flippers. You called us forth in an instant, brought by proximity to the shadow of The Shadow’s mark upon your soft imperfect body. We saw you weeping into our waters and felt compelled to stir and rise. We exist, persist, to seek balance between all things. Shifting, we move matter within moments with forces older than time, faster than light and sound. You can’t see until we let you the realness of your truth. The faces and moments feasted upon and stolen from you within the sacred silence it lurks behind. Teasing, we form into physical shapes, tempting you to taste of your life, plopped into waiting warm mouths, sliding into the depths of bone and muscle, wiggling and writhing—alive. We unleash captured memories to dance on the surface of your consciousness, tangos of truth you knew but which it hid within the folds of time.
she’s waiting for me when the bell rings faded yellow sweater smelling of home unknown to me except in dreams, no wings she’s waiting for me when the bell rings my name upon her lips she does sing with bluest eyes framed by glasses of chrome she’s waiting for me when the bell rings faded yellow sweater smelling of home
Mother’s Love | A Nonet
my mother knows every inch of me her child from any time or place we fold into each other her arms a warm blanket of protection from the bad dreams of shadowy death my mother heals every inch of me
While I’ve always admired and enjoyed poetry, the skills it takes to craft such beautiful imagery within the framework of a poem have eluded me. In an attempt to improve my writing all around, I enrolled in a poetry class specifically designed for fiction writers. We meet once a week and have assignments that I find both challenging and enjoyable.
I’ve decided to be transparent about my journey, as a way to chronicle my exploration and perhaps inspire others. Here’s the culmination of my first week’s work. There are three free-verse poems.
A poem borrowing heavily from Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky”
A poem critiquing something we dislike in genre fiction
A combination of the two poems
I hope you enjoy my first, clumsy attempts. As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.
Part I: My gimble love
we were to meet near the Tumtum grove sweetest Mimsy and I in the wabe of the bright callay moon
vorpal drunk on too much gyre and honey-wine myriad dreams rollicking, frolicking singing multitudes, manxomes, moments
yet snicker-snack, quicker-quack and outgrabe you caught me instead slithy and slimy-the ultimate uffish trickster
tying my hands with rough tulgey strands behind my burbled back whispering wicked words under frumious breath
wound and wound, like ugly bandersnatches to silence whiffling cries hands and heart knotted, cold as beamish bears
you couldn’t let violet joy breathe between sweetest Mimsy and me no, not with such a frabjous, frivolous hallow heart
oh, what will become of me, dearest mome without my gimble love stuck within the fettered borgogoves for all eternity
Part II: Too sweet for me
Super sweet taffy names sticky, pointless, giant cones of toothaches you feed them to me relentless as if more is more is more confused I throw you down and you smile and tell yourself it’s me who doesn’t get you
wheels of definitions, connections turn in place while story gets lost under sideways leanings cleverness loses characters messes mess with me wondering where did the story go
where is the truth behind the many, many words names, places, movement half-light and half-truth half right don’t tell me a lot of nothing tell me all of one thing I can believe is real
where is the soul of the sweet the ingredients of the truth the messy darkness cloudy with connections and conversations the door within the door the dream within the dream truth I can truly feel
don’t just tell of deeds done action, reaction, repeat but the why and the why and the way curiouser and curiouser deeper and deeper secret journals in watery caves monsters within who fight with gospelly fingers
give me contradictions wrapped in truth make me feel something I know make me know it again with the kind of unexpected gasp I won’t, can’t forget so when I close the book your words live inside me forever
Part III: Lover, tell me more
in the wabe of the bright callay moon you feed them to me relentless as if more is more is more confused I throw down singing multitudes, manxome, moments you smile and tell yourself it’s me who doesn’t get you
slithy and slimy—the ultimate uffish trickster turning wheels of definitions, connections sideways leanings behind burbled backs messes mess with me whispering wicked words under frumious breath to silence whiffling cries while I’m left wondering where did you go
untruths hidden behind many, many words wound and wound, like an ugly bandersnatch messy darkness stuck in action, reaction, repeat half-light and half-truth—half right vorpal drunk on too much gyre and honey-wine don’t tell me a lot of messy nothing tell me the thing I seek
unwonted discovery, hidden verity knotted, cold as beamish bears door within a door—dream within a dream secret journals in watery caves frabjous, frivolous hallow hearts monsters who fight with gospelly fingers everyone, anyone stripped naked real
let violet joy breathe between contradictions wrapped in truth lost and found within the pulsing borogoves make me feel something I know but make me know it again with unexpected gasps I won’t, can’t forget your words alive inside me
Bridgette Tales 