The leaves grow brown and fall
but between petals drenched with rain
blossoms still smell of summer sweetness.
poem- this was me October 5, 2013
This was me:
curls briefly permanent,
my pen poised on your promises
recording adoration,
lists of lingering longings,
the angst of my adolescence,
my imaginary reality,
of dreams carved from your
calls and letters.
Feeling freely at fifteen,
that was me.
..
I had written a lot of poetry for and about a boy I admired, and for his 18th birthday, I compiled them all into a book, in calligraphy, each was recorded in a blank red ‘leather’ book. In the top left photo you see the calligraphy pen I used. In the top right you see the book itself on my lap. The photo on the bottom left ended up as the ‘author photo’ in the book.
These portraits were taken by a young woman who worked for my mom. Her name was Lindy, and she was from Nova Scotia. I often wonder what she has done since returned to the East Coast.
In the bottom right you can see a bit of the 4″ wedge canvas Candies I wore to death that summer. Always a shoe girl. I loved those suspender jeans (by Pulse, my favourite brand). They’re probably still in a box around here somewhere, waiting for me to be 106 lbs again. Oh, those innocent teen years when I was still a brunette! 😉
PS. The more I think about this, the more I’m sure I lied in this poem. I got that perm after a dare from Mark, whom I met the summer I was 16, so this must have been the spring / summer that I was 17. Hmm. With necessary poetic licence, I’m going to keep the ‘fifteen’ in there. But you’ll know it’s not factual, okay?
poem-great at eight (For Rachael) August 17, 2013
You’re eight
and in your mind you’re great
Your dreams are there within your grasp
You clasp them tight and know
that as you grow
You’ll meet each goal
Your soul desires
Until someone you admire says, “No!
You don’t have talent,
you can not do
what your dreams are telling you.”
If you believe these sorry words
If you accept this worry heard
If you allow your dreams to die
if you sigh, and don’t ask why
then I suppose you wield the sword
that kills your dreams.
The naysayers set it in your hand
but they can’t swing it.
So throw down the sword,
hold tight to dreams that stir you in the night!
Those dreams that feel so right,
that make you mighty, those dreams
to sing, to act, to write!
Practise each day, to hone your craft
in every way, no matter what the naysayers say!
Opportunity looks like hard work.
Luck is believing you are lucky.
Practice makes perfect.
You will move past eight, and if not yet great,
Just wait!
.
.
This poem grew out of a Twitter conversation. Diana Gabaldon said that she knew when she was 8 that she should be a novelist (she went on to earn a Masters in marine biology and a PhD in ecology before she got around to trying, though). I was 8 when I started writing stories, sharing them in school, and dreaming of being a writer. Rachael Hofford said that when she was 8 she was told by her teacher that she had no talent for writing and that she should give up that idea. As an English teacher, I know first hand that some of my students who dream of writing aren’t very good, but the only way for them to get better is to read and to write. Practicing their writing by emulating the best that they read will teach them the skills to become good writers. Maybe they lack a spark of genius, but it may come later with life experience. If it doesn’t, there are still many writers who do well telling a story. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t. You may have to work very hard, and you’ll need some luck as well, but your dream is just as possible as anyone else’s.
listening on the lake August 15, 2013
A lone loon
intones a poem
lingering long
across the lake.
Its echoing call’s
a prayer chant.
Summer song
whispered on the water
Lonely loon
listens for his lover
lost in
melancholy memories
of sun sambas on waves.
Haunting ghost calls
as cabins close
and summer dies.
.
.
If you haven’t heard a loon call, here is a nice video that captures the mournful quality of their song:
poem- summer storm August 12, 2013
Epic battle:
light and dark.
Musket muzzles flash
Light bayonets the hills
with slashing stabs.
In the concussion of the cannonade
Houses rattle.
.
.
So let’s discuss this poem. Despite the nice circuitous connection of battle/rattle , I think ‘houses rattle’ is the weakest line in the poem, and ending with the weakest line is never a good thing. You want a nice strong ending. I started with ‘reverberation’ in the line (no houses at that point) which is perhaps better is some ways, though I felt too obvious a choice.
Let’s workshop this. What do you think? What would you do to the last line to continue the battle metaphor, but convey the quaking ground and rattling windows?
us July 9, 2013
I lost myself
searching for you.
I faded away
on filaments of fog;
I was ephemeral
but you were there
all along: a tall
strong fortress.
Grey walls
forbidding
forboding
forth coming
for nobody seen.
My cloud self
enwraps you,
enclosing us,
and we become
mystery.
A chorus line July 1, 2013
Two horses, white and bay
stand companionably
munching their lunches.
Atop the bay,
upon each vertebrae,
perches a bitty bird,
observing the world:
A small flock aligned
along an equine
telephone line.
The white mare, back bare,
munches, and muses
on popularity’s
winners and losers.
.
.
Coming home from work the other day, I looked into a field and was amused to see this sight. I wish I’d had my camera with me, but since I didn’t, here’s a picture made from words for you. 😉
summer comes June 9, 2013
Summer comes
on breaths of
scent drenched air.
Blossoms,
beaches,
and vibrant beauty
enticing an
inhaled happiness,
beckoning the season of
freedom.
overflowing June 8, 2013
You look at my
half-empty glass
shake your head,
insert a straw,
blow in laughter and love,
and make my happiness
bubble up until it
overflows.
seeds of longing May 26, 2013
your breath
drifts across my nostrils
soft as dandelion dreams,
floats past my ears
whispering mystic riddles,
touches my lips
with promised kisses,
lingers like laughter
o’er our tomorrow.
.
.
Pondering workshop advice from Garry Gottfriedson at Word on the Lake. “Love poems should use soft sounds,” and “never mention the word love…”
Shawn L. Bird 