Capture the Moment in Poetry — Kristen

Whether you’re a poet or an artist, there are some ways to keep an image fresh in your mind. This works wonders, when the focus is in nature, landscape or people. To catch the essence is to capture the moment with memory, notes and/or photography.

1. Memory–If you have a good or an excellent photographic memory, you can remember how it feels when you see the image. Let it trickle down in your mind–the colors, the senses, the portrait. When you’ve found the muse, stare at it outside in person, or through the window. (During winter, do it inside and via the windows.) Close your eyes, count to ten, and open them.

If you dabble in both poetry and art, go for it. Paint /draw the image first–it doesn’t matter, if it’s in crayons, colored pencils or chalk, or with paint. While it dries, write from your heart. Use good descriptions. Use your senses and let it rip! Feel free to free write, before you polish it in edits for a final draft.

2. Notes–If you’re not good in art or don’t have a good reliable memory, you can use an alternate method. Bring a notebook or notepad with pencils or pens, or a portable tape recorder/digital voice recorder. If you have a laptop, bring that along too.

Scribble down your first thoughts and feelings, the symbolism, the imagery in short-hand or long-hand writing. With a DVR, speak your mind and record it. With your laptop, you can do both, especially if you have a speaking component in your WP document, and then can save it in memory. Keep your notes in a folder or in a WP document with an external disk drive. If you lose track of thought, you can always refresh your memory and revisit/replay your notes at any time.

3. Photography–Lastly, you can do what I did a few years ago. I’ve captured it in film. If you have any kind of camera–whether digital or not–or a camcorder, you can utilize it to really envision the images of people, places and things. (I’ve used my photos of sunrises, sunsets and city lights.)

Use up the entire film cartridge with different muses, get it developed, download it on a CD-Rom (even for your laptop or desktop computer), and save it for your digital photo album. Keep the duplicates and negatives for a regular photo album for a back-up source in safe-keeping. Like with written or tape-recorded notes, you can always go back to your photos at any time.

There you have it! Whether by memory, note-taking, and/or photography, you can capture the essence of fantastic poetry twofold… or threefold. Start with one and try another.  Try all three! You’ll be amazed on how affective it works.

(posted by Michele for Kristen)

When a Poem Just Doesn’t Work

I wrote two poems that were very dear to me, but unfortunately never quite hit their mark with my critique buddies, neither the Poetic Musings nor my in-town group.

Almost every poem I shared with my critique groups has been improved by the act of putting it out there, reading it aloud to my local group, and understanding how my marvelously eclectic poetic friends interpreted my words and my intentions.

Each of these poems were different in structure and organization. They were about two friends of mine, very different people, who meant and still mean a great deal to me. I received guidance, comments, reworking suggestions, but no matter what I did, they never came to life. The richness and intensity of emotions, the imagery, and the story remained elusive.

I’m going to give you some background, then share portions of one of these poems, what I was trying to get across when I wrote it. I’d like your input and ideas about how to make it closer to its heart.

The first poem is titled “My Laurel Burch Bag“. It’s the story about how friendship grew out of an incident at a silent auction fundraiser for a shelter for battered women and children. “J” and I bid against each other several times for this marvelous bag, which Laurel had donated to the cause. I won.

Every time we saw each other, we joked about that Laurel Burch bag. That was in the early 1980s, and I still use it to carry anything that will fit. It’s traveled on trains, boats, airplanes, in cars and for 10 years in our motorhome as we traveled all around the US And Canada.

Every time I load my goodies into the bag, I think of “J”. For couple of years, on my infrequent trips to the Bay Area, I met “J” for lunch. She was in the midst of caring for her sister, who was in late stages of breast cancer. I always made it a point to get together with “J” when I came to town.

Our lunches often consisted of a lot of wine, mostly drunk by “J”, since I was driving; we had a couple of favorite locations where we were known and welcomed.

Sometimes we talked about how awful and unfair the situation was, the pain of watching, the feelings of impotence at how little we could do to change anything. Other times we giggled our way through crazy assortments of appetizers and desserts, reminiscing about some of the wacky things we’d done together.

I didn’t realize until several years later just how much my visits and off-the-wall sense of humor helped “J” cope with the reality she went back to face when we were done.

I haven’t been back in almost 4 years, but I intend to contact “J” when we are there later this year. I know we’ll pick back up somewhere along that lengthening thread of friendship that doesn’t unravel even if we haven’t seen each other nor spoken much during this time.

All of this I want to load into my Laurel Burch bag. Perhaps it is too much to try to carry in one poem, no matter how I pack it in, take it all out, reorganize, and repack it. But I keep trying.

Now I would like your help to see if there is a way to make it all fit, to fill my Laurel Burch bag with these memories and love. Here are two working versions.

Thank you.

My Laurel Burch Bag, Ver. 1,

A thought of “J” tangles
me and my Laurel Burch bag,
lavender-and-animals
tote filled with shoes, papers,
dirty underwear,
and Writers Conference memories.

Over twenty years ago
we became friends, “J” and I,
supported the ERA
(which failed)
and a battered women’s shelter,
(which succeeded).

We tried, in our own way
to make a difference.
We did, sometimes,
for a while.

When her sister was dying
I’d take her to lunch,
let her escape,
each time I came to town.

We’d retell stories
unrelated to the day’s sorrow
— like fighting over who’d get
the Laurel Birch bag
at that fundraiser.

I didn’t realize
how important this was
’til she thanked me
a dozen years later
for being there

memories woven strong
with fiber of friendship
in my Laurel Burch bag.

My Laurel Burch Bag, Ver. 2

Alive and aging memories
of friendship stashed
in my Laurel Burch bag

I lug them carelessly,
fill precious space
with shoes, papers,
dirty underwear

Image spins my head
I’m sipping cabernet,
drinking in rich refractions
with each shift of hand

Drift into Don Quixote’s gap
with my friend “J”,
when we believed
it was possible
to make a difference

Laurel Burch bag
reminder of those days
its soul protection for our hearts
respite when we’d meet
and mourn Joan’s sister
not yet dead, but dying

Never Forget Your Dreams

Several years ago, I found Refuse to Choose, by Barbara Sher, author of WishCraft and other amazing books. This one was directed at “scanners”- those of us who have so many projects and so many ideas that we can’t figure out what to do first and often end up paralyzed into inaction. I come back to this book repeatedly for inspiration and validation that I’m not really crazy.

A major tool in this book is a “Scanner Journal”, a place to track all of the wild things that go on in my head and that I really really want to do, or at least explore a bit. I’m sharing excerpts of my journal in this post. This photo, from my favorite T-Shirt, sums it up, and is on the cover of mine.

I’ve been fascinated for years by the Chief Crazy Horse Memorial project, near Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. The carving of the mountain has been going on for over 50 years, with no federal or public funds involved. We’ve been there twice and I carry around a piece of mountain* to remind myself to never forget my dreams. (The project and my connection are a story for another time and place.)

While I’m recuperating from hand surgery and limited to typing with one finger on my left hand, I’m learning to communicate with my Dragon voice recognition program. So far, Dragon listens somewhat better on the Mac than it ever did on my PC. But to work this way is a stretch – I usually handwrite my poetry and notes for articles, novel ideas and whatever else is kicking around in my head. I’m not used to writing aloud, but maybe this will create interesting new synaptic brain links.

Mary’s post about the Bliss Box really started me thinking about all those ideas I’d shelved during the past year and half since my car accident and assorted other distractions. Several items in the opening shot of this post live conceptually in my Bliss Box, which once held tea; I bought it because I wanted the box, and gave away most of the contents.

Scanners are not only permitted but actually encouraged to follow their wild tangents, capturing them in a semi-organized fashion in their Scanner Journal. Here’s a sample page, plus perhaps the wisest statements I ever came up with and which is posted all over my house:

I looked through my Scanner Journal to see how my dreams are faring –  what I’ve forgotten or at least misplaced, who’s still nagging me (yes, they are real life critters to me), and the ones that dance with joy because they’re getting attention.

I was surprised:

Our poetry anthology is out there in the universe. We adopted a wonderful dog. My office and workspace are even better than I imagined when I created them in my head. I began practicing tai chi on a fairly regular basis and participated on stage with my class in a martial arts program.

A NaNo novel I pitched was well received at a writers conference before my car accident, etc., pulled me away. Perhaps this is the most fragile of my projects: a novel that’s a cross between Catch 22 and Terms of Endearment, which an important person wants to see. And I haven’t done anything with it.

But it’s all the poetry that’s clamoring to be put on paper with purple fountain pen ink that shouts the loudest. My latest answer to dealing with all of these critters who must  be fed is what I call my Red Bag of Courage:  a large zipped binder with sections for portions of several projects. Sometimes you’ve just gotta hand-write a note instead of typing onto the iPad. After I can carry it . . it will include new poetry I’ve written, blog ideas, etc. I’m inspired again.

If you look back at the opening photo here’s where you’ll find:

~Ganesch, to keep me on track. When I’m following my right path, Ganesch removes obstacles in my way. When I’m not heading where I should, he throws boulders and icky things on the road to get my attention.

~A monkey I need to watch diligently to keep him off my back.

~A slinky to remind me there are many ways of getting from Point A to Point B, and to have fun while I’m doing it.

~My rock from of the Chief Crazy Horse Memorial. Korczak gave this answer to the question of how one goes about carving an image out of a mountain: “Study and observe, then remove what is not the horse.”

~A zebra, because I think zebras are cool, and I like to color them brightly when I have the chance.

~The open book and everything on it are all reverse images created in Picasa when I was playing around today. That’s why the paper is black, and the monkey is white.

Sometimes I just have to create my own reality. Enjoy creating yours.

Inspiration Shared

As promised, today’s post is a poem written by Eileen Peterson, entered in our recent “Favorite Poet / Poem / and Why?” contest.

My Dream House

By Eileen Dawson Peterson

Word pictures draw the shape before my eyes
of a “Vagabond’s House” in some far paradise.

And wistfully I see that dream take shape
with every beam, and chair and drape.

My dream house could not be as bold
though just as dear as Drifter’s Gold.

Mine would instead be clean and low and bright,
a cottage built of clapboard boards of white.

With a roof  that’s neither flat nor peaked high,
of rough-hewn wooden shakes to signify

the country, cottage-look that I hold dear,
with a broad front porch, and another in the rear.

Columns wound with roses red as wine
and vibrant as rubies on a valentine.

A porch swing swaying in the breeze
invites my weary body take its ease.

All round the cottage, growing lushly there
clematis vines and roses everywhere

and peonies, iris and rhododendrons bloom,
that in the sun will execute perfume

as sweet and heady as any tropic flower
you’ll find in any south seas bower.

Just room enough for me and for
occasionally a warmly welcomed visitor.

I’ll have a bit of grass, just big enough
for Grandkids to play, though not too rough,

perhaps to kick a soccer ball or roll and play
or simply laze a whole sweet day away.

In my backyard I’ll have a special place,
a little corner just for my embrace.

There I’ll place a chair that’s comfortable and low,
where only ferns and shade flowers grow.

Oh, yes!  A gazing ball, right there, within my view
where lilacs, lilies and Shasta daisies, too

embower my special spot of privacy
There I’ll sit and sip a steaming cup of tea

and fall in love each day once more
with this house of my dreams that I adore

In my living room, open and bright,
with a large bay window to let in the light

I’ll have a fireplace of old red brick,
and carpets soft, and warm, and thick.

On the hearth there’ll be a spot I’ll save
for the cat my precious Grandsons gave.

Mico Cara, “monkey face”, a silly name
which, beautiful thing, he overcame.

And a room prepared so guests can come
where they will always feel at home.

So come, dear friends, sit on my porch with me
and share my lovely sun-filled reverie.

Congratulations to Edward Harsen

When we decided to hold a contest about your favorite poet, poem, and the reasons you chose what you did, we knew we’d get some interesting responses. What an amazing breadth of ideas, selection of poetry, and challenge!

We found your poets, and your poems, then reviewed the comments several times. Lewis Carroll to Sylvia Plath. Ogden Nash to Czeslaw Milosz. Ted Koosier’s stark sketch to Shakespeare’s sonnets. Keats to Seamus Heaney. Don Blanding inspired one responder to write her own poem, she was so moved by his “Vagabond’s House”.* Not to mention our own favorites scattered through the stack.

After much discussion, Edward Harsen’s choice and explanation of the “pig poem” by Douglas “Woody” Woodson climbed to the top. Here’s the poem and what Edward said:

Fourteener 279
(Please help me get this pig, dear Lord, into my truck)

Please help me get this pig, dear Lord, into my truck.
Like Jesus, he senses the coming end; unlike Him,
The pig’s exhausted us both with flailing. My hands bleed
From the scrap-wood ramp and sides of the truck bed.
The rope leash burns my flesh. My plan, God, was food
For family and fold, the head and feet for the poor. But Satan,
It seems, is breathing hot stink at me. The pig braces,
Digs four hooves in, and stares. I’d gotten him half way up,
Tied him, then put my shoulder to him. He kicked my tooth
Loose, Lord. My eyes watered. Blasphemy had its way
With me. Now, covered with muck, almost broken, I pray:
Help those who suffer most first. I’ll wait, catch my breath.
Then, please forgive me, and grant one small miracle
Father: Get this pig in my truck to take to slaughter.

Douglas ‘Woody’ Woodsum

– Why?
This is such a meaningful prayer, such an aspiration. There is humor and desperation in the sense, there is a compelling voice, the necessary economy and brilliant execution. This poem clearly needs to be said, the speaker needs to be heard. Nothing is missing from the recitation, and the music is beautiful. The familiarity of the matter and the clarity of the form make this poem ring like a single bell. I would want everything I write to be this sufficient.

Joplin, MO, Six Months Later

what the wind destroyed
the town cleared to rebuild as
Mother Nature smiled 

Six months ago, “the tornado,” as it’s referred to by residents, hit Joplin, MO. My cousin and her extended family were there.

One of her sons and his family were in Wal-Mart when the roof blew away; they were saved by overturned shelving, and dug out with scrapes and bruises.

Her brother-in-law and his three kids couldn’t get to a storm shelter, and sought refuge in a convenience store when the windows blew out. All fifteen people got into the cooler, which was then crushed down to a height of three feet. Layered like sardines, they got out alive.

Her grandson, his mother and step-father were home when it hit. They put a football helmet on the boy, put him in the bathtub, Mom next, hugging him, then step-dad threw a mattress over her and climbed on top. The mattress and dad were sucked out when the house blew away. He survived with a badly mangled arm that required emergency surgery. Grandson’s helmet was shattered when the wooden toilet seat ripped off and hit him in the head. Mom was injured, but all survived.

St. John’s hospital, where my cousin worked for over thirty years, was blown off its foundation. And this is just the top layer of what happened to one person’s family. My cousin had thirty-plus people staying in her storm cellar that week.

The horror and chaos of the time brought out the very best in open hearts, minds, and wallets from around the world. The next day, people  brought out grills and fixed food — whatever was available, for whoever needed it. Veterinarians provided free boarding for pets. Churches, as expected, set up shelters, babysitting, and food. Trucks began arriving from all over the country, and kept coming for weeks. People dug in and began doing what they could wherever it was needed.

Fast forward to this week, the six month anniversary.

Extreme Makeover Home Edition built 6 homes in town — one going to my cousin’s grandson and his family. The show will air in January 2012.

Habitat for Humanity built 10 homes; families got the keys to them last week.  Businesses are coming back, slowly, but surely.

The city council last week approved plans for a brand new state-of-the-art replacement hospital. Ground breaking is Jan., 2012 with completion planned for Jan., 2014.

Throughout all of this my extended family displayed grace, courage, resilience, and an abiding faith in themselves, their religion, their town, and their future. I’m awed by them, and my heart has been singing poetry ever since I got this update.

Perhaps this is a psalm of thanksgiving, crudely writ, but from the heart. There are too many hearts here, I know, but this story is about many, many hearts.

Where is the poetry in sorrow and destruction?
In the hurting heart, as always.
Where is the joy in the aftermath?
In that same heart, as healing grabs an edge.

How does it work, this healing?
With loving actions to repair the mosaic shards.
Will it ever be the same?
No, fractures form a stronger bond.
And then?
We give thanks, and promise to love even more.

How will I know?
Shhh. Your heart beats the answer.

Kristen’s Post – a story to consider

Whale Song

If you love a good heart-warming story, you’ll enjoy this story about Sarah Richardson’s life. Eleven-year-old Sarah moves to Bamfield, Canada from Wyoming, when her dad gets a new job as a marine biologist. When she moves there, she encounters a harrowing life–she’s bullied, since she’s new and “white” in an Indian-dominant town, she has a crush on Adam, and she experiences her mom’s illness of PPH, all in part one.

In part two, her mom passed away, and her dad’s charged with her murder, when she doesn’t remember what happened that fateful day. When her dad goes to prison, she moves and lives with her Italian grandparents to Vancouver, and at eighteen, she lives alone and starts a new life.

In part three, she has an estranged relationship with her father between the visits and years go by, as she tries to remember what happened, when she’s an adult. In the end, she reunites with Goldie, her best friend, Adam her crush and new love, and her dad, when she remembers what happened and moves on. Also, it’s so informative on marine life and whales, that’s so touching and perfect for the story of forgiveness, love, loss and life. Bring your tissues!

Kristen

(posted by Michele for Kristen)