Tag Archives: micropoetry

Post It Note Poetry 2015 Recap Week 1

It is the end of the first week of #postitnotepoetry.

I have collated here the first seven poems. This series of poems began after I heard a song titled, “Things To Do In Winter” and it inspired the idea of a loosely linked thematic suite.

Instead of seasons, I chose days of the week. Each day of the week was prefaced with an idea. In my notebook I hastily scribbled down a list of potential ideas and throughout the course of the week amended, deleted or built upon the idea for the day. 

Some poems were easier to write, others took longer to compost and come to fruition. I was surprised at the thematic darkness of some of the poems as it was not the initial intention; only in the repeated readings did the layers of darker interpretation emerge.

It made me wonder whether I was subconsciously channeling a darker theme, or purging the darkness within. I think that’s another blog post/poem in itself.

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If you want to join in the fun of #postitnotepoetry, grab a pen, a wad of Post It Notes and write. Take a photo it and upload it to twitter with the hashtag #postitnotepoetry

Post It Note Poetry 2015

It has begun!

I am collating all my poems to a separate page, Post It Note Poetry 2015.

Drop in each day for a new poem. The new poem will be posted at the top of the page each day.

Here is today’s poem.

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A Found Poem

Rifling through this list, 51 Of The Most Beautiful Sentences in Literature (via Buzzfeed) a poem formed in my mind by compiling, editing, amending some of the sentences.

I have come across this form by other writers. It’s an interesting new form in that it is almost a type of plagiarism (except I am acknowledging my sources), to create a new piece of work with words that are not mine. In some ways it is another form of blackout or erasure poetry.

Follow the link above to see which sentences I have borrowed and what I have changed. There are some instances of changing letters for the sake of grammatical accuracy, and I have divided up some of the sentences to link them with specific ideas or imagery.

Untitled
I took a deep breath
and listened to the old brag of my heart;
I am, I am, I am.
Sometimes I can feel my bones straining
under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.
Do I dare
disturb the universe?
What are men to rocks and mountains?
Folks say God crumbles up the old moon into stars.
The pieces I am,
I could see
standing there
leaning on the balcony railing.
How wild it was,
to let it give
them back to me
in all the right order.
an enormous, unmerited gift
given randomly,
stupidly
holding the universe together.
Everything was beautiful
and nothing hurt.
Let me be something
every minute
of every hour
of my life.
Let the wild rumpus start.

When In Doubt, Write Poetry By Erasing Words

Diving back into the classics for more blackout poetry.

You’ll find my first two attempts here (Moby Dick – Herman Melville) and here (Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad)

I have taken the first page of a range of texts and used the tone and ideas to create something new.

Epistemology

from Frankenstein – Mary Shelley (click image to enlarge)

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Who I Am

from The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald (click image to enlarge)

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What Your Mind Has Made 

from The Picture of Dorian Grey – Oscar Wilde (click image to enlarge)

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A New Situation for Families

from Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy (click image to enlarge)

 

 

 

 

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Like Ivy

from The Strange Case of Dr. Jeykll and Mr. Hyde – Robert Louis Stevenson (click image to enlarge)

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Blackout Poetry – Another Questionable Attempt

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Between us
the bond of
periods of separation
and
a box of dominoes
toying 
with 
the anchor
we did not begin that game of
placid staring
The day 
was a benign unstained
mist
Only the 
brooding
somber minute
angered by the
curved and imperceptible
heat
a change
more profound
unruffled dignity
that comes and departs in the
abiding memories. Indeed nothing’s
easier
than to evoke
its unceasing

After yesterday’s modicum of success with blackout poetry, I tried my hand at another (need to do something creative at the moment while I get my head back into shape to tackle some significant writing projects in January).

This page comes from Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.” I studied this text in high school last century and thoroughly enjoyed it. Admitting at the time I didn’t quite understand the colonialism and inherent racism, it still holds as a powerful metaphor. Tie it with Francis Ford Coppola’s “Apocalypse Now” and you have a teenager’s existential orgasm. 

So, with that in mind, I wanted explored the idea of relationships through the text.

It’s a diversion from writing Post It Note Poetry (and a couple of other major works in progress) but I posit that flogging someone else’s idea to pursue something creative is better than nothing. Blackout, or erasure, poetry makes you look at words, their order and the meaning created. It opens your mind to see other possibilities, limited as it is by the choice of text, to create something new.

I encourage you to try it yourself. Or buy a colouring book and pencils. Do something to stimulate your brain. 

Blackout Poetry – An Attempt of Questionable Merit

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I have loved Austin Kleon’s work (@austinkleon) and I own his book, Steal Like An Artist (It’s fabulous. Get a copy). I follow his tumblr and love reading his work.

So I decided to give it a go. Armed with my iPad, a digital copy of Moby Dick and Notability, I ripped into the first page of Herman Melville’s tome. 

What does it mean? I. Have. Absolutely. No. Idea. I like how it sounds. And I’ll be adding this to the collection of poems I have on tumblr (even if it’s not a Post It Note).

 

 

Small Achievements – Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal 2014

Earlier this year I had a poem, Elihu’s Meditation on Questions Unanswered, published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal.

And now it is being published in the Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal.

I would encourage you to support small press and publishers as they are pushing boundaries and discovering brilliant new literary voices. This edition is full of remarkable vignettes, poetry and art.

Follow Vine Leaves (@VineLeavesLJ) and its editor-in-chief, Jessica Bell (@MsBessieBell) on Twitter.

Orders can be made directly through the web site. Order HERE. It would make for a wonderful Christmas present for the book lover in your family.

Best of Vine Leaves 2014

Where I Find My Poetry…

At band rehearsal this week (I play in a covers band for weddings and corporate functions) I scribbled this onto a scrap of paper between songs as the band rehearsed with a drummer who is filling in for me for an upcoming gig.

I’d had the title floating in my head for about a week and an idea of what I wanted to write. Originally I intended it to be a simple blog post about how I, as a writer and poet, find my inspiration and ideas. 

The idea was composting in my head and while I lounged behind the sound desk I scribbled this out.

Where I Find Poetry

Where I Find Poetry

while searching for loose change in my pocket
between the first splash of milk
when I make a cup of tea
and stir in the sugar
waiting for the hot water to come through
in the shower and I’m standing naked
getting cold
watching my indicator blink on/off on/off on/off
listening to the kitchen tap drip
no matter how often I change 
the washer
and touching your skin as the last thing
I do before I go to sleep.

What becomes more interesting is I took a photo and posted it to Facebook, rough and ready as it was. A good creative friend of mine made this comment: “This reminds my (in style) of Leunig, but I do that in praise of such an original piece. This needs to be a poster.” (Leunig is a well known and highly respected Australian cartoonist and writer)

Once it is published it is out of my hands. It is what it is to the reader and viewer. I see its faults and insecurities, the line breaks that don’t quite fit or the meter or rhythm of lines that are inconsistent, the ideas for improvement. 

But the reader and viewer engage with it as it is, seeing it as a finished product for him or her. It either resonates and connects or fails to spark and is ignored. And that’s fine.

It’s also, upon reflection, an accurate understanding of the focus of what I write about. I like the minutiae, ennui and detritus of the day-to-day because these actions, objects or circumstances have significance and meaning to a person. We are inspired and captivated by the videos flowing through social media of spectacular acts of heroism, generosity and compassion but it’s often the short videos of people doing simple, routine acts that bring us to tears because it reminds us we can make a difference. 

The seemingly insignificant has meaning and purpose to the individual and I want to explore what it means for the character and his or her life because it often reveals significant meaning and purpose.

Throw Out Thursday – Changing Form

During the week I was sifting through old poems on my hard drive looking for possible works to submit to an anthology a friend worded me up to (didn’t find anything of note although I did find a younger version of me writing complete tripe).

I came across two half-finished pieces and combined some stanzas to make a relatively cohesive whole.

The starry satellites stand sentinel
over silent musings while an observer
of a different reality speculates on the starry host
these pinpoints of silver across the velvety blanket
blink without recognisance
Looking towards the blanket of the night sky
He sees a thousand times a thousand times a thousand
pinpoints of light and asks
“Does God shine a torch at night through the little holes?”

Posting it to my crit group for giggles brought one of the group to suggest it would work as a tanka. No, not a tank top.

What is tanka? Think of it as an extended haiku.

It has a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable count, as per the Japanese guidelines (not necessarily the same in English when translated but English writers use this basic format when starting out).

Go here for an introduction: http://www.ahapoetry.com/Bare%20Bones/wfftocintro.html (with thanks to my crit member, Sean for the link. There are some wonderful examples to read.)

A quick check with my copy of Stephen Fry’s ‘The Ode Less Travelled’ and the link above, I had a grasp of the basics of tanka. And by grip I mean a loose hold. And by loose, barely touching.

And this is what I came up with:

pinpoints of silver
against the velvety black
a blanket of stars
“Does God shine a torch at night
through the little holes?” he asks

I now have a new understanding of how form can affect and benefit a piece of writing. Changing form, in this case, forced me to focus on what were the significant images I wanted to convey in the poem, leading to the final line. Sometimes it could be as simple as breaking the line or stanza arrangement. Sometimes less is more.

But changes to a piece could be in the form of changing point of view, turning a story into a poem or a poem into a short story.

Has changing form helped you with a piece of writing?

I Found More Poetry Under The Lounge

 I find poetry in all kinds of places, often under the lounge and I found some more there recently.

Right now the end of winter is approaching here in the southern hemisphere (not that we had much of a winter where I live – what happened to those good old fashioned frosts we had as kids?) and with it the promise of hay fever, runny noses, itchy eyes and a cursing of all things frolicking. The first and last poems assembled here, Magnolias and Windy Days, are inspired by the wintery season.

Magnolias

As I drive past
The magnolia blooms
A thousand sunrises
Of pink to white and
A thousand sunsets
Of white to pink
Simultaneously

Standing By

I stand in the longest corridor
possible, pretending I’m Red 5
barrelling down the trench
avoiding laser blasts
to my office door

The Last Page

When you close a book
Do you think it will be
The final time?
Never to peer
Between the pages and
Read the tongues of men
Again

My Companion

I walked in darkness
But was never afraid
For I felt your hand
In mine, or around
my waist, looped over
my shoulder as my light

Generations

She watches
grandmother’s knitting
learns the art of rhythm
the pulse of long thin bones
curses the dropped stitch
like her grandmother

Windy Days

I imagine with each 
breath of wind
the trees ask
for our silence
a gentle ‘Shhhh’
simply to listen
to our own
heartbeat
Which poem resonates with you?