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Time Poetry Prompt: Once Upon a Time

By Heather Eure 24 Comments

once upon a time poetryOnce upon a time.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the idiom “Once upon a time” has been in use in some form since at least 1380. Used to introduce a narrative of past events, it is most common in fairy tales and folk tales. It’s definitely English in origin, though it’s hard to say how old it is. The dictionary has examples going as far back as Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, but it had probably achieved the status of a conventional phrase even before then.

Nearly every language and culture has a “story-starting phrase.” Common phrases include, “Once there lived a king”, “There was a time, long ago…” In the Turkish language, one particular story begins: “Once there was, and once there wasn’t. In the long-distant days of yore, when haystacks winnowed sieves, when genies played jereed in the old bathhouse, [when] fleas were barbers, [when] camels were town criers, [and when] I softly rocked my baby grandmother to sleep in her creaking cradle, there was/lived, in an exotic land, far, far away, a/an…”

This traditional opening phrase by the storyteller is rich with rhyming word plays, tongue-twisters, as well as comedic and bizarre situational juxtapositions that are meant to draw listeners in, and set the stage for a whimsical, fantastical story line.

Grab your paper and pen and get ready to create your own once upon a time…

Try It

Create your own story-starting phrase and write a poem around it. How does time play a part in it? Use humor, creative word-play, and your folk-tale imagination.

Featured Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a time-machine-inspired poem from Glynn we enjoyed:

It’s simple, really:
open the door of the booth,
sit, strap myself in,
set the dial to whatever
year I wish, and travel,
backward or forward,
or backward and forward,
a real Dr. Who,
or a Dr. Whatever.

I consider.

For now,
the only time machine
I have going backward
is memory;
the only time machine
I have going forward
is hope.

It’s likely, I think,
that my memory surpasses
reality, a rose-colored
filter simultaneously
enhancing and obscuring.

And do I replace hope
with reality or its shadow,
like Scrooge who saw
the reality and choose
hope.

I consider the door
once again, the temptation
of the tree, and before
I walk away I padlock it
with a lock I cannot open.

Memory and hope will suffice.

—by Glynn Young

Photo by christiangirl16. Creative Commons via Flickr.

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  • Author
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Heather Eure
Heather Eure
Heather Eure has served as the Poetry Editor for the late Burnside Collective and Special Projects Editor for us at Tweetspeak Poetry. Her poems have appeared at Every Day Poems. Her wit has appeared just about everywhere she's ever showed up, and if you're lucky you were there to hear it.
Heather Eure
Latest posts by Heather Eure (see all)
  • Poetry Prompt: Misunderstood Lion - March 19, 2018
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  • Poetry Prompt: Behind the Velvet Rope - February 26, 2018

Filed Under: Blog, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, Time Poems, writer's group resources, writing prompts

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Comments

  1. Richard Maxson says

    March 28, 2016 at 11:15 am

    Interlude

    In time, the story goes, he returned
    to constellations that defined him,
    and once again he was named.

    What we perceive as the infinite,
    he knew as interlude.

    It passed through him as a brightness,
    to a form unknown.

    Then sound began,
    as if it carried him in its oscillations—
    what we call waves he learned and endured.

    There was a movement that was not him,
    and a moment, when the ear was ready—
    the sound of rivers awakened him.

    Before thought, there was urgency
    beyond memory—in the veins, a sameness—
    fading in the circuitry of touch,
    another in the darkness that was not him,
    at the terminus of reach, where time began
    with the finite spaces of the world.

    It was the harmony of hearts that made
    a rapacious longing in him,
    the original sorrow, we have called sin.

    The world entered him as symphony and cacophony,
    a blindness waiting heedlessly for music.

    Once, and suddenly, touch and touched,
    the eternal forgotten, the mirror of identity
    began the searching in him
    for that, which he will never find.

    Light—unremembered and disguised—
    sound like nothing before, the weight of being.

    Symphonies are searches for the music of two hearts,
    the echoing of an echo.

    He followed home the crumbs of a language
    that appeared, slowly within the spaces of breathing.

    With these, he makes pictures
    of a half remembered light, colors,
    parsed and bent toward the earth.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 28, 2016 at 8:43 pm

      “…he returned
      to constellations that defined him,
      and once again he was named.”

      Rick, a splendid poem. Thank you.

      Reply
    • Donna says

      March 29, 2016 at 6:13 am

      Wow… that first stanza floored me. Beautiful poem.

      Reply
  2. Maureen says

    March 28, 2016 at 11:57 am

    This is a “found poem” inspired by author Lee Martin’s post this morning:

    Once upon a time

    he was a toddler,
    dimpled hands plump.
    Innocent

    once upon a time
    but then angry, his whip
    a switch

    from a persimmon tree,
    the measure of struggle
    to be.

    He changed
    in a moment of mistakes,
    gentle hands

    lost in the shucking box,
    and with them
    all he wanted. Once,

    before but also after,
    he was someone who needed
    and all my life I tried

    to save. I couldn’t
    but I also do not forget
    this image of a father’s hands,

    their vulnerability, the weight
    of their hooks
    tender on my head.

    Dedicated to Lee Martin

    Here is the link to the post:
    http://leemartinauthor.com/2016/03/couldnt-save-father/

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 28, 2016 at 8:37 pm

      What a wonderful “found poem,” Maureen. I enjoyed reading Lee’s haunting memory and reflecting on your lovely poem. “the weight of their hooks tender on my head.” Beautiful.

      Reply
    • Donna says

      March 29, 2016 at 6:18 am

      Oh, Maureen… thank you for sharing this, and for the link back to the originating essay where you found it. This is all so filled with emotion, pain, love, shock.

      I wonder – when you “find” a poem, as you do so wonderfully, do you have a sense that there is a poem there waiting to be found – or do you set out to write a poem about a piece because it moved you. I hope that question makes sense. I am always blown away by what you find and create and share.

      Reply
      • Donna says

        March 29, 2016 at 6:19 am

        Oh, the poignant groundlessness of this line:

        he was someone who needed
        and all my life I tried

        to save.

        Reply
      • Maureen says

        March 29, 2016 at 8:50 am

        Thank you, Heather and Donna.

        Donna, I’ve been reading Lee’s work for some time, so I already knew the story behind his post yesterday.

        Sometimes while reading prose that affects me in a particular way (and usually there is something in the prose that “gets” me) I will go back to it and try to use the words to create a poem from it. When that happens, I’m being deliberate in my writing. In the case of Lee’s post, I began right away to write, seemed to know exactly what words to select, and then did a bit of editing (paring away, not adding) before posting here. In some ways this poem wrote itself.

        It’s difficult for me to describe this, and I doubt I could “teach” it; it’s as if the words present themselves in my mind in the shape of a poem; I also hear them as a poem. And then, voila.

        Writing found poetry is different from writing erasure poems; for the former, I don’t follow word order in the original text; for the latter I do.

        Reply
        • Maureen says

          March 29, 2016 at 8:53 am

          P.S. I did share the poem with Lee.

          Reply
          • Donna says

            March 29, 2016 at 9:32 am

            Oh, great. I bet that meant a lot to him. 🙂
            Thank you for sharing your process with me and all of us. I know it can be really hard to break down and explain that sort of thing! This one really felt like it came from a place of wanting to be written – as if it presented itself to you and your keen eye/poet’s heart found and nurtured it.

  3. Glynn says

    March 29, 2016 at 8:33 am

    Once upon a time

    Once upon a time
    I read books, and wrote
    about books, and now
    I curate literary content.

    Once upon a time
    I protested war, and lit
    my anti-war candle, and now
    I protest perceived microaggressions.

    Once upon a time
    I prayed to God, and lifted
    my prayers upward, and now
    I pray downward to my smart phone.

    Once upon a time
    itself is no longer
    once upon a time

    Once upon a time
    has become
    once upon a spin,
    once upon a brand,
    once upon a tipping point.

    Rumpelstiltskin sits
    at his wheel, spinning
    straw into what passes
    for gold, turning
    to demand the child.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 29, 2016 at 10:26 am

      “…turning to demand the child.” Love that, Glynn.

      Reply
      • Glynn says

        March 29, 2016 at 8:21 pm

        Thanks, Heather!

        Reply
  4. Megan Willome says

    March 29, 2016 at 12:25 pm

    Glynn, “Memory and hope will suffice.” I like that.

    Reply
    • Glynn says

      March 29, 2016 at 8:21 pm

      Megan – thank you!

      Reply
  5. Monica Sharman says

    March 29, 2016 at 7:40 pm

    Not so long ago
    ten years, even five,
    seemed a long time. The story
    would never end, he thought,
    repelled. When will we get to the next
    chapter or even turn the page? The slope
    of this rising action needs to be steeper,
    more angle than arc. Then, steeped
    in the sweat of trekking, he pick-axed
    to the peak, did not rappel
    but switchbacked
    the long way down.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      April 2, 2016 at 12:06 am

      I especially like the ending of your poem, Monica. Thanks so much for sharing with us!

      Reply
  6. Simply Darlene says

    March 30, 2016 at 11:13 am

    Once
    Upon
    A
    Time

    As if tiny tick-tocks sliced
    Thick
    lemon curd crusts crisp with desires, sweet dream frostings.

    As if minutes stacked
    Steady
    heavy bricks mortared with first baby teeth, soccer cleats, graduation rings.

    As if hours captured
    Hot
    popcorn flying off life’s skillet fires, buttered, finger-licking perfection.

    As if days, weeks, months shelved
    Upright
    leathered memories bound, unbreakable spines, set apart, embossed titles.

    As if years gathered
    Thrown
    summer’s sunset shadows, long, skipping over sidewalk cracks.

    As if lives blipped
    Untangled
    red and yellow helium-filled, birthday balloons without songs, without strings.

    Once
    Upon
    A
    Time

    As if.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      April 2, 2016 at 12:04 am

      Glad you’re here, Darlene! Thanks for sharing your “once upon a time.” 🙂

      Reply
  7. Samuel Smith says

    March 31, 2016 at 11:20 am

    Columbus Sails (Eventually)

    O Muse! Headmistress of our history lessons,
    O coiffured keeper of the loud and tardy,
    To thy dark desk stacked high with homework and
    Red pencils once again ensconce thyself;
    Set thy firm ruler to its early laze. To us,
    Thy pupils — who, dilating in the night
    Of our suspensions, of the Principal,
    And thine own ominous eyes, remit the chalk,
    Recant the troublemaker in the corner cap,
    Descend our seats, and shall with attention rapt
    Command the self-same cushions, whilst our laps
    Our hands from mischief and from paper planes
    Shall keep — to us we pray, good Muse, relate
    How it was that a student from Genoa —
    How it was Cristoforo, as we’ve been told –,
    Who wore establishment as one would wear
    A dirty cloak — devoutly to be washed
    And then hung up to dry –, while he was yet
    Little in Italy had picketed
    Among the Free Iberia radicals,
    Redrawn the maps, incensed the court savants,
    And, when he had sufficiently impugned
    The board of educators, was then expelled,
    And left to seek his fortune overseas
    In three ships on a dole from Portugal.
    On him, fair Muse, do end our speculation,
    For we could not set fact from fabrication.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      April 2, 2016 at 12:03 am

      Love the invocation of the muse in your mini epic, Samuel. 🙂

      Reply
  8. Lane Arnold says

    April 1, 2016 at 12:06 pm

    “Cross that cliff when the blackberries ripen, right after the clouds whir above,”
    Grandmother’s voice,
    laughter-laced, shouted
    as I let the
    screen porch
    door slam.

    I’m not sure what she meant.

    But back then
    when the blackberries ripened
    decisions came easy
    picking through
    brambles high on
    Rowan’s Crown.

    How many summers
    had we traversed the
    stream on
    logs felled
    In a storm?

    Of course, back then,
    the most
    famous excursion
    came during
    drought summer.
    Six trips
    up, over, down, over,
    up, over, down over,
    over,
    over,
    over,
    over,

    Just to make blackberry
    cobbler for Grandpapa
    the summer, back then,
    when he
    broke both legs.

    Eighty-nine
    quarts of jam,
    purple as storm clouds,
    lined the cool dark pantry.
    Eleven more
    sparkled like amethysts
    in the glass-front cabinet,
    inviting us to
    toast and jam
    every single morning that
    August, back then.

    “Cross that cliff when the blackberries ripen, right after the clouds whir above.”

    Back then,
    was she talking of
    cliffs of bills,
    purple as storm clouds,
    when Grandpapa had
    no work that
    Unlegged summer?
    (but everyone pitched
    in and
    still we ate
    every single meal:
    bellies full of
    zucchini from Auntie Mae’s kitchen patch,
    tomatoes red-headed as Mr. Reese’s seven sons,
    corn golden as the sun setting
    late into the muggy
    July night)
    served up with
    fresh-ground graham flour
    biscuits, dripping
    in butter
    (accompanied by blackberries, of course)

    Back then,
    was she talking of
    cliffs of grief,
    purple as storm clouds,
    bruising our hearts the winter I turned six?

    “Black ice,” Sheriff Willingham proclaimed,
    prophetically descriptive
    of our hearts
    after we buried
    those two.

    Grandmother (and Grandpapa, too) lost
    their first-born daughter;
    my ten aunts and uncles hung
    low that winter,
    grazing-the-earth-low
    when their sister
    (and her mister)
    slid home.

    Back then, I lost
    past and future:
    mother and father,
    childhood sweethearts
    frozen in time
    after
    the blizzard
    hit in ’57.

    Wild blackberry brambles
    Still entwine those
    two granite-honed
    headstones,
    carved back then.

    Was she talking
    back then
    of
    cliffs of impossibility
    she and Grandpapa
    climbed,
    raising me, their oldest
    grandchild,
    having finally
    gotten the last
    of their brood of eleven
    out of the house?

    “Cross that cliff when the blackberries ripen, right after the clouds whir above?”

    Mr. Benedict shook
    his head, bepuzzled.

    “Mr. B, it’ll be fine. It will be. Really.”

    How was I
    to know
    my boss
    thought me
    too young for the position
    suddenly vacated
    because of
    a black ice wreck,
    putting me
    next in
    line of succession?

    Irony smiled
    back then,
    tangled, prickly,
    ripe as blackberries,
    lavishly rich beauties
    found up high
    just past the
    cliff on Rowans’ Crown.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      April 1, 2016 at 11:59 pm

      Thank you for sharing your poem with us, Lane. Glad you’re here!

      Reply

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