Sometimes we start poetry with a history of strains and tight muscles. For many of us, this month’s May Play felt like therapy, a chance to purge ourselves of some lactic acid and develop more elasticity. Instead of stretching our rhomboids and trapezius muscles, we began by stretching our confidence.
And our ability to have fun.
Even Nancy Davis Rosback commented on the therapy taking place at Tweetspeak last week. She wrote,
“You are helping to make this a place where people can feel accepted and loved, which opens the door to creativity, growth and healing. It is so fun to see the way each person writes their own unique piece that no one else could write. And i feel totally encouraged by the really nice comments, thanks.”
As we play with words, we increase our capacity to take risks with language. We discover new places of creativity and growth, once we give ourselves permission to stretch with words. This week we played with found poems, stretching out words taken from “Breaking it Off: Letter from Anne Sexton” by Maureen Doallas. Whenever we had a few minutes, we reached for a word and then stretched it into a new poem. We played on Facebook, Twitter and personal blogs.
Here’s a peek at some of your exercise from last week.
Rosanne Osborne begins by stretching out an “empty nightgown” and finds it full of revelation.
Sleeping with Promises
The empty nightgown
hanging on the door.
its bodiless shape
the vacuity of hope
that resurrection is more than myth.The sleeveless wonder
of remembered arms, fingers
frozen in a single
caress.Whole visions emerge
from thinning fabric
cloth returning
to threaded
memories
patterns of provocation
casus belli.Wisps of delight and destruction
hidden in shapeless folds
soft, cool to the touch
utterly empty…yet full.
@LaneArnold does her stretching with “roses”.
Arose
she
at
magenta
sunrise,
just after
twinkling bouquets
faded.
The summer damask rose
shimmered
in an
old cut glass
vase
beside her bed.
He always
left one
waiting there.
She thought of
that other day,
fifty-two summers ago,
when her
now-snow-headed
sweetheart
knelt on one knee,
and asked
what he already
knew the answer to:
Will you?
I will.
Every morning,
The yes of
Whimsy and joy,
wafting among quotidian
moments,
Lovers lasting
Aroma.
Outside the
bay window,
roseate puffs
proposed,
flushing the face
of craggy young Rockies.
Alpenglow blush:
Two beauties
dancing to dawn’s delight,
on the ice-fringed
alpine lake,
alongside
two
old
mountain roses.
Natalie Salminen makes a decision to stretch open her “eyes” and finally visits the damp basement she’s been avoiding for years.
Choices
Mint, grey. Peach and the hot chili of pink.
Hmmmm….what to paint the basement.For years I evaded the dark,
the damp, the buried underneath.But now I tread easy towards the shadows,
even inviting them to tea,
bitter herbs and raw honey.You won’t know until you face them,
looking into their dark eyes,
black steeds,
now fit for a fearless queen.The paint chip says “Choices, ”
the dreamy color of courage.
Brush dipped and
painting the shadows with Light.
When we stretch words, we can end up anywhere. We might hang from a door, sit beside mountains, or even paint the basement, finally. Regardless of where we find ourselves, we’ll discover an opportunity to stretch our voice. That’s the beauty of poetry and play.
This week is the final stretch of May Play, but it’s not too late to purge your lactic acid and play along!
______
Here’s how May Play works …
If you haven’t already, please consider subscribing to Every Day Poems.
1. On Mondays, the Every Day Poem in your inbox becomes Play-Doh. Pinch off a word. Or more. Mix in your words and colors. Until yours.
2. Tweet your poems to us. Add a #mayplay hashtag so we can find it and maybe share it with the world.
3. Or leave your found poem here in the comment box.
We’ll read your tweets and share some of your weekly play each week. At the end of the month, we’ll choose a winning poem and ask the playful poet to record his or her poem to be featured in one of our upcoming Weekly Top 10 Poetic Picks.
Here’s today’s Every Day Poem. Now go play.
_____
BONUS: Winner Takes the Chocolate
If you have a short story about why you love Every Day Poems, leave it in the comment box here or post it to your blog and leave us the link. We’ve already received some great mentions!
We’ll pick one of these stories and send the winner a box of gourmet chocolates.
Photo by Claire Burge. Used with permission. Post by Matthew Kreider.
___________
Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $5.99— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In May we’re exploring the theme Roses.
- Casting a Line for Surrealist Poetry - November 12, 2012
- The History of the World in Beer - October 22, 2012
- Journey into Poetry: Matthew Kreider - July 23, 2012
Rosanne Osborne says
Apparently, I’m not at home in Elizabeth…
Tending
As a rose keep, I was an utter failure.
The bleating lambs called to me,
but I denied their need for fertile soil.
Tomorrow seemed soon enough
to prune dead growth and search
for black leaf. Let them frolic
in their own freedom, I thought,
leggy stems reaching to the sky.
Their thorns like cracked hooves
were such a bother, a rancorous
manifestation I took personally.
My heart wasn’t right for it,
this shepherding that involved
soaker hoses, mulching roots,
Let the wolves come. I napped
peacefully beneath the oak.
Maureen Doallas says
From the train, it’s this:
miles of turnpike jungles
around row houses, backyards
shadowed by marsh still brown,
water poisoned and green,
red roses torn from pink arbors.
It matters but the bald city men
in white shirts hedge hope and faith
in refineries. Surely, the greatest
of spectacles in Elizabeth, New Jersey,
is the keepers of a plot of green.
Kimberlee Conway Ireton says
As soon as I saw the poem in my inbox this morning, I said, “It’s Kathleen Norris!” I’m re-reading Dakota right now, and I get to go hear Norris speak next week! I’m going to have to MayPlay this week, so I can take her a little homage/offering 🙂
Melody Pape Barnard says
………..Hurt,,,,,
by Melody Pape Barnard on Wednesday, May 9, 2012 at 7:10am ·
Hurt…..
is a little word…..
but with huge ramifications….
it’s hard to let go of it….
it can last a life time…
or just a moment…..
It resides deep inside….
but on the surface it shows….
in your actions….
in your eyes…..
and it makes for many woe’s…..
It sticks in your brain….
and causes many irrational thoughts
about how you should guard your heart…..
and never let anyone in…..
to ever hurt you again…..
But Love will always break through…..
when that special person loves you….
they will never give up….
seeing through your hurt and guarded heart…..
loving you through it……..
with trust and patients……..
being there for you ….
and understanding your pain….
turning your hurt …..
into a cleansing rain………………………..
~Melody P Barnard~ Poems from Passion*
davis nancy rosback says
the train
he sat on the train
moving between cities
that all looked the same
next to him was a man in spectacles
with a five o’clock shadow
appearing long in the setting sun
reading a plotting poison pen letter
as they passed over the miles
of neatly trimmed hedges
and buttoned-down backyards
lined with the well tended rose
and he wondered how long
it would take to reach the farm
and if elizabeth
was a good name for a cow.
Rosanne Osborne says
Punching at Shadows
Refining shadows was his delight
in life. Marking their boundaries,
polishing their angles, he clarified
the fuzziness of their perception.
Living with shadows like he did,
the hard-core, face-on reality
lost power. He knew only slant
of experience, glancing light.
When his shadow became itself,
negative transforming its print,
the eye reversed, seeing only
the inner self, lost its dazzle.
path of treasure says
Show Me, Elizabeth
I watch them on the train
across the aisle, moving
silhouettes of their days:
Elizabeth, and he.
***
The kiss on the cheek
planted swift, turns
to thorny scratch, burns
long and thin, drips
red on shifting black dirt.
Fragile petals live a breath
away, a thin vein from death.
Roses keep distant,
far from drawn swords
eager to impale petal-skin.
He thinks that to win
is to pluck stems of
delicate short-lived beauty
for arrangements in a vase;
that fragrance may erase
the scent of love’s demise.
But watch when red drips:
seeds bloom anew–
emit ethereal perfume–
into wild, vibrant, hybrid,
blood-red roses! Are you a
rose? Are you a thorn?
Or one scratched by scorn
of deceiver’s kiss?
Show me your scar, Elizabeth.
Show me your scar.
Rosanne Osborne says
Breaking off Norris one more time,,,
Obsolescence
The rose reached for life
through the shattered
back glass
Its petals celebrating
sentience
in the landfill of corrosion,
metal burning
in lost vanity
Rose thorns delicate
against shards
of glass,
residue of middle-class
standards of safety.
The rose
its halting beauty
indomitable
blood-red
accenting untended
greys and greens
of loss.
Connie Cornwell Chipman says
Breaking off from Hope in Elizabeth.
I work my garden,
in spectacles and
torn shirts,
waiting and hoping that
it will produce fruits of labor.
None of this matters to others…
until they inhale the roses.
Beautiful, thought provoking.
By taking in their scented breath
memories are created that whisper,
“Let us stay with you.”
Rosanne Osborne says
And on the last day of May,,,
Tolerance
The tear in the shirt
holds the character
of the man
in its callused hand.
Frayed like an unraveling
rope, the shirt
retains
the losses and gains
of a life that’s grappled
with the hooks
of error
that teeter on whether
or not. The grubbing of grain
from resisting land,
subject to rain
that plots its own plane.
Grace Marcella Brodhurst-Davis says
A little poem for May’s Rose play…
Promise
“Give her a rose a day,”
The old lady smiled,
Handing him a vaselet
He took it in hand,
Carefully stored it
“For safekeeping,”
His eyes, a polite blue twinkle
Though never filled
-an unsatisfied promise
To the old lady
But oh, she saw
Anew with old eyes
His boundless heart
In his love’s radiant pride
For pinks and reds
He planted amidst
Their front-yard greens
In proclamation,
“My dedication!”
His promise fulfilled
To his love
Grace Marcella Brodhurst-Davis says
Oops…line 5 should read “Carefully storing”:
Grace Marcella Brodhurst-Davis says
Yep, that’s what happens when one tries to write at the last minute…
Connie Cornwell Chipman says
Roses is the greatest
But, fine are faith and charity, surely.
White and red hedges of roses
on their green plots that
wraps around row houses,
Keeps the rose keepers of Elizabeth
busy in their backyards.
Poisoned marsh
Water—brown—still
Scraps of jungle
turnpike around refineries
None of this matters though,
to the bald men in spectacles
and torn shirts—thrown
from a train in the city of roses
Rosanne Osborne says
Decryption
Men in spectacles peer at ancient letters
embedded in moldering manuscripts.
Deciphering, discerning, determining,
they dissect the distinctive phonemes
of tongues they’ve never heard,
reverberations in their inner ears
more imaginative than real. They become
time-travelers as they bore into fragments
like pine beetles boring into the bark
to lay their eggs, overcome the natural
defenses of the tree. These lensed eyes
lay larvae, metamorphose meaning.
connie cornwell chipman says
Just a little redo:
Roses are the greatest,
but, charity can be fine
sometimes, surely.
White and red hedges of roses
on green plots
that wrap around row houses
keeps the rose keepers of Elizabeth busy
in their backyards.
Poisoned marsh water
brown and still
causes foliage to wilt
as if on weed.
Trees, scraps of jungle
that turnpike around refineries
where birds turn up their noses
as they fly by
seem to dominate the view.
None of this matters though
to the rose keepers–bald
men in spectacles and torn
shirts who are thankful
for the garden gloves–charity
tossed from the train
that passed through Elizabeth.
Rosanne Osborne says
Kathleen
The flowing dress, flowered print–
cross between cloister habit
and Hawaiian muumuu–
she wore with socks and trainers
set her apart from all the rest.
A bag lady with a distinctive style,
her hair cropped and straight.
Hard to recognize the Bennington
coed or the monastic oblate
in the ordinary comfort of someone
barely noticed on the street.
Yet, her disarming insight
controlled her audience, made each one
feel somehow like her best friend.
With candor and objectivity
she explored her struggle with acedia,
her acceptance of life circumstances
she couldn’t/wouldn’t change.
We saw Hawaii through her eyes,
eyes accustomed to viewing roses
among the scrap in Elizabeth.
Kimberlee Conway Ireton says
I know it’s June, so I won’t qualify for the chocolate 🙂 but I wanted to add my little homage to Kathleen Norris and roses, simply because I can 🙂
Her First Roses
were floribunda, frothy white,
two bushes (one on each side of
her green porch steps) faithfully pruned,
of blackspot, watered, fertilized,
loved through fourteen months of looking
for work. How gladly she greeted
the first bouquet in May, centering
on the butcher block island a
blue bowl of creamy blooms, her harvest
offering to the gods of hope
and the unemployed.