Our next installment of edited poems from last week’s poetry jam on Twitter is below. As I edited the contributions, it was fascinating to see the twists and turns, and how a word or a phrase could shift the whole flow. The shift, however, is gradual, mostly because of the time delays associated with the various applications we’re using to post.

I’m also learning that, even in a poetry jam, there is a narrative.

Poems from the House of Memory – 4

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

Window Shopping for Breakfast

Window shopping. Listening, leaning
toward cream and sugar, white
cream, catching light for the children in
the morning. They will have oatmeal and
milk and talk about toys and books
while I drink my coffee with cream.
I like lots of cinnamon on my
oatmeal and I like my milk whole and
ice cold from the fridge. I
hold a peach, kiss its cheek. Bring
the tin for peaches and smooth cream.
Peaches, cones find me alone,
soft, rough to the touch. My sons will
wake early and greet the day, ready
for whatever adventure awaits, and
I will be tired. Always, so tired.

Spectator

I am willing
to toil and escape being
just a spectator, in spite of
or because of
the lovely bits carried by a spectator.
They are buried so far down, that
you are having to dig, but digging is
sure to turn up treasure.
So often I am the spectator, even
from the middle of the action
I just watch brains churn words,
sun-struck, dazed with delight.
I only needed a longer
churning to make me smooth.
What makes a spectator
Grouchy when the sun asks
him to be otherwise?

Hollow Like a Tin Can

In the morning, hollow like
a tin can, I will close the day
before it begins, but get up as
moonlight sneaks one last
moment through the window,
shattering pain through panes.
How can this heart, restless and
Leaning, be ready to fly?

Now the tin is too hot, too long
in the sun, but still hollow, empty.
Hang me like a tin can from
low branches; knock me as you pass.
Hear what sound echoes from tin,
a tin heart for a tin man,
beggar of scarlet passing the
bucket for love.

Maybe His echoing laughter, waiting for
us when there shall be no
more tears,
beats to a sound we hear not.
I am scarecrow and tinman and
cowardly lion, but mostly I
am Dorothy searching for
my home.

News of a Baby

I hear the news
a baby is due. A baby makes smooth
edges to prickly pine cone.
She will give birth to all
womanhood, to the giggles
of a little girl that never will be mine.
I will need to remember
how to change a diaper.
I will worship at her tiny feet,
her baby belly laughs,
and let the life-stone ripples
sail through my body
and take away the regret.
Tonight, I slid into hot bath
water and thought about
babies and wombs and births that
will never be.
I took that chance from me.

This section of contributions from last Tuesday’s poetry jam on Twitter has been, by far, the most difficult to edit. It appears that there were three or four poems going on simultaneously, and some of the participants were using Twub, which had an unanticipated delay in the posts, so that contributions and response contributions were happening at different points. That problem (our first ever with the technology) really hit hard, beginning in this section. The next section to come looks like it has a similar problem.

This is why they pay the editor the big bucks.

Poems from the House of Memory – 3

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

Tin Cans We Took

Grandma saved the cans for us.
We carried them in bags to be remade,
bought candy with their nickels.
Tin cans we took, full
to the river, where nothing spilled, for
I protected every word.
Tin cans we tipped,
to let run our lives.
Now the tin cans
hold only memories
Your car became a tin can, that
somehow still protected you; as
you were pulled from it, you
were still alive.

I Like My Pie, With Cream Whipped

The farmer’s wife made pie,
sticks of saltless butter
folded in and baked.
I like my pie, with cream whipped,
whipped full of tender memories.
Real cream whipped,
a lovely thing unless you’re under
the whisk instead of holding it,
trembling, as fingers hesitant
to dip in cream.
I remember cream, real, whipped
for a restless heart.
I would be content with
coffee and pie, you and me and
a fluttering breeze.

Among Stones, Rebuilding

Among stones, we rebuild each time.
It is time to rebuild. You will rebuild
new, and you will rebuild better, than
you ever could before.
There will be dialogue in your room, where
before it was absent. You will speak again.
I know the words are coming from deep,
carried on a song, not stagnant but in
the disturbance made into another that is richer.
Measure its worth by your work.
Shop for meaning; sing words of disturbance.
Do my poems make you work? Fine, I like the
sweat beading on your upper lip.

Andi and Sherry: Family Relations

I could, perhaps, fall into this. It is the
letting go that doesn’t quite let go.
Did Grandma fight with Grandpa? Did
she cry on the times she let him
down? Did he even tell her why?
Oh, Andi-Girl, you are so beautiful
Already, and your wings are not
even strong enough to fly.
There you are, Andi, there you are,
right where you’ve always been, inside
your body, waiting for us, to catch up.
What a treat to sit back and watch the
show that God has sketched for us, the
blossoming of rose and thorns
in Sherry’s soul.

This is the second “installment” of poems from our poetry jam on Twitter last Tuesday. I decided to post this one by itself; it is definitely a standalone.

Poems from the House of Memory

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

A Walk to the Small Dairy

Once, we walked with tin cans
to the small dairy for milk.

Whisper lulls cream to
butter before it remembers,
cream sweeter than butter,
each morning’s delight.
Cream and butter,
fly with me.

The idea of using a
finger to skim cream from
fresh milk always seems
romantic. One thumb of
white stuff tells
me otherwise.

But from thumb it
falls on tongue
softly.
Someone else’s hard work
can taste bitter in
my mouth.

I have spoken too much,
taken too little time to churn;
find the sweet cream and leave
the rest behind.

Add cream to coffee and pour
me a mug. I promise to
stay awhile.
Churn me, turn
me to the light;
cast me like dice.

He wants to butter my bread and I want to eat
it warm fresh from the oven, but both of us fail to
rise, in the end.
Make of my words what you will; unchurned,
they have no meaning, sit tight in
the throat, melt like ice, cold words.

I will sit beside you;
we will churn words together,
drink coffee with sweet cream.
I drink my coffee
Black. Sit with me awhile.

Speak aloud your words
that I might know
how to place them in my life.
How to hold their meaning
in my heart? How to use them
to sing me back to you?

Seeing shore, and trees leaning inward.
You call me back. Churning?
My brain has been churning
all week long, trying to explain
where there is no explanation,
only my own fault, my own weak fault

To wander, or to turn? And sit with you.
My words, tonight, feel pushed forward,
unsure of themselves, unsteady on
their club feet. My words seem
small and futile beside yours, whey
drained off of your sweet butter.

Cast me before Jesus
and leave me there.
I want to stay with Him now,
curled into His embrace
yours forgotten,
leaning into his back unsure.

This past Tuesday, we had our regular (mostly regular) TweetSpeak poetry jam on Twitter. Ten poets participated, and for whatever reason, this one seemed to have flown quickly for the hour it existed. The prompts for the jam from @tspoetry were all taken from Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, by Daniel Landinsky and others.

These are the first four of the edited poems; there are more to come.

Poems from the House of Memory

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

The House of Memory

The house of love calls.
I hear its sweet voice
calling me
from shadows into light
so fine
it stuns.

Your house
clings to the hill
of my memory,
calls me to beds
of iris, phlox
gardenia.
Gardenia flowers
leave behind a strong scent.
I stoop to smell where they once were
and find your fingers there.

Roses snag,
pulling me back,
not letting go.
Darkness creeps
as wisteria hides my face
from my Lover.
He lives in a place
I do not dwell.
I seek
His Word
to understand.

Butterflies

I want to write about butterflies
tonight,
the kind of butterflies
that struggle to break free
and will somehow make you see
that you are beautiful,
always will be
beautiful.

Weeping willow,
you are hiding the butterfly’s wings
but I know they are there,
and they are brightly colored
and strong.
And it won’t be long
now;
she’ll be spreading those filmy shades of sunshine,
and untangled from your branches,
she will fly,
wings unclipped;
she soars
above His house.

She will fly
higher than she ever soared before,
because now she knows what it is like
to hang cocooned in pain,
to shiver and have
no way of understanding the cold.
She will whisper and then shout
until He turns her ashes into beauty
as He promised that He would.
And she soars, spiraling over composite
shingle and wisp of chimney smoke
though the day is not winter enough for flame,
flame to melt ice glass.

Winter Rye Across Your Lawn

Winter rye grows tall enough to bend
in tiny arcs across your lawn.
Rye bends like a fish
leaping.
Bowing at your entrance,
I’ve been expecting you.
This small pebble in the water
makes ripples,
ripples. Curve within curve, flowing
away. To shore.

I want to save you. I
want to take your hand and
watch you dance,
bring the life to your face,
understand the vastness
and the rhythms of soaring
waves
shivered into pieces,
falling like rubies , each His tear.
I want to save you.
And I know I can’t.

Just jump in she says,
but my mind wanders, following…
She’s going to quit the violin. I
had hoped to hear her play
sad music
one day.

I Am Quiet, I Am Small

I am quiet,
I am small,
as ice cold water
flows over me.
Turn me to your
face, whisper
me red like
rubies;
moon light shine to hurt,
casting light where darkness lulls,
moon light
my heart seeks
yet my window be closed,
aches quiet and closed. And
aches ruby red and falling
like hard cut drops of blood
from a sky I do not recognize.
I dodge the bullets;
smoke rises from chimney into blue; ice
shivers into pieces
above; below
all changes.

I, crying blue sapphires and
laughing yellow lemons
while you shake your head,
concerned and lost
and never able
to understand.
At your house, the tv knows when
it has spoken too much.

I get it, though you think I don’t.
I do. I get it. And
getting it doesn’t help
me. Getting it only makes
it all hurt… worse.

We’re down to the final two contributions on “Why Poetry Matters” that were submitted for the poetry and wine giveaway last month. The randomly chosen commenter received a copy of L.L. Barkat’s InsideOut: Poems, and the winner of the 100-word statements on what poetry matters received a copy of the poems and a bottle of Sineann wine.

From Bonnie at Being Transformed:

Why Poetry Matters

I teach literature to a high school tutorial and also have done workshops at the Childlight USA Conference on Poetry.

I think about Billy Collins’ saying in Introduction to Poetry : to hold it to the light, drop a mouse into it and watch him probe his way out.

OR Wendell Berry on How to be a Poet: Make a place to sit down. Be quiet. There are only sacred places…

And John Keats with “Truth is beauty and beauty is truth” from “Ode to a Grecian Urn.”

Luci Shaw from “Breath for the Bones:” Because beauty matters.

L.L.Barkat’s poetry book does that.

And from Nancy at 75 and Sunny:

Why Poetry Matters

Rooted in our shared human experience
In this created space, articulated into being
By holy Words,
Are the empty arms of childless Mothers,
Falling buildings, rising suns,
Hummingbirds and hammered nails,
Corpses lying under rubble,
Dreams realized
and dashed,
Sunsets and mine fields and eyelashes,
Despair, elation , hope, cowardice.
And when human emotions stretch within these fleshy skins
And surge past the walls that we, in our fragility, cobbled together to enclose them,
The animal which escapes its cage is Poetry.

A bit of prose and a poem: here are contributions No. 11 and No. 12 on “Why Poetry Matters” that were submitted for the poetry and wine giveaway last month. The randomly chosen commenter received a copy of L.L. Barkat’s InsideOut: Poems, and the winner of the 100-word statements on what poetry matters received a copy of the poems and a bottle of Sineann wine.

From Anne Lang Bundy at Building His Body:

Why Poetry Matters

Ernest Hemingway said, “Prose is architecture, not interior decoration.”

But I contend that when poetry is captured in prose, they dance; they become what neither is alone, like a couple who’ve long yearned to be together and discover in their union something new and beautiful.

And from Laura Boggess at The Wellspring:

Why Poetry Matters

Because…
the earth shakes
mountains fall
people die
and tears collect
like oceans.

Because…
hearts need
lines
to link together;
strings of words
interlocking souls.

Because…
in looking
for words
we sometimes
find
what truly matters–

it keeps us
looking out
looking in
looking up.

Because…
this fallen world
needs beauty.

that
is why
poetry matters.

Here are contributions No. 9 and No. 10 on “Why Poetry Matters” that were submitted for the poetry and wine giveaway last month. I combined them in one post because of their brevity (short but definitely succinct). The randomly chosen commenter received a copy of L.L. Barkat’s InsideOut: Poems, and the winner of the 100-word statements on what poetry matters received a copy of the poems and a bottle of Sineann wine.

First, a poem from Noj Rotsap (which I think you might have to read backwards):

Why Poetry Matters

Reading poetry
is important
many ways.
Chief of
which
is the
fact that poems
birth creative
musings in our hearts.

Next, from Megan Willome:

Why Poetry Matters

I start each writing day with “The Writers Almanac” (a project of National Public Radio hosted by Garrison Keillor). I also keep an ever-expanding collection of favorite poems. Lately, I’ve been reading poetry online, especially through connections made through High Calling Blogs. Although I have not published any poetry, writing it has helped me to cope with my mother’s cancer.

I think of poetry as a postcard – a graphic depiction of deep thoughts. But Garrison Keillor said it best in the collection Good Poems. “Stickiness, memorablity, is one sign of a good poem.”

May all your poems be good ones!

Here’s contribution No. 8 on “Why Poetry Matters” that was submitted for the poetry and wine giveaway last month. The randomly chosen commenter received a copy of L.L. Barkat’s InsideOut: Poems, and the winner of the 100-word statements on what poetry matters received a copy of the poems and a bottle of Sineann wine.

This is from Missy Kemp at Daily Portion, and this one was the winner of the 100-word statement:

Why Poetry Matters

You read it aloud in the darkened room, your lamp the center of one pool of light. From another bulb’s halo , the poet sent the words out to you. Held in the vowels and caught on the consonants, somehow, is your own story written by a stranger. Truth unknown before now falls on you from the uneven ends of the lines. This moment of recognition is as ancient as the cave paintings we shine our flashlights on, deciphering our story from the shapes and tracings of another’s, the one with the courage to pick up the colors.

Here’s contribution #7 on “Why Poetry Matters” that was submitted for the poetry and wine giveaway last month. The randomly chosen commenter received a copy of L.L. Barkat’s InsideOut: Poems, and the winner of the 100-word statements on what poetry matters received a copy of the poems and a bottle of Sineann wine.

Reading this one, you’ll see how I struggled with determining the best contribution. From Jim Allman (the scop) at diatribalArts:

Why Poetry Matters

I walk around as though I’m welcome here—as if I know this place; only to discover I haven’t been looking closely enough. It is an Elfland world with giant beanstalks and straw spun to gold, of wicked stepsisters and witches with a taste for children. There are monsters everywhere and only magic can challenge them. Poetry is flush with this type of magic; it defies monsters but also helps one to recall those too infrequent moments of waking wonder. Poetry is necessary because we must all feel out of place here, and because we must survive it—thriving—too.

Here’s contribution #6 on “Why Poetry Matters” that was submitted for the poetry and wine giveaway last month. The randomly chosen commenter received a copy of L.L. Barkat’s InsideOut: Poems, and the winner of the 100-word statements on what poetry matters received a copy of the poems and a bottle of Sineann wine.

This is from Monica at Know-Love-Obey God.

When Poetry Speaks

When poetry speaks (whether I am writing or reading) . . .

. . . colors are brighter, my vision is clearer, and I hear sounds I would not have heard.

. . . I read the Bible more carefully, more thoughtfully.

. . . my emotions have an outlet, and I do not explode.

. . . communities build.

. . . writer and reader make connection.

. . . I am more sensitive to and considerate of others.

********
Related (where I mention other benefits of poetry): Scientists Are Poets, Too!