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Poetry Prompt: Could Be Poems

By Callie Feyen 5 Comments

A while back I was sitting in a writing workshop, notebook at the ready, eager to sop up any advice, inspiration, and ideas the speaker — a poet — was willing to share.

The poet shared a story about a walk two or three writers were taking together. One of them noticed something about the world, as writers do. Perhaps it was the way a leaf fell from a tree or the way the sun turned the sky as it rose. I can’t remember what it was, but it was something that captured the attention of the writer.

“That’s a poem,” declared the writer.

“It’s not a poem,” the poet said. “It’s not a poem until you write the poem.”

I think there is some truth to this. I have experience times when I’ve said, “That’s an essay,” to a friend and in just that statement, the steam has released — a balloon in my hand lifts itself in the sky and floats away. But I have also been in situations with other writers (or great friends) when we’ve both known we’re a part of a story that will be told and retold again and again. The shared articulation has always been deliciously intimate, and I am grateful for it.

The poet went on to say that those who claim a poem before it’s a poem should perhaps step aside. “Let those willing to do the work, write the poem.”

Earlier that day, much earlier, the sun had barely brightened the sky, my friend Jill and I met for a walk. Jill and I talked about everything and anything, as good friends do. Jill could name all the flowers we saw, while I ran away from bugs so large I swore they could say my name. She could smell lavender when all I smelled was dry dirt. We discussed the common text we were studying during our time in the workshop. We spoke a lot of motherhood. Many times that morning — and several times before when Jill and I have talked — we said, “Oh, that’s a story. That’s a poem. Write it. You should write that!”

That afternoon, though, what the poet proclaimed felt like a rule I had broken and I was angry and ashamed.

I had come here because I was willing to do the work. I was sitting here, away from my children, away from everything I’d known, because stories are like oxygen to me and I wanted to know how to keep breathing. I didn’t want to step aside. I wanted very much to be in the way.

I went to graduate school. I sign up for writing conferences and workshops. I enter libraries and bookstores. I sit down at my desk and write because I’m interested in what could be. I think that’s the first step in having a dream. Perhaps the dare, then, is to name it. To live the dream is to do the work. To not step aside. To be brave enough to get in the way.

Try It

Next month is National Poetry Month and to begin participating in this most luxurious genre, how about spending some time considering what could be a poem? This week look around your world, notice spring in all its forms. Write a “Could Be” poem. Maybe it will look like a list of all you notice and want to eventually turn into poetry, a prologue of what’s to come.

Featured Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s one from Sandra Heska King that we enjoyed.

If I Built a House

If I built a house
there would be more
than three feet
to the nearest neighbor,
preferably at least three yards,
preferably even three miles,
but at least three yards.
It would have lots of windows
and skylights
a fireplace, and
a real laundry room
with a sink and a counter.
It would have a dream kitchen
with an island and quartz counters
and brick backsplashes
and an oven hood.
The yard would be a wildlife haven
with lots of trees and flowers.
When you were inside,
you could believe you were outside.
The house would sit on a lake,
and every morning I would push my
kayak out into the early mist.
Also, there would be no
see-through shower

 
Photo by USFWS Midwest Region Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Callie Feyen.

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Callie Feyen
Callie Feyen
Callie Feyen likes Converse tennis shoes and colorful high heels, reading the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and the Twilight series. Her favorite outfit has always been a well-worn pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, but she wants hoop skirts with loads of tulle to come back into style. Her favorite line from literature comes from Sharon Creech’s Absolutely Normal Chaos: “I don’t know who I am yet. I’m still waiting to find out.” Feyen has served as the At-Risk Literacy Specialist in the Ypsilanti Public Schools and is the author of Twirl: my life with stories, writing & clothes and The Teacher Diaries: Romeo and Juliet.
Callie Feyen
Latest posts by Callie Feyen (see all)
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Filed Under: Blog, Poems, poetry, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, writer's group resources

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About Callie Feyen

Callie Feyen likes Converse tennis shoes and colorful high heels, reading the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and the Twilight series. Her favorite outfit has always been a well-worn pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, but she wants hoop skirts with loads of tulle to come back into style. Her favorite line from literature comes from Sharon Creech’s Absolutely Normal Chaos: “I don’t know who I am yet. I’m still waiting to find out.” Feyen has served as the At-Risk Literacy Specialist in the Ypsilanti Public Schools and is the author of Twirl: my life with stories, writing & clothes and The Teacher Diaries: Romeo and Juliet.

Comments

  1. Megan Willome says

    March 30, 2020 at 8:40 am

    A Saturday drive felt like it could be a poem. So here goes:

    Fences I Have Known

    rock beside log,
    for deer, for hogs,
    from oil pipelines,
    with barbed wire,
    open, shut with padlocks

    side by side we
    drive past fences in the white truck
    the ancient gives way to the next.
    Spring in every direction. I’ve
    never built a fence,

    never dug a hole for a fence post,
    never whitewashed one—but you, you
    erected a fence around yourself
    and on this bluebonnet drive
    you hand me the key

    Reply
    • Sandra Heska King says

      March 30, 2020 at 1:39 pm

      I’ve helped build a fence–of both kinds. I’ve never whitewashed posts I’ve helped plant. Also, I’ve never seen a bluebonnet in real life.

      Reply
  2. Sandra Heska King says

    March 30, 2020 at 1:23 pm

    I forgot I wrote that. Thanks for sharing it, Callie.

    I scribbled a poem this morning when I was thinking about Easter. I posted it on IG. Maybe it fits here?

    Stone of Covid

    On THAT resurrection day
    when the stone of Covid
    was rolled away
    from across the land,
    all the people came forth,
    refined,
    kinder,
    and they knew
    hope always wins.

    Reply
    • Katie says

      March 31, 2020 at 5:35 pm

      Love this, Sandy:)

      Reply
      • Sandra Heska King says

        April 1, 2020 at 10:52 am

        Thank you, Katie!

        Reply

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