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Poetry Prompt: Dance with Form

By Callie Feyen 4 Comments

mountainous landscape formMy first attempt at a dream job went like this:

Jesse was allegedly finishing up his doctoral work, which meant at any moment there could be a job we would move for, and so instead of signing a contract to teach for the 2003-2004 school year—I figured we wouldn’t be there for the entire year—I took a break from teaching and tried my hand at working at a scrapbook store and aerobics teaching. (These were two separate jobs, but goodness, imagine if they were a part of the same position! “Scrapbooking aerobics teacher wanted.” Sign me up!)

It’s one thing to have a dream. It is another thing to work that dream—to try it on and figure out what it’s all about. Here’s where the dream might not fade, but it could bring to light a thing or two about the dreamer.

What I learned about myself at the scrapbook store is that I love keeping memories. I love capturing and telling the stories behind the photos I take. What I don’t love is customer service. Customer service makes me rude.

Note that I didn’t write that I don’t like helping people with their stories. Anyone who’s ever talked to me for more than five minutes knows that to help someone find, pull out, and share a story is a passion of mine. I just don’t want to help anyone find a sticker and a color scheme for it.

It’s a matter of form. I think of my dream as a poem, waiting to be brought forth, and I was trying to write a haiku when it wanted to be a rondeau.

Something similar happened with my aerobics position. I loved everything about that job. I loved the music, I loved choreographing the routines, I loved the microphone. For an hour, three times a week, I got to pretend I was JLo on set at a music video shoot. Everything about the job was glorious.

Except I didn’t know how to properly cue the participants because I was teaching a 45-minute cardio routine and not counting to 8 on a 32 bar. (You dancers will know what I’m talking about.) The participants were confused, and it’s not fun to be confused when you’re exercising. Again it was a matter of form.

One day after one of my classes, another instructor and friend of mine said, “I’m going to teach you to listen for the 32-8 count.” She turned on the music and lifted a finger in the air—like Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton—every time a new block began.

“Ohhhh!” I said, and soon I was joining in on the dance party (albeit, a simple one).

From there, I learned I could build on those blocks as opposed to coming up with 45 minutes of unique footwork. Kind of like a sestina. I think I was trying to write an ode.

I’m convinced dreams don’t go away. They want to be listened to and tried. And tried again.

Another note: I didn’t write that dreams want to be understood. I’m not even sure they ever want to be fully realized. Here is another similarity between poetry and dreams. More than being understood, I think poems—like dreams—want to be returned to. Again and again.

Let them show just how many forms they can take.

Try It—Write Some Form Poetry!

This month, we are playing with How to Write a Form Poem. Try your hand at haiku, or the ode. How about a sonnet or a sestina? What form does your dream need?

Featured Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s one from Monica Sharman we enjoyed:

The Weight of Small Things

Scissor-clipped comic strips
of Schroeder at the toy piano,
Lucy leaning in.
Song lyrics hand-scribbled
with a cheap blue ballpoint
because it was the nearest pen.
Mementos and heirlooms
saved. That old dresser,
the Cubs decal on the mirror.
1960s Philly soul. Films in Italian.
Favorites noted: saxophone, guitar,
“Blackbird” by The Beatles.
The weight of every little thing
making shaky ground
stable again.

—Monica Sharman

 

Photo by Bureau of Land Management  Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Callie Feyen.

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—Celena Roldan

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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, Dream Poems, English Teaching Resources, Form It, Haiku, How to Write a Form Poem, Ode Poems, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, Rondeau, Sestina, writer's group resources, Writing, writing prompt, writing prompts

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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. Rebecca D. Martin says

    April 12, 2021 at 8:30 am

    “I didn’t write that dreams want to be understood. I’m not even sure they ever want to be fully realized. Here is another similarity between poetry and dreams. More than being understood, I think poems—like dreams—want to be returned to. Again and again.”

    Gosh, Callie. I think you just opened up something big for me.

    Reply
    • Callie Feyen says

      April 12, 2021 at 4:09 pm

      I’m so glad to know this, Rebecca!

      Reply
  2. Megan Willome says

    April 13, 2021 at 9:41 am

    For not understanding but simply returning to a dream, I chose a ghazal—a form I’ve never tried, but Tania Runyan’s chapter on this one was excellent. Such great examples!

    Baylor Ghazal

    Winning was out of the question, still I wore my lucky shirt.
    Never liked it but I chose caution: a lucky shirt.

    At the church’s chili cook-off we won season tickets
    at the silent auction. At games, wore matching lucky shirts.

    In 1950 players shot underhanded buckets. Got to the Big Dance
    through sheer importune but lost their lucky shirts.

    He walked down the interstate, away from the school he loved,
    gone, gone with his sole possession, a lucky shirt.

    A death. A lie. Rumors. New coach installs JOY: Jesus, Others, You.
    Good God. We paid no attention. Just some lucky shirt.

    The table was set green and gold but she was gone.
    The note left—pure torture. I almost burned my lucky shirt.

    Everyone thinks it could never happen to them. They would never
    fall into such distortion. You and your stupid lucky shirts.

    We were like those who dreamed when the Lord
    restored the fortunes of Zion. It wasn’t the lucky shirts.

    By the river we sat and wept and fed the ducks and remembered
    what had been our portion. Didn’t realize we had on lucky shirts.

    Out, damned spot! Out, I say! What, will these hands ne’er be clean?
    It gives me indigestion, this spot stuck fast to my lucky shirt.

    The last living player from the last good team watched the big game.
    God’s man in foreign lands—he had no need for a lucky shirt.

    In the spot where all was lost, they held a ceremony,
    planted an orchard. Around each new tree, wrapped a lucky shirt.

    The day after the win, people clapped when I entered,
    as if I were some new creation, wearing the same ol’ lucky shirt.

    Alone, the mother flies the Baylor flag, too stunned for words—
    this redemption. Folds away her lucky shirt.

    Reply
  3. Tania Runyan says

    April 30, 2021 at 12:36 pm

    What a wonderful first ghazal, Megan! You must’ve been wearing your lucky shirt! 🙂

    Reply

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