Four Great Books

I go to sleep reading, and wake up wanting more. I'm reveling in a buzz of really good poetry. Mind if I share my latest favorites?

 In the Kettle, the Shriek
by Hannah Stephenson

In her debut collection, Stephenson writes in direct language that ushers you in. Like origami, these seemingly simple poems are taut, smart and beautifully complex. In poem after poem she masters the killer last line. (She also keeps The Storialist, a blog in which she writes a fresh poem daily).

You Can Do This

You have parallel parked in a space
just five inches bigger than your car,
smoothly. You know Queen Anne's lace
from poison hemlock. You are
adept in remembering names,
and people's small quirks, you know
who has cats or dogs, who trains
them. You know an Aries from a Virgo,
a Libra from a Taurus. You have worked
at 4AM, or for 15 hours in one shift,
spoken cheerfully while your life jerked
and jolted. You found a gown in a thrift
shop, and it is beautiful. You are learning
to call to what you love, to see it returning.

— Hannah Stephenson

Ninety-five Nights of Listening
by Malinda Markham

I'm over my head here but I can't stop reading. Markham's evocative, unexpected language is matched with a quiet, lonesome tone. Even when I don't "get" these often-opaque poems, I am moved by one stunning line after another. Here, see what I mean:

Once I told you
everything I knew in a language
you did not speak. This is love, is division,
a pile of memories catalogued like stars.

— from Postcard - Without Grace

I like simplicity, its single weight
I like the word fault for its power
to fit within the hand and consume.

Here is my arm and shoulder,
my throat and every word.

— from Mistranslate (Because Meaning Is Not Enough)

A Tongue in the Mouth of the Dying
by Laurie Ann Guerrero  

Vivid and visceral, this first book of poems by Laurie Ann Guerrero is consuming. From turnips to cow tongue to a playful ode to el cabrito (goat), Guerrero's work is both hungry and tender, carrying taste and memory, culture and loss. In choosing these poems for publication, Francisco X. Alarcon hails Guerrero's work as "the poetry of saints and sinners . . . rooted in the best Latin American, Chicano/a, and contemporary American poets."

One Man's Name:
Colonization Of The Poetic

vii.

My grandmother embroidered huipiles.
Named me the color of stone, lavender
in the sun. Wore a herd of elephants
on her middle finger, the baby always
almost dead. In white cotton thread on pink
cotton dress, she stitched swans to their heads,
made bloom red roses and white-flowered
Mala Mujer. She birthed nine children.
She now sits in a room where the faces are familiar
as snow and the hands that feed her are not her own.

She wears your name, a crown, Cortez:
queen of a tongue no one understands.
What have you done?

— Laurie Ann Guerrero

The Crafty Poet: A Portable Workshop
by Diane Lockward

Do we really need another how-to-write poetry book? Yes, if it's this rare find. Packed with prompts, this book rises above others with sample poems, insightful interviews, and beyond-the-basics advice. Here's how I know this book works: I've marked every other page with a sticky note, have written notes in the margins (something I haven't done since college), and I'm writing a flurry of fresh poems.

 

Your turn: What are you reading? Have you read these? What books have you abuzz?


Thankful Thursday: The Fever of Life

Everyone in!

From pebble to peak, from profound to profane, it's time again for Thankful Thursday.

Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy, it's time to slice through the ugly and get to the good.

This week I am thankful for:

1.
A sappy, glossy, implausible but entertaining movie.

2.
Chlorine, baby powder, fresh towels — the smell of clean.

3.
My sister's laugh, recovered.

4.
A friend sends a prayer that I take for poem. We share a history and love, and the thread connecting us seems prayer itself:

Support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen, and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in your mercy, grant us a safe lodging and a holy rest, and peace at the last. Amen.

5.
A good run.

What are you thankful for today?


 

Missing: Journal

I lost my journal.

It's not inside, outside, in garbage, or car. Not under the bed, in dresser or drawer. It's a sick and sinking feeling, akin to losing a wallet, with just a little less panic.

And yet. It was only a journal. Not fancy, not leather, not handmade or gifted. Just a cheap grocery store book of blank pages. Like a glass, it was half empty, or half full. And, really, the writing wasn't great.

Still. I'm distraught. And guilty.

I've been lazy. I haven't been running, or eating greens, or doing planks (like I promise myself every other month, and achieve for about three days). I've been a slacker.  And it is with this mindset that just two days ago I went to my journal and carefully copied a passage from Walking on Water by Madeleine L'Engle:

If the artist only works when he feels like it, he's not apt to build up much of a body of work. Inspiration far more often comes during the work than before it.

Like a child, I drew big loopy stars for emphasis.

I've kept a journal since I was a kid. And while I've culled and tossed evidence of the early years (the fourth grade diary, the seventh grade confessional), I've kept the tomes chroncling my turbulent 20s and maturing 30s, carting the heavy boxes across time and states. They are damp, musty, tattered, and mostly unread.

A few years ago, I inadvertently opened one of the boxes. Instead of finding a string of Christmas lights, I encountered a menagerie of admissions. For several hours, I sat huddled and squirming with an uneasy realization: All these years later — more than 20! —  I still carry the same insecurities and sing the same refrain: "not good enough, not good enough, not good enough." Time has just made my worries deeper and more defined. It was sobering, and I immediately wanted a new me.

Why didn't I, then and there, declare a fresh start? Why didn't I drive to the dump, and like old clothes, bad boyfriends and poor choices, toss them out? Novelist and poet Sherman Alexie has a theory:

I think every writer stands in the doorway of their prison. Half in, half out. The very act of storytelling is a return to the prison of what torments us and keeps us captive, and writers are repeat offenders.

While searching for my journal, I kept saying, It's not the journal, it's just . . . It's not the journal, it's just this gloomy sky. It's just this extra weight I carry. It's just became every sad and sorry thing. 

In my mix of agitation and despair, I told my husband (who was patiently searching the cavity of every appliance as if the journal had raced to the refrigerator for refuge) that I thought this was my punishment.  Y'know, use it or lose it, I explained. I'd been lazy and my writing tool disappeared as a sort of vague but very-real-to-me karma.

Yes, I was over the bend, but my mind wouldn't stop spinning.

I recalled a recent poetry class in which the instructor asked, What must you have to write?

My favorite pen, said a woman.

Coffee, said a man.

A desk.

Smooth, lined paper.

These writers with their particulars, I thought. Let's not get precious about it. C'mon, who hasn't jotted words on an envelope? Or, while driving, rooted around for the back of a receipt? I've written in crayon, in big fat Sharpie, and even with chalk.

And so, my smug came back to smack me. What do I need to write? I needed my specific, half-completed pages of mediocre writing. I was frantic for my journal.

As the day wore on and more pressing matters arose, I gained perspective. Perhaps the message of the missing journal is not punishment, but reminder: Words are fleeting. Show up. Hold lightly.

Today I went to the store and bought a new, not-at-all fancy journal. Once filled, the journal will join its companions in my history boxed in the closet.

I lost my journal, I wrote on the first smooth, blank, page, and now I start again.

 

Housekeeping: Notes

Hello!

The world is big, time is short, your life is full — all of which swells me with gratitude for your attention. Thank you for reading my blog.

I’ll try not to waste your time, but instead stir your head, pry your heart. Together we’ll stretch our writing minds and build creative muscle.

Where you'll find me
In this big world, I'm so happy you found me. How'd you wind up here? Do you use a blog organizer, such as Feedly or Bloglovin'? Or do you bookmark this site and dip in on occasion?

The easiest way to read this blog is to subscribe by email. Simply type your email address into that little box at the right, and each time I write a blog entry, the post will be delivered directly to your email (and I cross-my-heart promise not to spam, nag, brag, or share your email).

Talk to me, baby
My heart does a jig with your feedback, so please join in the blog conversation — agree, argue, question & prod! Here's how:

For email subscribers:

1. When you receive the Off the Page email, scroll to the bottom of the message to see this line:
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For web readers:

1. Scroll to the end of the blog post and click on "Post a Comment" or "Comments."  This is where you  type your response so that others may see your feedback. This is where you may view comments from others.

Whadya wanna read?
So, tell me, what turns your crank, floats your boat, gets you revved to write? I'm eager to please (though not desperate, no really) and I want to know what you'd like on the menu. More meat, less dessert? Dim light, more wine?

What makes you tune in, or — gasp! — turn away?

But first, and again, thanks for meeting me here. The world has much to offer, and the pull and tugs are many. I appreciate you, and always enjoy our time together.

Write on,

 

 

 

Thankful Thursday: Quietly Yourself

It's Thankful Thursday. Please join me in a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, poems and more. Some days gratitude is sweeping and grand, some days quiet and small. But always the more I look for thankfulness, the more I seem to find.

Today, I'm thankful for this poem, for its warm start and wonderful turn, and those stunning last three lines:

How Wonderful

How wonderful to be understood,
to just sit here while some kind person
relieves you of the awful burden
of having to explain yourself, of having
to find other words to say what you meant,
or what you think you thought you meant,
and of the worse burden of finding no words,
of being struck dumb . . . because some bright person
has found just the right words for you—and you
have only to sit here and be grateful
for words so quiet so discerning they seem
not words but literate light, in which
your merely lucid blossoming grows lustrous.
How wonderful that is!

And how altogether wonderful it is
not to be understood, not at all, to, well,
just sit here while someone not unkindly
is saying those impossibly wrong things,
or quite possibly they’re the right things
if you are, which you’re not, that someone
—a difference, finally, so indifferent
it would be conceit not to let it pass,
unkindness, really, to spoil someone’s fun.
And so you don’t mind, you welcome the umbrage
of those high murmurings over your head,
having found, after all, you are grateful
—and you understand this, how wonderful!—
that you’ve been led to be quietly yourself,
like a root growing wise in darkness
under the light litter, the falling words.

 — Irving Feldman
from Collected Poems: 1954- 2004
via A Year of Being Here blog

 

What are you thankful for today? 


 

This is a Letter to November

This is a Letter
This is a letter to the worm-threaded earth.

This is a letter to November, its gray bowl of sky riven by black-branched trees.
A letter to split-tomato skins, overripe apples, & a flock of fruit flies lifting
      from the blueing clementines’ wood crate.
To the broken confetti of late fall leaves.
This is a letter to rosemary.

This is a letter to the floor’s sink & creak, the bedroom door’s torn hinge
      moaning its good-night.
This is to the unshaven cheek.
To cedar, mothballs, camphor, & last winter’s unwashed wool.
This is a letter to the rediscovered,

to mulch, pine needles, the moon, frost, flats of pansies, the backyard,
      hunger, night, the unseen.
This is a letter to soil, thrumming as it waits to be turned.
This is a letter to compost, eggshell’s bone-ash chips, fruit rinds curved like
      fingernails, & stale chunks of bread.
A letter to the intimate dark—mouth-warm & damp as a bed.

This is a letter to the planet’s scavenging lips.

— Rebecca Dunham



It's the start of a new season, with shifts in air and time and tone.

Each autumn I return with delight to this rich and visual poem by Rebecca Dunham. I often use this poem as a prompt for my own writing, and its skillful rhythm and repetition makes for a great piece to share with young writers. Together we write "letters" instead of poems, reducing the inherent pressure of poem crafting. And — surprise! — those letters often result in striking pieces.

Do you have a favorite poem that marks this season?

 

 

Don't Bore Us to Tears: 10 Tips

Fill those seats, and keep 'em happy. Photo by Christine Hennessey, The New Me.
Literary hostess was not my aspiration.

Eager to promote the work of writer-friends, I simply organized a reading. “Don’t wait for the party,” I said, in an unusually zealous moment. “Be the party.”

But, I had attended enough readings — both as writer and reader — to know these events can be real snoozers. You know this is true. You’ve sat there, as I have, bored and annoyed, wondering why you chose this over an episode of Mad Men. 

It turned out I actually enjoyed turning a typically staid event into a enjoyable, lively party. My first — an ensemble reading held at an art gallery — was so much fun I orchestrated another, and another. Ten years later, I’ve produced more than a dozen literary events, at a variety of venues. I’ve worked with writers of all stripes — fiction, nonfiction, memoir, poetry and song — from ages 8 to 80.

In my transition from shy-writer to party hostess, I’ve learned a great deal. Want to shine on stage? Try this:

Ten Tips to Giving a Good Reading
(that will make your audience happy, eager to buy books, see you again, and tell others about you)

1.
The stage is for acting — even, and especially — for writers. Not naturally stage savvy? No need to pretend. If writers were performers we’d bask in attention but instead we’re hunkered over keyboards, wearing sweatpants and day-old hair.

An actress-friend offered me this life-changing nugget: You have two selves, she said. The writer-you and the actor-you. When you create, you are deep in inner-writer world. But when you share your writing, you must go into outer-actor world. At a reading, take on a persona. Allow the actor-you to share the wonderful work of writer-you.

Sounds wacky, I know. But viewing a reading as a performance is especially helpful to introverted writers. This “performance” is not a departure from our real selves, but more of a removed perspective that allows the shy writer to step out with confidence.

2.
Don’t bore us to tears. You’ve got a time limit — stick to it. Organizers have invited you and carefully orchestrated the event’s pace and flow. Don’t assume your work is captivating enough to allow additional time (it isn’t), especially in a group event. Don’t be the guy who reads past the allotted time, then looks to the hostess and asks, “Do I have time for one more?” If you have to ask, you’re out of time. And while the host may acquiesce, she will seethe inside, and likely not invite you back, and may even talk poorly about you to others. (Yes, this is personal experience; I’m not bitter, just seasoned). Always leave the audience a bit hungry — and eager to buy your book.

3.  
Give a bit of backstory. Purists will say “the work stands on its own” — meaning there’s no need for explanation. While it’s true you don’t want to beat the life out of your work with too much preamble, the audience has turned out to hear your words, from your mouth, in a live setting. Give us a glimpse of yourself. Let us in, let us like you.

4.
Smile. Everything is better with a smile. Sound Pollyanna? Try it! Seriously, a smile breaks resistance — yours and the audience’s. When your hands tremble and your voice quakes, relax your mouth, recall your best friend, and smile. The audience, says my actress friend, wants to like you. When you relax, your ease allows others to breathe a sigh of relief, too.

5.
Don’t mumble through your entire reading with eyes buried in your pages. We want to see your face, and feel a connection. In the throes of a mumbler, we wonder why we didn’t stay home and read your book in the comfort of our pjs. But now we’ve lost interest in your book. You’ve lost a sale.

6.
Be prepared. Why do writers, who have been invited as featured guests, show up to readings hapless and frazzled? From AWP to open mic nights, I’ve seen writers stumble to the podium with a look of dazed confusion as they page through reams of paper.

Note to Befuddled Writers At Public Readings: You’ve been invited. Don’t insult the audience with an attitude that broadcasts that you’re too busy, distracted or important to care about this event.

7.
Be kind — give thanks. From the multitude of writers longing for a stage, your host chose you. That’s no small thing.  Literary events require planning, marketing, and varying degrees of mental, financial and emotional investment. Want to know what makes me happy? Appreciation from writers (also: glowing feedback from the audience).

After the reading, talk to people. Take time to thank those who support your efforts and promote your work. Be genuine, gracious and kind. Write your host a thank you note. It may seem old school but gratitude is timeless. And it’s true, what you give comes back to you.

Lastly, a few things that you probably already know, though some writers clearly don’t (trust me, this really happened):

8.
Don’t bring your husband and insist he have an opportunity to read from his book too. This isn’t Thriftway, no 2-for-1 deals.

9.
If attending a reading as an audience member, don’t bring your own books to sell. Sell your books at your reading, and/or your garage sale.

10. 
Wear a clean shirt. You don’t have to go glam but please don’t show up in your garden grubbies. We get the hardworking-writer-vibe but, really, a clean sweater works wonders.


Okay, your turn. Got a reading story? A favorite tip? Spill it!



This piece was originally published on April 22, 2013 at Lisa Romeo Writes.

 

Thankful Thursday: Knowing Better

On this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for candy corn.

Candy corn is bad for me. It's a seasonal treat made entirely of sugar, and I can't get enough.

Don't tell me how you gave up sugar, and lost your bloat, your acne, and those stubborn 10 pounds. I know, I really know.

Candy corn is just one of the many things I eat — or do, or don't do — that is not in my best interest. This is how it goes: We know better but we remain unchanged. We simmer. We stew. We put off. We shy away. We push too hard. We don't push enough. We make excuses.

I'm talking about candy corn, and I'm not. I'm talking about all those fuzzy abstracts — commitment, truth, strength — that in the course of a marriage, a career, a passion, a day, get real and messy really quick.

We nibble on colored bits of sugar and enjoy a simple indulgence that when stacked against our larger inadequacies seems small and okay. We give ourselves permission to just be. 

 

It's Thankful Thursday! Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in a weekly pause to appreciate the people, places & things that bring joy. What are you thankful for today?

 

Thankful Thursday: Pimples and Sneers

I'm thankful for the teenage boy who glared, folded his arms, and sneered, "I hate poetry."

You were a dust storm that cleared the room.

With your announcement, we paused and I admitted that sometimes I disliked poetry too. Like you, I get frustrated and annoyed when I "don't get what it means."

So we skipped the sappy poems, the "deep" poems, the long poems, the classic and kiddie poems. Instead, we read a poem about pimples, and giggled with delighted ewwws.

And you said, "We can write about stuff like that?"

And I said, "Yes, please!"

And so we wrote — about mud and hunting, about grilled cheese and green trees, about absent dads and close friends. The room hushed and we didn't worry if we were writing "poems." We just wrote for real.

 

It's Thankful Thursday. Please join me in a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. Joy contracts and expands in relation to our gratitude. What are you thankful for today?


What's on your agenda?

I'm not making this up.

When I was a child, every day before scooting me out of the house and onto school, my mother would write a list of my chores and then turn to me, asking, What's on your agenda today?

I was 10 years old. I couldn't plan past lunch. My long range goal was watching The Brady Bunch. 

Plans. Action. Productivity.

There are worse ways to mar a childhood.

______

All these years later, I begin each morning with a To Do list.

I'm a planner. Every day is a deadline of my own making. As a writer I thrive with this sort of structure in which I look ahead, anticipating deadlines, decisions, client needs and classes. Though I grew up loathing the word, I'll now admit that without an "agenda" I feel aimless. I don't drift well. I need purpose.

______

The other day, as my husband finished mowing the yard, I inhaled his grassy scent and exclaimed, I smell progress!

It's a lovely smell.

______

Today, as I prepare to write with a group of 10 year olds, I think of yesterday's session:

We talked about the many ways we see the work of writers: in books, movies, songs, magazines, commercials, cereal boxes, and even video games. The children recited every word of every Geico commercial they knew (too many!) and I urged them to consider a career in advertising. This is the work of writers, I explained. You could write commercials!

Yes, yes, we agreed, writers are behind all the things we love.

In that moment, all of us laughing and thinking and feeling a bit giddy, I felt productive. I was wearing my black dress and leopard pumps — because part of my agenda-mind is dressing the part, and well, also because I like to wear clothing with buttons and seams. And, I was writing, reading and chatting with a band of misfitted pre-teens, feeling connected to a purpose that isn't always clear but is always present.

 ______

How about you — What's on your agenda? What makes you feel productive? 

 

In Praise of the Easy Read

Sometimes you want the light read.

In bed, just before sleep, I want to engage but don’t wanna work for it. 

Or, I'm traveling, wedged into the center seat in peasant class. (I've heard tales of first-class travel. Don’t wax on, I can’t take the dream deferred). A head cold is coming. I can feel an ache moving through every limb. I need a fatigue read, something that will entertain.

Thank goodness, then, for Valley of the Dolls, Killer Smile, and Where’d You Go, Bernadette.

I like 'em light, snappy, saucy, with an easy suspension of disbelief. Life is not a literary competition. Admit it, you read mass market mysteries, beach books, light lit, and other “low-brow” selections.

C’mon, spill it, what’s your easy read?

 

Try This: Month by Month

In her book Blood Almanac, Sandy Longhorn offers a series of self-portrait poems. For each month of the year, she presents a poem reflecting both season and self.

October

Month I became the silent child,
the mortar of the brick wall crumbling,
everything came loose as a baby tooth.

Air rushed in, whistled on the way out,
my body as dray as an Egyptian tomb.
Voices tumbled in, forced open
the shut ear, made me the depository,
this library of spurn and scorn.

Month I became the thorn,
venom, muscle and the flat hand,
became a word that pulsed
and writhed and was unsayable.

- Sandy Longhorn
from Blood Almanac


I like this calendar frame, and appreciate the way each poem stands individually but is then deepened when read with the knowledge of its memoir intent. And so — as is often the case — inspired by another poet's idea, I tried my own monthly self-portrait:


This is how September lets go

On the last days, September betrays.
Gust by gust, in mad dash from summer’s endless expectations,
she muscles light to the low-angled end, throws the feast to winter’s
hungry maw. A metallic sky welds a cold grip on autumn’s orange.

Rain swells river, puddle, pool, gushes every roof, gutter and seam.
In incessant wet, wind shakes the ache of every limb, turns sky
and house to night. I am jade and craving, the damp
swallow of each last brassy glow.

- Drew Myron

Try this: Write a poem based on a month. Choose any month and let the images and mood of that season tumble out. Don't worry about making sense. The beauty of these poems is the unexpected quality of unusual word combinations, and the sideways insertion of self. Stuck for a starting point? Borrow Sandy's evocative opening line: Month I became . . . .*


I'd love to see where this exercise takes you.
Please feel free to share your results in the comments section.


* with attribution, or course. Even better, use her phrase in your first draft and then work out and away with your own words. 


Thankful Thursday: What's on your list?

It's Thursday, again, already.
On this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for:

1.
Lists

2.
Autumn's low-angle light

3.
The word autumn which strikes me as more optimistic than fall

4.
Small gestures that remind me that it's the little things that make life big

5.
Old friends and easy laughter

6.
Good eggs (as in, people)

7.
Good eggs (as in, scrambled)

8.
My mother, laughing

9.
An unexpected note

10.
An anticipated phone call

11.
The commitment of 5 Things That Don't Suck.

12.
People who shake hands

13.
People who hug with enthusiasm, and not like they might catch my cooties

14.
The word pluck

15.
Foraging for chanterelles, blackberries, and other edibles

16.
A deep breath in a thick forest in late-day light

17.
The smell of clothes fresh from the dryer

18.
Cashmere

19.
The science of long-lasting lipstick

20.
Hair that bounces into place (usually just days before a scheduled haircut)

21.
Oatmeal

22.
Sunshine in the morning

23.
In the middle of nothing special, remembering this phrase from my mother: Wake up bright to the morning light to do what's right with all your might (also: Go play in traffic and I'm gonna punch your lights out).

24.
The freedom to read what some want to censor (see: banned books)

25.
Students who grow up, get jobs, and turn into nice people

26.
Soup

27.
This passage, from Journal of Solitude by May Sarton: It takes a long time, all one's life, to learn to love one person well — with enough distance, enough humility.

28.
Having someone with whom I can practice learning to love well

29.
Riding my one-speed cruiser

30.
A weekend without internet

31.
Bath, with bubbles

32.
Invitations to take part in literary events

33.
Cheap wine that tastes good

34.
Encouraging words

35.
The way ironing helps me work out the day's wrinkles

36.
You. Yes, every known and unknown you who is reading this list and maybe, possibly, making your own. I am thankful for you.

 

It's Thankful Thursday!
Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise.
Please join me in a weekly pause to appreciate the people, places & things that bring joy.

What are you thankful for today? 


Thankful Thursday: Shabby Corner

We can never quite be sure which things we have done and which things we have failed to do, the difference between how we long for the world to be and how it must be a kind of crucifixion in the darkest, most excruciating depths of which we discover it’s not that there’s not enough beauty; it’s that there’s so much it can hardly be borne.

Monday morning, putting out the garbage as the sky turns pink above the salmon stucco facades, I bend my face to the gardenia in the courtyard, knowing that every shabby corner, every bird and flower and blade of grass, every honking horn and piece of graffiti, every pain and contradiction, deserves a song of praise.

— Heather King

from The Closest to Love We Ever Get, an essay
published in Portland magazine, and reprinted
in 2008 Best American Spiritual Writing.


Sometimes you read a passage or a paragraph, and you experience a ping of recognition. Something deep in your bones registers, aches, adjusts, and says yes. Days later you are wading into the words, picking through the placement, examining the texture and tone, pulling at the seams of pace and place. You are making copies and sharing with friends.* The Closest to Love We Ever Get, an essay by Heather King, has haunted me for weeks.

On this Thankful Thursday I am thankful for this essay, and for the unbelievable ability of words — just words, really — to shake, wake, move and soothe.

It's Thankful Thursday. Please join me in a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. What are you thankful for today?

 

* What to read this essay? Email me with your address, and I'll pop it in the old-fashioned, envelope-with-stamp mail, dcm@drewmyron.com.

 

Try This: Postcard Poems

A few of the postcard poems I received during the 2013 Postcard Poetry Fest.
Feeling a bit stuck? Write a postcard poem!

In August I participated in the annual Postcard Poetry Fest, an organized commitment to write and mail a poem on a postcard every day for a month. Yes, that's every single day, for 31 days.

Writing on a postcard, I quickly learned, leaves little room to ramble. Every word counts and writing in the short form sharpens your skills — and fast.

As an added challenge, organizers urged poets to write spontaneous poems. This, they emphasized, was not the time to peacock your best work but instead an opportunity to write fresh and with energy. 

For the most part my poems were real clunkers — as first drafts tend to be — and I was embarrassed to share my work with others. But once I gave myself permission to stumble, I began to let loose and the process became one of exploration and discovery. 

"That most of the poems I received were awful was beside the point," explains organizer Paul Nelson. "That most people were trying, were making themselves vulnerable and were learning little by little how to be in the moment and let the language itself have its say, was a victory."

I agree. And for me, the best part wasn't the daily writing practice, or even choosing postcards to share (though that was fun). The best part was receiving postcards and poems. Cards arrived from Arkansas, California, New York, Maine, Michigan, Washington, Oregon, Canada, and more. Nearly every day a new voice spoke to me —and each was unique, fresh, and willing.

As the stack of postcards grew, I felt a thin but real thread connecting me to people I didn't even know. We're making things, I thought, separately but together — all 302 of us!

And I was reminded how little it takes to shift my mood, my perspective, my day. Sure, it's just a thin piece of paper, sent to a stranger. But it's a small, great gift, given with trust.

Want to stretch yourself and make someone happy? Write a postcard poem today.