Write With Me: Poetry Patrol
A real-time look at how I draft a poem
The poet laureate of the United States (2004–2006), Ted Kooser, tells us that “if we want to engage our listeners and readers we need to shake off generalizations and go for the speifics. It’s the details that makes experiences unique and compelling” (93). How do we get more detail in our writing? We must practice and hone the skills of observation. Take one: For two days this week, take a close look at six things. Jot down your observations in a notebook. Turn one of those observations into a poem. I would suggest going to a favorite place or exploring somewhere new. For one of your ventures try to focus on the people around you.
Cosmetics Department
Ted Kooser
A fragrance heavy as dust, and two young women
motionless as mannequins, dressed in black.
The white moth of timelessness flutters about them,
unable to leave the cool light of their faces.
One holds the other’s head in her hands
like a mirror. The other leans into the fingers
knowing how heavy her beauty is. Eye to eye
breath into breath, they lean as if frozen forever:
a white cup with two lithe figures in black
and the warm wine brimming.
Remember: Henry James advises writers “Be one of those on whom nothing is lost.”
Observations (July 11, 2023)
Yin Yang
Black is loud. It demands attention.
Yowls when it’s time to eat, wants you to follow,
and tells you how it loves your company.
White is quiet. Curels itself into a ball. In the littlest corner.
Sleeps through most of the day. Doesn’t make a sound.
Sneaks out at night. Unnoticed.
Black-eyed Susan
Susan wears a yellow sunhat that covers up her black hair.
Black-rimmed sunglasses hide eyes no one knows the colors of.
She loses herself in the green of the forest.
Lets the leaves fan her.
Like bored and pretty maids they whisper in ears.
Tell us what you know! We’ll keep your secrets!
But she keeps on walking.
Because I Saw The Rocks
for the umpteenth time this June, now July, after a week of flooding in early April I removed the pontoon from the shore.
I know I won’t get to boat up and down the River. It is what it is.
I chose the fishing boat
that my dad pushes halfway out. I point out the two large rocks jutting out and wonder if we’re entering
the fossil era. I remind myself. There hasn’t been rain in three months,
I hear people say. There’s always the lake at the cabin
a two-hour drive from home. We only go up twice, I whisper. The familiar green, the sway
of the trees in the breeze. Wind doesn’t have odd seasons. But this morning the rocks feel like going the wrong way down the spikes.
So close I count them, take them. See what’s dried up along the shore.
Observations (July 13, 2023)
Belladonna (bel-la-don-na) noun
- Buried beneath a tree, kissed by death, it tasted so sweet. His lethal touch can’t reach you now.
- A thread weaves through the spindle of life and into the hands of the Fates. Long live, Clotho whispers, unspooling the white thread that Lachesis’s hands stained blue. It is time, and Atropos cuts it, turning black as it falls.
- One drop and the beautiful lady appears, they say. Belladonna waits for you in the woodland. You gaze into emerald eyes. Please, you beg, threading a strand of lavendar hair through your finger, no one will know. She brushes her lips over yours.
Bella Girl
She was like one of those sunny days,
hard not to feel her warmth.
Something so radiant and bold,
couldn’t resist squinting into the light.
When the stars don’t shine anymore
remember that night when their dust fell from the sky
and splattered on the petals of the darkest flowers.
Remember how you believed new galaxies were forming around us?
How the gods had given up their magic
and the pixies danced among the gardens.
You’d change the name of Stardust to Pixie-dust.
You’d believed we didn’t have to make wishes upon stars anymore,
when we could sniff the fragnance of flowers.
