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1/9/2018 0 Comments Elegy a sad and thoughtful poem about the death of an individual. Look for It here:
Elegy for Jane by Theodore Roethke Book Ends by S.M.(M).L. We are the stories we tell, the lives we become. Every page a new moment, every moment a new page. Some stories are broad and beautiful and deep. Some short and sweet. Each one as meaningful as the next, a library of who we become. You were at the start of my story. I am here for the end of yours, but in this way you live, and so the story goes on. Volumes into an eternity we can't comprehend exactly where we begin and where we end.
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1/6/2018 0 Comments Allusion an expression that calls to mind an idea outside of the work itself. Most effective when the reader has a reference for what is being alluded to because it adds meaning to the work without further explanation from the writer. Look for it here:
Prometheus by Lord Byron Ethereal by S.M.(M).L. These mortal cages hold us in but a little while. Locked with blood and bone, we knock around, bump into each other to let a little bit out, a little bit in, a way to save our selves-- reincarnate incarceration. As if we have found the key, we behave, lending this unto the next, never stopping to peer through the hole to see what's on the other side. Out there, space, star after star, beyond until these ribs are nothingness holding us together. So far out there, there's no coming back except that we've chained our hearts in inescapable love. It seems. Except. That's all there was all along. Love in and out, around, folded over on itself, infinite, not a chain, but a link, not a cage, but a scaffold to lift ourselves back to whence we came if only we can let go these bounds desirous of Prometheus that seem to hold us in but merely let us perceive the impossibility of existence for a breath of time, in, out, exist, out in love breathe be 12/31/2017 0 Comments Mood is the emotion felt by the reader which in part is created by the word choice and description of the writer, but is unique to and influenced by each reader which, in some ways, is why certain pieces are powerful for some readers more so than others. Look for it here:
The Chairs that No One Sits In by Billy Collins Snow Globe by S.M.(M).L. Look without, snow drops on our silent moment. One sleeps soundly, at peace with what will come, so thoughtful his heart filled with kindness. One fights desperately, not to miss a second of the exuberant life, so bold within her. The snow piles high, swirls. We are cozy and calm, quiet, mostly. Whole. For now. Outside it just keeps piling up. Insulate us in our snow globe while the world twists and shakes around us. We'll stay here with you, little ones, restless and restful, our souls full, look within. 12/25/2017 0 Comments Cinquain simply, is a five-line poem, but a unique twist of such a poem is to have the number of words in the number of the line: line one, one word (the title), line two, two words, a description, line three, three words that tell the action, line four, four words that express emotion, and line 5 recalls the title in a single word. There are many variations of this type of poetry, so no need to be structure bound, a quick way to express for the writer, and a sudden glimpse for the reader. Look for it here: The Sun-Dial by Adelaide Crapsey Sparkle be bright let it shine your heart and mine sparkle by S.M.(M).L.  12/17/2017 0 Comments Iambic Pentameter is 5 unstressed syllables followed by 5 stressed syllables per line, used by playwrights like Shakespeare because it resembles the rhythms of speech, and it lends itself to memory, unrhymed it is called Blank Verse, but when it follows a pattern of rhyme consisting of fourteen lines, it becomes a sonnet. Look for it here:
Schoolboys in Winter by John Clare Hibernate by S.M.(M).L. Winter wraps itself around us with flakes. Soon we are settled in drifts, beside fires, snuggled deep into down, books read pile up, and the frost creeps up from the pane's corners. Outside the trees are still and sun glitters in the many prisms of ice. Venture out, find lakes' shores treacherously lengthened. Shiver in our scarves and mittens, tremble our deep sighs of breath come in bursts of white; back inside, fingers and toes tingle and warm drinks steam. Soon enough we start to yawn and slip back into slumber like the trees and lake and soil as they patiently wait. What comes next will come, whether we sleep or wake. 12/10/2017 0 Comments Concision is what poets do. If a book is living another life, then a poem is living a brief moment of another life. By being concise, poets are forced through their art to select the most precise words and ways in which to express an idea, leaving room for the reader to interpret and examine the idea for themselves. Look for it here:
"Just This" by W.S. Merwin Lunar by S.M.(M).L. Awake to moonshine brilliantly superb as she wanes into morning. Here she is, a guide for humanity, explode from Earth, composed of this same stuff. We look on her face, seem to never turn away, except when she is in solitude. She must go there to get away, blamed for cycles and lunacy, but probably reality. Inching away, she weathers anything stillness, a bowl of fire, or a mirror, no matter. However we perceive her we dance, a partner swung round our dizzying existence, wax, wane until we burn ourselves out. 12/2/2017 0 Comments Epistropheis the opposite of anaphora. Instead of the repetition of a single word or phrase at the beginning of the line, it is repeated at the end. The effect is often a resonating tone left with the reader. Together, the use of anaphora and epistrophe are called symploce. Look for it here: "From Blossoms" by Li-Young Lee Stop by S.M.(M).L. Sometimes the world doesn't stop never does the world stop on and on, spinning and spinning, its centrifuge a molten core, a heart beaten upon by billions of trembling feet, by oceans of fear and terror pushing and pulling. By time ticking and ticking and never stopping. Sometimes the world doesn't stop, and you need it to; you need winds to quiet, storms to calm, missiles to not be shooting beyond satellites, people to close their mouths, open their eyes, and just shut up. Just shut up, inside yourself, hardened around your own molten core, smoldering, learning to be quiet, calm, weathering. Sometimes the world doesn't stop, but instead implodes; hills shudder and mountains crumble, rivers rage and volcanoes explode--panic ensues all around, and you wonder why you just didn't stop, get quiet, and sit in solitude before you made this mess. Sometimes the world doesn't stop, but you should, shut up.  11/23/2017 0 Comments Prose Poetry Although contradictory in name, prose poetry is a blending of art forms in which the devices of poetry appear in lines of prose. Anything from repetition to imagery to alliteration may appear in these lines making the singular difference the length of the line. Look for it here:
Prose Poems by Gertrude Stein Gratitude by S.M.(M).L. A French Proverb says, "Gratitude is the heart's memory." And, thinking on all for which I am grateful, my heart swells with joy like the mind when it's full of thoughts. For family, friendship, presence, "thank you" never seems enough, but I take with me the memories in my heart you gave and dole them out a little at time. My gratitude for your kindness is the rhythm to my joy. 11/14/2017 0 Comments Imagery vivid descriptive language that paints a picture in the reader's mind often employing one or more of the five senses. In doing so, it deepens the reader's experience of the work and helps them feel as if they are a part of the reality that is created by the writer. Look for it here:
The Summer Day by Mary Oliver Vellichor by S.M.(M).L. A creaky wooden door jingles open, breathe in vellichor. Shelves like branches full of paper leaves. Smell vanilla tannins drift down and surround, spores sift through sunlight while cross-legged our limbs the roots, fingers skim over bindings, searching, selecting, the inevitability and impossibility of just one choice this time. A creaky wooden door jingles behind, breathe in salt sea. Wind whips our hair, we tip- toe across the sands, barely leaving footprints, our toes bare. We settle in, nestled: arms like wings wrap around, cozied together as the sun just starts to warm, We pull the pages open and dive in as the waves splash, and the wind whips; the sand swirls, and your wings hold me steady just long enough to point the way this time. 11/11/2017 0 Comments Vers Libre
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S.M.(M).L.There's a poet in my soul; she's always been there, but is often neglected. I'm letting her out here. I hope you will too. Here's some unsolicited advice: When your poet speaks to you, just let it out, there's something there, I promise you. Here you'll find ideas about how to hone your craft as I practice mine and lead you to some of my favorite published poems and poets. Archives
March 2020
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