Poems, from A to Z

I'm reading Matthea Harvey's Modern Life, in preparation for our Poetry Book Club discussion at the end of the month. So far, I am enjoying her slightly surreal take on the world.

One of the aspects of her book that intrigues me is her use of abecedarian (alphabetical) poems. Her series of poems, "The Future of Terror," use alphabetical lists of words embedded in the text to flesh out the descriptions. Most of the poems go from the letter "g" to the letter "s" or "t". It's a brilliant technique, because she stretches towards a unique vocabulary. In the poem I linked here, we get everything from garden gnomes to napoleons.

When I think of alphabet poems, I always think of the more formal style. Christina Rossetti's "An Alphabet", is emblematic of that style. Intended for children, it contains still hidden philosophical gems like, "I am I—who will say I am not I?" The beauty of the abecedarian poem is the way it forces the poet to fill in words, and surprise ourselves in the process.

Similar to my surprise and joy at Natasha Trethewey's mirror image poem, Myth, this new take on the alphabetical poem may inspire to write some actual poetry yet.

I hope you're enjoying Modern Life as much as I am!

Through the Looking Glass

In Natasha Trethewey's book Native Guard, she includes the amazing poem Myth. In this poem, she creates a mirror image where the first line becomes the last line, the second line becomes the second to last line. The poem almost folds in on itself and it can be read backwards and forwards.

During the discussion for book club, Sasha asked if anyone was going to try the form. I didn't think I could do it, but lo and behold, this poem came out. It ain't perfect, but I'm pretty darn proud of it, due to the dexterity of the form.

If anyone knows the name of this form, please tell me. I couldn't find it anywhere!

Alice at 40

"It's a poor sort of memory that works only backwards." The Queen, Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

Her little life turned out
just as she had planned:
a pretty package, complete with tidy bow.

Her face remained, mirror smooth and calm,
while beneath the surface, reflections raged
every passing moment.

She found it impossible to put them into words,
so letters tumbled out, a muddy soup of sound.
She tried to swallow it whole again, which never works.

* * *

She tried to swallow it whole again, which never works,
so letters tumbled out, a muddy soup of sound.
She found it impossible to put them into words

every passing moment.
Whle beneath the surface, reflections raged,
her face remained, mirror smooth and calm,

a pretty package, complete with tidy bow.
Just as she had planned,
her little life turned out.

#9 Freeway Overpass

I was having a bit of difficulty with this week's Poetry Thursday
prompt of "rivers." Even though we passed many rivers in Iowa this weekend, I just didn't feel a connection to the image. Then, this morning on my walk in my neighborhood, I watched the freeway full of commuters and realized that there are many different types of rivers.

Freeway Overpass

I cross the one-way
river, crowded with cars, stalled
as I am today.

#8 -- Midnight Walk in May

Midnight Walk in May

I sense spring in hints
of blooming lilac and faint
lightning behind clouds.

#7 -- Two Old Men's Bedroom

It's been awhile since I've done a haiku. I was afraid that I was only inspired by the wintry landscapes. Being a transplanted Minnesotan, that makes sense. However, I was able to knock one out this weekend, so I must have just been dormant.

Two Old Men's Bedroom

Patch of green beneath
a concrete overpass sky. Still,
narrow light seeps through.

The Villanelle is Swell!

It’s pretty easy to write an article about villanelles. I’ve got that covered. Writing a villanelle, on the other hand, is something totally different. I hadn’t tried villanelles in over a year, so this was good practice. And I got to remember why I like form so much.

When writing this, I knew I wanted to break the form a bit. So, my refrains are a bit malleable. I wanted to retain some of the main words, but have them echo throughout the poem, rather than repeat word for word. Also, I pushed the form a bit with my rhymes. Some of them are slant/off. The rule I was most stringent about was the iambic pentameter, until I got to the final stanza.

A good warm up for writing this was the fact that I taught both “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” and “One Art” in my Literature class on Tuesday. It helped me get the feeling of the form that day, for when I wrote this.

Model, Captured for Hours, Whispers

Contort your body. Careful to comply,
I twist my torso, hollow out my chest,
then gaze at my reflection, in reply.

I cannot see my surface, how it shines
so bright that you can see yourself expressed
in my contorted back, but I comply.

I feel as if I’m made of smoke and light,
strategically placed mirrors; nothing’s left
just gazed upon reflections, mute replies.

But in the scrim of images, stretched tight
across my skin, I see ourselves, a mess:
distorted limbs, regrets. We all comply

to orders easily. We push, deny
ourselves of everything. This is our test.
We reproduce reflections, in reply.

We are stripped bare, compressed down to a size
where there is nothing wasted, nothing left.
Contort your body, silently comply
to the refracted image – wait for the reply.

#6 -- Today

This is the second of many posts, I'm sure, over the next weekend. Love the snow days -- I'm actually planning on being bored for once. Boredom, of course, breeds writing. This is a very Minnesotan haiku. After almost 15 years of living here (on and off), I think I can now finally, identify myself as one of them.

This picture was taken outside of my building this afternoon. So far, we have 9.5 inches in my city, and up to 11 out in the 'burbs.

Today

We unbury our
selves, shovel burdens and
pray for them to melt.

Pretty Riddles

5 Fragile and Beautiful Things

one

A syrupy, soapy slip of nothing
blossoms on the plastic wand. My lips part
as I breathe life inside. Delicate walls
stretch into prisms. Then, it floats away.

two

Clear spears of ice dangle on eaves like teeth,
a house becomes a hungry animal.
Once the sun shines, rivulets of water
trickle to the tips, loosen each tooth’s root.

three

Each day, I struggle to find the right one,
the kindest combination of clauses.
My mind clicks, tumblers in a lock, as I
catalogue all of my fleeting choices.

four

We are surrounded in layers too thin
to see, covering each other until
we are protected. Take one sharp edge, quick
slice and we are open for all to see.

five

She dodders past the door, cheeks round and red.
Mittens and hat unwrapped, she scrambles through
the store, giggling and grabbing glasses
off the stocked shelves, crashing them to the floor.

#5 -- Seeking Solace at a Stoplight

I've been having this obsession about the way the sky looks, lately. I can always tell how cold it is by the way the sky looks in the morning or coming home from work. The beauty of winter is that almost every day the sky looks different. So, almost every day, a new image occurs to me.

Seeking Solace at a Stoplight

Silhouette of bare

tree limbs, grasping the silver

sky. Hold me, they say.

#4 -- Above the Buildings, I See

I'm noticing that with these haiku, I'm becoming more observant. There is always this thought in the back of my head that I'm gathering images for the haiku. Then, when I see those things that make me think, "That would be good for a poem," I don't have to store them up and wait. I can simply address the image in 17 syllables.

I also like that I'm becoming more aware of nature. Since haiku technically have to have a reference to the season within the lines, I have to connect myself to what's going on outside of the hum of traffic jams and people. This, so far, has been an interesting practice. At least that's what I think at number 4. Talk to me at number 46.

Above the Buildings, I See

Waxing crescent moon

in cobalt dawn skies and I

pray for early light.

#3 -- Our First Storm of the Season

This morning, when I woke up, we had finally been hit with snow. We're down 30 inches this season, which is difficult on us sadomasochistic Minnesotans. Even though I knew it would be a traffic nightmare to get to work, there was something that was so peaceful and unexpected about waking up to a street, glowing blue-white with snow.

I wrote this while I was stuck in traffic on the way to work, on a small notepad that a friend of mine bought for me in Japan. Very dangerous, but in this case, necessary before the haiku flitted away.

Our First Storm of the Season

When we woke today,
streets were swathed in snow, erased.
Everything has changed.

#2 -- On the Interstate Commute

Winter finally arrived in Minnesota. This weekend, it's supposed to be 15 below, before the windchill. As our garage door opened this morning, I could see heat waves dancing on my windshield, over the boundary between inside and outside.

I don't know why I choose to live here, when it gets this dangerously cold.

On the Interstate Commute

This biting winter

morning, white exhaust plumes trail

cars clogging black roads.

#1 -- Friday Night in January, Uptown

I don't know what it is about my need for lists and numbered things, but I love them. I had a flash of inspiration this week. I decided that I want to write 100 Urban Haiku, just for practice and because I can. I don't know how long this will take me. I don't know what the shape of the project will be. But, I should become familiar with the unknown. At least, that's what my writer friends tell me.

I'll post my results up here, when I have them.

Friday Night in January, Uptown

Bare legged girls laugh
like a murder of crows. High
heels slip on black ice.