To bring a drop of water into this earth
from nothing, and know it will grow
into a stream, the journey it takes
lost and created again, and again
breathing itself to the sky then
poring down. What better way to travel
through bodies, to know the other
by becoming one with its most painful
self, bright colors rushing through
and the light, that blinding light
that enters all things disperses.

Everywhere in the city people
jabbing their hammers at the fire-escapes
scraping off old paint
preparing for a long winter
that may never end
sounds like wooden plates nailing windows shut
at a beachfront hotel before the storm

For today’s exercise I selected five words from poems I’ve written in the past. The objective is to write a poem using all of the words from the list. You can also choose 5-10 words from book titles on the shelf next to you. Choose quickly and don’t think too much.

Five words: Steel, theory, saving, imitation, chisel

Ocean Awakening
Fog descends on the bay today
making the steel ships emerge
like pirates, some swallowed whole
the mast peering from the mist,
saving the element of surprise
to burst onto shore, they’d crash
into cars on the highway if
only water were not their limitation.
The sea sprinkles its theories
in my face, sending gulls to govern
the grimace of my threat to its oceanic
balance, vast octopus arms would chisel
down our boardwalks, our magnificently built
bridges to the simple whistle of Neptune,
whom we forgot in our rush to convenience.
When the angry bear awakes
all we can offer is to brush her hair
clean, and comfort her great spirit
with songs of praise and lament.

————————————–

I would like to share a few thoughts about community. After writing basically every day for 30 days, as I initially intended, I wanted to keep writing but found myself without the energy and the commitment. This is my first writing prompt after 10 days of not writing, and it is in many ways thanks to the support of the writing community online. Thank you to all of you who have sent your good words and thoughtful comments. Some of you I didn’t even know were out there, and I was delighted to learn about you and visit your blogs. I felt you came together on a rainy day to offer me an umbrella and carry me across the street to shelter. I feel I owe special thanks to Jingle, who has gathered and is gathering a terrific community of poets. (http://jingleyanqiu.wordpress.com/). Thank you Jingle! Your beautiful poetry and commitment is inspiring.

Take one line from a poem of your own that is unfinished or a poem by another poet. It does not matter where the line occurs in the poem, but you want to select the best line from the poem. Use this line as the first line of a new poem. Try to maintain the same quality of sound, language and thought that the first line presents.

Lights Out
The sound love makes
when it leaves the room
is often heard after
the door closes, you and I
frozen on a stage with no lights
the audience blaring, knowing
that any movement, mouth or finger
would lead to our parting.
Whales swimming to the equator
feeding grounds preach
the same pitch to their young
to keep them at bay—these magical masses
of emotions sound sad to the human ear,
we can’t contain the depth of darkness
they dive into so willingly.

Write a poem about a time in your childhood when you did something that you were later embarrassed about. It can be from a point of view of yourself as a child, or as adult looking back. You can address the poem to the child, trying to advise your young self, but the younger you can’t hear you.

Stolen Lolly
The Koalas on her wall
now on yours,
Prima Nocta of the entitled
over the poor
and you, a Barron, were taken
by the fuzzy gaze of a bear
bamboo leaf in mouth.
Simply rolled her like a scroll
from which you’ll read your verdict
and galloped to your room. When the call
came about a missing placard
you considered lying if not
for the incriminating evidence
freshly hung in your chamber. You wanted
to explain but sensed it futile,
admitting to driven by desire,
and gave formal apology,
feeling the burn breeding
in your sticky hands.

Spend twenty minutes observing people in a public place. Make a list of the gestures that people make, no matter how subtle. For example, the way a child twirls her hair around a finger, or the way a woman tucks loose strands of hair behind one ear.
Choose one gesture and describe its motions in great detail. Build a poem around this moment and what you think it tells you about the person.

Way Trial
He lifted his finger and rubbed the space
between his eyes, where the bridge of the nose
ends. The motion matched his navy blue
suite he wore for court, put him in pensive light
as he wrinkled his forehead and paused
mid-sentence, as he’d do in front of a judge.
The Boston blood in him didn’t show
in his accent, but how he pronounced Trattoria
like a New Jersey negligee gave away
his Italian roots, the kind of thing
his ring, fancy watch, and blackberry
left naked to elements of astute ears.
His wife loved him, particularly
his nose, and he—he liked her fine
with a glass of wine—she respected
his parents.  His legal team knew
nothing of that nor if he colored his hair,
they confused admiration with loyalty,
one bought the other
earned, though both could be faked
with a smile. The wrinkles
now, those were real.

Think of something you were afraid of as a child. Write a poem in which you describe what it was and how it made you feel. You can write from the point of view of an older person looking back on it, or you can write from the point of view of the child you once were.

Children Snatcher
Tall Pine trees make me walk
hastily, search their branches for the rare
bird I’ve never seen but was told
stories about. I dream her ostrich-
like body, feathered fat and gray
short skinny legs and long neck
ending with a hard beak.
Hiding in the needles hounding
at dusk for the next naughty child
who stomps alone beneath her bloated belly
of hunger; she stretches her rope
and hop—he’s high gone in the ticket.

——————————————

Sophia Starmack wrote:

I don’t remember
the Old Girl who lived
in my closet, age six.
Her stupid curls
or cold and perfect face.
They say she woke me often
with that fragile face
pressed to mine–
swinging the closet door
in an easy refrain,
to lure me back
for tea and cakes
among the dust balls
and school shoes
or a stuffed pink elephant
–my uncle’s, circa 1965.
No, I don’t remember
any Old Girl who made me cry
–opening the cheap door
on its rusty latch–
making me wake
my mother in the next room
to babble on and on
–a six-year-old’s dream
tongue–of white dresses
and pale hair.
No, I cannot see her,
though I suppose
she only wanted
to hear her name spoken
aloud in the dark.