Drew Myron's Blog, page 32

Keep on Poeming!

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Last week I asked:
What poem is in your hand, in your head, in your heart? 

The response was vibrant, and I'm heartened to know that poetry thrums and thrives in our lives. As we wrap up National Poetry Month, I'm sharing some of the poems I've enjoyed — thanks to you, dear readers, writers & poetry appreciators. 

 * * * 

"This poem is knocking my socks off," writes Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Colorado's Western Slope Poet Laureate:

Life While-You-Wait

Life While-You-Wait.

Performance without rehearsal.

Body without alterations.

Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.

I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot

just what this play’s all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,

I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.

I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.

I trip at every step over my own ignorance.

I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.

My instincts are for happy histrionics.

Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.

Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can’t take back,

stars you’ll never get counted,

your character like a raincoat you button on the run —

the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,

or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!

But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.

Is it fair, I ask

(my voice a little hoarse,

since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).

You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz

taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.

I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.

The props are surprisingly precise.

The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.

The farthest galaxies have been turned on.

Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.

And whatever I do

will become forever what I’ve done.

 

— Wislawa Szymborska

 

* * * 

Jeanie Senior, a journalist and poetry appreciator, recalls one of her favorite poems:

Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night. 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits; - on the French coast the light 

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, 

Listen! you hear the grating roar 

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 

At their return, up the high strand, 

Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 

The eternal note of sadness in. 

 

Sophocles long ago 

Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought 

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 

Of human misery; we 

Find also in the sound a thought, 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 

 

The Sea of Faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 

But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 

And naked shingles of the world. 

 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another! for the world, which seems 

To lie before us like a land of dreams, 

So various, so beautiful, so new, 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, 

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

 

— Matthew Arnold

 

 * * * 

 

Shirley McPhillips, author of Acrylic Angel of Fate, shared her own poem:

Shaking Off the Village

  — after Wanderlust

Today, I walk--cloud-gaze, woolgather,

meander--because it is slow.

 

I take leave of my senses, do nothing

in particular, with nobody, all alone.

 

Today, I do not make a sacred pilgrimage

or walk for justice or freedom

or any global good.

 

I walk to shake off the village

where a false urgency of devices

moves faster than the speed of thought,

 

or thoughtfulness. I saunter--my feet

equally at home in every place--taste

the essential wildness of presence.

 

Steps add up like taps on a drum

to the rhythm of breathing

and the beating of the heart.

 
— Shirley McPhillips

 

 * * * 

 

Woesha Hampson shares a poem she wrote:

Painting in the Yard

Mother Nature paints, our yard her canvas. 

Watching needles falling, I find solace. 

A dog drops a rag doll. A girl appears. 

She spots the doll, smiles, wipes away her tears. 

Squirrels bury walnuts, hide them in pots, 

large and small. They are brazen as a fox. 

 

A young deer passing by, sees me. He walks 

through the rain. Circling above are two hawks. 

A flicker bathes briefly in the bird bath. 

Through bushes, the dog returns on the path. 

Evergreen and fruit trees, flowers, and plants 

are caddywampus after a rain’s dance. 

 

 — Woesha Hampson

 

 

As the hoopla of Poetry Month subsides, we know poetry lives in the everyday, in what we do and what we say. Keep on poeming!

 

 

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows

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It's April and the world hums with poems. 

Time to get in the groove for Poem in Your Pocket Day!

(Yes, it's a real thing). 

Here's how:
 
1.  Pick a poem. 
 
2.  Carry it with you. 
 
3.  Share it.

The result? The world thrums with the beauty of poetry. 

Poem in Your Pocket Day is on Thursday, April 27, 2017.
 

So, tell me:

What's in your heart & on your page?

What do you clutch & what do you give away?

What poem is in your pocket?

 

Where Art Is Made

 

Where Art Is Made

We are builders, makers, hopers, doers.

From clunkers and junkers,

out of shards and clay,

we shape and frame, sort and stir.

Each of us turning grime into gold.

 

Against fence and lock,

a door swings, a window opens,

a sunflower reaches for a fresh day.

 

Everything is always growing.

 

Dirt dusts places not yet alive

and in this gravel of possibility,

we honor the old and worn, the faded and frail,

know that good bones are worth holding.

 

Deep against rock, trains clack and roll,

we press into paper, scissors and paint,

splattered, gathered, mixed.

 

With each ding-ding-ding, solid freight

floats our dreams and we clatter, wide awake

in dark, in light, in love and hope.

 

The day opens, the sky widens, you are here.

Hand in hand, arm in arm, each grip

is a dare to you declared:

 

Breathe, work, sear and sculpt.

Sew and hold, paint and saw.

Mix and mingle. Break rules, break ground.

Create your self, your world, your now.

 

On the bridge of progress, we dance and dive,

wonder, wander, taste and make.

 

With each how and why and what next?

we dig in and reach out

to build in the mind,

a step, a ladder, another sky.

 

Let’s scaffold the unknown.

In every thing, promise.

 

— Drew Myron

 

I love a good collaboration, and this special project brought together all my faves: image, sound & words.

"Where Art Is Made," by Futuristic Films, celebrates the many makers who continue to shape and define the River North Art District (RiNo) in Denver, Colorado. Conceived by Tracy Weil, RiNo's Co-Founder/Creative Director, the film features the spoken word talent of Toluwanimi Obiwole, Denver's first Youth Poet Laureate (2015), and an original poem by Drew Myron (me!). 

As we celebrate National Poetry Month, this artful blend is proof that poetry lives in everything, everywhere, every day.

 

 

It's Poetry Month. Let's Write!

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According to Chinese tradition, a garden landscape without poetry is not complete. Poetry, along with rocks, architecture, water, and plants, on one of the five necessary elements of a Chinese garden. 

I'm honored to celebrate National Poetry Month at the Lan Su Chinese Garden in Portland, Oregon. Please join me for this free workshop. 

Come to Your Senses
— a writing workshop

Lan Su Chinese Garden 
Portland, Oregon 

Wednesday April 12, 2017

3 to 4:30pm

Free with admission. 

Writing comes alive with the detail our senses provide. Using the sense of smell as a trigger, we’ll focus on fresh writing with prompts and practices designed to energize and inspire. 

From poetry to prose, fact to fiction, this 90-minute workshop will serve as a creative springboard in which you’ll generate new work, meet other writers, and share experiences that will help shape, shift and propel your own writing.

This workshop is free with admission to Lan Su Garden, and open to writers of all ages, experience & interests. No registration is required. Drop in, bring pen, paper & your writing mind. 

About Lan Su Chinese Garden
One of Portland, Oregon’s greatest treasures, Lan Su Chinese Garden is more than just a beautiful botanic garden. It’s an inspiring experience based on a 2,000-year-old Chinese tradition that blends art, architecture, design and nature in perfect harmony. 

About the Instructor
Drew Myron is a former newspaper reporter and editor who has covered news, arts, entertainment and travel for AOL, Northwest Best Places and other publications. For over 15 years, she’s headed a marketing communications company specializing in literacy, health and advocacy for the vulnerable. Drew is the author of several books and art collaborations.

 

Love that line!

 
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[Art] has been reduced to an insult:

"It's a bunch of sqiggles that my kid could do" . . .

You want to know how I think art should be taught to children?

Take them to a museum and say, "This is art, and you can't do it." 

 

— An Object of Beauty 
a novel by Steve Martin 

 

 

Daffodils Save the Day

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 This is how to bloom
 

  — for Dee, of daffodil season

 

And you,

From damp earth

and newborn grass

Born among daffodils.

 

The sky strains to grow.

You are ruffled edge,

a burn of gold.

 

And you, in resurrection

In this tender-sun season 

Made from burden and stone

 

In an urgent quiet, whisper

What are you waiting for?

 

— Drew Myron

How to Be Thankful

 

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Talking about the weather is a sure sign of:

1) A dull wit.

2) An old crank.

3) A long winter.

Yes, all three! It's been a long, wet, gray winter in Oregon. But, wait, this is not a weather report. This is my how-to-survive guide.

A Guide to Gratitude
Or How to Be Thankful When Life is Sucking The Life Out of You

1.
Drink Coffee
Or tea, warm milk, warm water . . . anything that soothes.

2.
Watch Flowers Grow
So much better than watching paint dry or water boil. Did you know daffodils — my favorite flower — are only $2 a bunch? That's a pop of sunshine for less than a latte! Go ahead, splurge. 

3.
Wear Something Soft
I love cashmere, and regularly stalk Goodwill for thrifty luxury. But a soft scarf works too, or snuggly mittens, a smooth blanket. The world can feel so hard, cocoon in softness.  

Caution: Don't park yourself in comfy clothing. Bursts of comfort are good. Living in sweats (or yoga pants) is bad. 

4.
Bathe in Books
This is a two-for-one pick-me-up: take a bath and bring a book. Or skip the bath and just bathe in words. Either way, you'll immerse yourself in sensory pleasure. 

5.
Eat with a Friend
Or drink and eat. Try not to drink alone or eat junk food alone (for me, chips and cookies are guilty binges devoured in the shame of solitary over-indulgence). Still, to be of healthy mind and body, I try to eat with others. And rarely drink alone — that's just sad. 

6.
Move 
I loath exercise until I actually do it, and then I wonder why I didn't get moving sooner. When you're feeling low the pit of lethary is deep, so you gotta start small. Get off the couch, then out of the house, then take a walk around the block. Fresh air is invigorating, no matter the weather. And that first jolt is usually enough to make you want more. 

7.
Write 
Start easy. One page. One line, even. You're allowed to write junk. You're allowed to babble. This is just for you. Keep the pen moving. Keep your mind open. Just write. Like moving your body, moving the pen across the page reinforces that you can. Keep on. As Naomi Shihab Nye says, "No one feels worse after writing."

8.
Get a Chia
I don't like dirt or gardening and rarely remember to water the plants. But my Dad — bless his goofy heart — recently sent me a Chia pet. Remember those ceramic pots shaped into animals and objects in which you place seeds and they magically sprout? Yes, so kitschy and corny and fun. 

9. 
Pray
For sun, for spring, for just a hint of light in the sky. For patience.

 10.
Forget Yourself
Read with a child. Make soup for the sick. Hold hands with the lonely. Listen to a neighbor. In short, get out of your head and into the world. There's a lot of hurt, be a balm. 

How do you get through? 

 

It's Thankful Thursday, 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? 

 

Long winter. Longish life.

 

1.
I haven't written in a while because I talk too much and say only one thing: rain, rain, more rain. 

It's grey again and my stomach rumbles, or is that my hip? Something is rusted, shut. 

This long winter. This season of life. I celebrated a half-century and a friend reminded me that there was a time when 25 seemed like a feat I would fail. Oh, but for the grace of . . . protecting me from myself. I did not know what I did not know. 

2.
For months now, we hurry up and wait. Each day is crisis or calm. 

At the nursing home where I work, people die. And I am always surprised. Not that they die, but that it always feels sudden even when I know it's coming.

I want to say life is long stretches of gray. Not just the sky but day-to-day. It's murk. You think you'll make decisions, or have time, or just know. But such defining moments are rare. And yet we keep expecting to offer a yes or no or now. As if we have control. As if we hold both charity and clarity. 

3.
Today I drove for hours across farms and fields and rain-soaked road. As a young reporter, wide-eyed, eager, open, I traveled country roads just like this.

I'm trying to say I've circled back and have learned so little. And yet the mind, the body now hold much more. Is this of use? Am I of use? I do not know.

4.
I was once charmed by these small towns half asleep. This would pull me: empty storefront, broken window, wide sky. I'd search for the sagging barn, a falling down house. I was camera and focus, giving image to a brokenness within.  

Now, I feel a numb sort of sad for the struggle of getting by, of nothing stretched across years of it'll do. Even the silos seem to be mourning. Never full but not quite empty. A perpetual vacancy.

5.
Yes, I've gained weight . . . there is a heft to me now, in years and experience. I'm not so much "older and wiser" but living with a lens that offers a longer view. In this, some perspective, some relief. 

 

Buy! Buy! Sold.

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See Me  |  an adverpoem

 

Sleep is the ultimate luxury. Buy it for bragging rights.

 

            The best seats in the house are no longer in your house.

 

Love is complicated. Make room for more.

 

            The choice is simple, and it’s yours.

 

You’re an expert in the art of compromise.

 

            Convenience. Convenience. Winsome.

 

Be the breakthrough. Do beautiful work.

 

 — Drew Myron

 

A found poem, featuring ad taglines from: Novartis Pharmaceuticals, Beautyrest Mattress, Moen, Ford Motor Company, LaraBar, Cost Plus World Explorer, Genentech, Delta, Amazon, Toyota, Pepperidge Farm.

 

Love that line!

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Inside the car, it feels like 

           the devil is grilling sinners. 

 

— We Need New Names
a novel by NoViolet Bulawayo