Laurel Garver's Blog, page 22

V: Viewing the Body

by W. D. Snodgrass (1926-2009)


Flowers like a gangster's funeral;
Photo credit: Seemann from morguefile.comEyeshadow like a whore.They all say isn't she beautiful.
She, who never wore
Lipstick or such a dress,
Never got taken out,Was scarcely looked at, much less
Wanted or talked about;
Who, gray as a mouse, crept
The dark halls at her mother'sOr snuggled, soft, and slept
Alone in the dim bedcovers.
Today at last she holds
All eyes and a place of honorTill the obscene red folds
Of satin cl...

U: Untitled (morning meeting)

a concrete poem
by KD
This poem is proof that shape poems can be sophisticated, not simply clunky, childish strings of words fancied up using gimmicky typography. (There are plenty of examples of the latter online, however).

True confession: I don't exactly know who wrote this untitled piece and would love to give better attribution. I found it on someone's Tumblr page. I'd happily backlink the author if I could get an identity. My only clue is that this is someone from the Midwest or northern U...

T: Technique worth stealing

Studying poetry will make you a better writer, no matter what genre you aspire to master. Poetry uses a number of techniques that I believe are quite transferable to other kinds of writing.

Today, I'd like to share a technique to "steal" from poets--using the sound device assonance (repeated vowel sounds) to ramp up the emotion in your fiction. The thinking behind sound devices is often onomatopoetic; the sound and meaning are linked.

morguefile.com
Consider these examples. Say them al...

S: Spoken word

Spoken word poetry is meant to be experienced as a performance, heard rather than read silently. The piece I'm sharing below is a segment from a longer TED talk by spoken word poet Sarah Kay. More of her work can be found on YouTube.

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Absorbing a spoken word poem is a very different experience from reading it on a page. If you miss a turn of phrase, it's simply gone. You can't easily "reread" and consider your interpretation. You have to take it in, interpret on the fly, absorb what you can....

R: Reflections

By Deborah Guzzi
Photo credit: Gracey at morguefile.com
randomly I stare into
each reflective surface
forever pondering the
lines of age, pain and joy
each one a splendid testament
culled from a full life
teased endlessly, eternally
into distorted images
of the soul of me
never quite
seeing...I

surely, I am
not this shallow
only time can plane my cheek
insight my eyes to fade
turn the plumpness of lip to
crinkles of mirth
enlivening the gray
languishing in silver
forever seeing but parts of the
ecstasy I
reflect

Sou...

Q: Quelled

Holy Saturday Mourning
by Sr. Genevieve Glen, OSB

The fisherman had aged, they saw, when dawn
at last broke through that endless night.  He had
no words to strengthen them, his bluster gone
to silence. One by one they came. Grief bade
them gather there. The shadowed room was clad
in memories. Furtive eyes sought out the spot
where He had stood.  The big man’s shame burned hot.
The One with whom he’d sworn to die was dead.
And he was not.

©2011, Abbey of St. Walburga, http://genglen.blogspot.com ...

P: A Prodigal

by Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)


inset from a medieval painting, artist unknown
The brown enormous odor he lived by
was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,
for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty
was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung.
Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts,
the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare--
even to the sow that always ate her young--
till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head.
But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts
(he hid the...

O: Ode to a Dressmaker's Dummy

by Donald Justice (1925 - 2004)

Papier-mache body; blue-and-black cotton jersey cover.
Metal stand. Instructions included.   --Sears, Roebuck Catalogue

Photo credit: jeltovski at morguefile.com O my coy darling, still
You wear for me the scent
Of those long afternoons we spent,
The two of us together,
Safe in the attic from the jealous eyes
Of household spies
And the remote buffooneries of the weather;
So high,
Our sole remaining neighbor was the sky,
Which, often enough, at dusk,
Lean...

N: Not Quite Away

by Laurel Garver

Photo credit: o0o0xmods0o0o at morguefile.comYesterday
all my troubles seemed so far
across the street my best friend
or close enough stepped on her
gerbil squish
She was walking it on a leash
like a dog pretty dumb I think
probably she forgot everything else and
burst into Tomorrow
I love ya tomorrow you’re
only a day
around the block
the Bartelli boys who like to stick
crawly things into people’s lunches
bought the gerbil guts for 50¢ &
2 red rubber balls & a swirly
marble all stuff...

M: Magnetic creativity

If you find the idea of writing poetry completely intimidating, you might want to try out a creativity tool I rediscovered: magnetic poetry.

I recall magnetic poetry being the hot new thing back in the mid-1990s, usually sold in bookstore gift sections. Several local coffee shops near me kept cookie sheets coated with the small magnetized pieces of type you could arrange into forms of expression.

The challenge was to work with the words at hand and arrange them into something at least partially...