To The One I've Not Yet Met
Speak to me in your own language,
your own voice and vocabulary. Do not try
to impress me or assume you know
my language. Speak to me as to yourself.
If I understand, we'll know this is love.
from Sunday's PAD prompt to write about miscommunication, after thinking about how sometimes i feel so few people, even among my friends, really speak the same language as me.
Monday, April 27, 2009
A promised, a bit of backstory
So, here is the story about that poem I posted last week....
I have been wanting to write a ghazal for a long time, but never really made myself try one. A pretty good explanation of the form is here if you want to read up, but the basic rules, as I understand them, are that a ghazal is composed of 5-15 couplets, and it utilizes a repeated word called a radif which appears at the end of both lines of the first couplet and then at the end of the last line of each succeeding couplet. Each couplet should stand alone, although a loose theme or feeling is generally developed throughout the poem. Traditional ghazals often evoke themes of the romantic, erotic, and/or spiritual, and have a melancholy tone. It is also tradition for the poet to "sign" the poem by including his or herself in the final couplet, often in 3rd person, though I chose to use 1st person.
The ghazal was popularized in English in the U.S. by a Kashmiri-American poet named Agha Shahid Ali. I met him in the fall of 1999; he read at Bowling Green as part of an Asian-American Writers' Conference. I also got to hang out and drink with him afterward, and he was a wonderful man. He died two years later. Before he died, he put together a book of ghazals which are absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking and amazing, especially knowing that he wrote many of them when he knew that he was dying.
The PAD prompt was to write a poem about regret, and for some reason the word just struck me as the perfect word to use in a ghazal. I wrote the 5 couplets posted here that day and then another three over the weekend that I think I will add in.
Shahid's book is called Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals. He also edited a book called Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English which includes work by Maxine Kumin, William S. Merwin, Ann Townsend, and many others.
I have been wanting to write a ghazal for a long time, but never really made myself try one. A pretty good explanation of the form is here if you want to read up, but the basic rules, as I understand them, are that a ghazal is composed of 5-15 couplets, and it utilizes a repeated word called a radif which appears at the end of both lines of the first couplet and then at the end of the last line of each succeeding couplet. Each couplet should stand alone, although a loose theme or feeling is generally developed throughout the poem. Traditional ghazals often evoke themes of the romantic, erotic, and/or spiritual, and have a melancholy tone. It is also tradition for the poet to "sign" the poem by including his or herself in the final couplet, often in 3rd person, though I chose to use 1st person.
The ghazal was popularized in English in the U.S. by a Kashmiri-American poet named Agha Shahid Ali. I met him in the fall of 1999; he read at Bowling Green as part of an Asian-American Writers' Conference. I also got to hang out and drink with him afterward, and he was a wonderful man. He died two years later. Before he died, he put together a book of ghazals which are absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking and amazing, especially knowing that he wrote many of them when he knew that he was dying.
The PAD prompt was to write a poem about regret, and for some reason the word just struck me as the perfect word to use in a ghazal. I wrote the 5 couplets posted here that day and then another three over the weekend that I think I will add in.
Shahid's book is called Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals. He also edited a book called Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English which includes work by Maxine Kumin, William S. Merwin, Ann Townsend, and many others.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Regret
no time to talk about this right now, but wanted to post it.....
Regret: A Ghazal for Agha Shahid Ali
The poet approached his death without regret.
His loves, his words, all pure and true. No regret.
Sunshine in April warms the panes of windows
composed of broken sand. Does the ocean regret?
The room is brilliant and empty, bed made,
window open, curtains billowing in gusts of regret.
Lovers frolic in the new grass, hands hot and waiting.
Their eyes meet. Everything is possible but regret.
I met the poet the year before he died. We talked
of everything but death. I still carry that regret.
Regret: A Ghazal for Agha Shahid Ali
The poet approached his death without regret.
His loves, his words, all pure and true. No regret.
Sunshine in April warms the panes of windows
composed of broken sand. Does the ocean regret?
The room is brilliant and empty, bed made,
window open, curtains billowing in gusts of regret.
Lovers frolic in the new grass, hands hot and waiting.
Their eyes meet. Everything is possible but regret.
I met the poet the year before he died. We talked
of everything but death. I still carry that regret.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Art of Work (and some news)
Still keeping up with the PAD challenge, though I haven't written anything super exciting the past few days. This whole experience has been very good for me though. Not only have I really gotten into the habit of writing every day, but it's been good for me to write on some different subjects and to write without feeling like the end result has to be perfect or even good. Going into the Poem a Day challenge, I gave myself permission to write some really bad poems. As long as I wrote something every day, that was okay; I've been trying not to overthink the prompts and just go with whatever comes to mind. Some of the poems have come easily, others I've struggled with. Some I've known were complete crap, but others have surprised me in good ways.
I read two more of these newbies on Monday at the Poetry Forum: "Easter Morning" (the prose poem I referenced but didn't post in its entirety last week) and "White, Through Four Seasons" which I linked to. Got good responses, but they could both use some edits I think.
But here's the big news: I found out on Monday that I won 3rd place in the William Redding Memorial Poetry Competition! It's an annual contest sponsored by the Poetry Forum and Pudding House Publishing. My friend Nathan actually won first place - go Nathan!!! He gets a featured reading at the Poetry Forum in 2 weeks. The 2nd and 3rd place winners also get to read that night in shorter spots, so that'll be exciting!
Anyway, here's today's PAD poem. The prompt was to write a work-related poem.
The Art of Work
When I was young, to be called lazy
was the greatest insult. Like robots
my parents valued efficiency and hard work
at the expense of anything else.
Creativity was unnecessary unless it meant
a new way of cooking dinner or a faster method
of clearing brush or harvesting corn. The arts
were luxuries we could hardly afford.
A working writer is an oxymoron
in my father's eyes. There is no sweat
involved, no dirt, he sees no danger.
I can not explain that art is a blade
turned inward, two-edged and shining,
an artificial intelligence that cuts to the truth
leaving the artist in tatters, sweating
and exhausted after a hard day's work.
I read two more of these newbies on Monday at the Poetry Forum: "Easter Morning" (the prose poem I referenced but didn't post in its entirety last week) and "White, Through Four Seasons" which I linked to. Got good responses, but they could both use some edits I think.
But here's the big news: I found out on Monday that I won 3rd place in the William Redding Memorial Poetry Competition! It's an annual contest sponsored by the Poetry Forum and Pudding House Publishing. My friend Nathan actually won first place - go Nathan!!! He gets a featured reading at the Poetry Forum in 2 weeks. The 2nd and 3rd place winners also get to read that night in shorter spots, so that'll be exciting!
Anyway, here's today's PAD poem. The prompt was to write a work-related poem.
The Art of Work
When I was young, to be called lazy
was the greatest insult. Like robots
my parents valued efficiency and hard work
at the expense of anything else.
Creativity was unnecessary unless it meant
a new way of cooking dinner or a faster method
of clearing brush or harvesting corn. The arts
were luxuries we could hardly afford.
A working writer is an oxymoron
in my father's eyes. There is no sweat
involved, no dirt, he sees no danger.
I can not explain that art is a blade
turned inward, two-edged and shining,
an artificial intelligence that cuts to the truth
leaving the artist in tatters, sweating
and exhausted after a hard day's work.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
A New Relationship
A New Relationship
I believe I have finally made peace
with sweet potatoes. For years
I would tell anyone who cared
that I just don’t like them, even go
so far as to say hate. And I do
still hate, or strongly dislike,
and refuse to eat, sweet potato pie
or any concoction that involves
brown sugar, butter, or, heaven forbid,
marshmallows. I credit Northstar burritos
and my last two ex-girlfriends
for inspiring me to renegotiate
my relationship with a vegetable
I’ve always felt I really should like.
We got off on the wrong foot, sweet
potatoes and I, that gooey, too sweet
winter vegetable “eat your dinner
or go hungry” foot of childhood,
and I confess, I held a grudge. I just
wouldn’t see that they could be more
than orange mush masquerading
as dessert. We just needed some spice -
salt and pepper, cumin, chili powder –
and some mutual friends – black beans,
onions, tofu, tortillas, olive oil
instead of butter, and never, ever,
sugar of any kind. If we both follow
those rules, I think we can have
a great, long-lasting relationship.
I believe I have finally made peace
with sweet potatoes. For years
I would tell anyone who cared
that I just don’t like them, even go
so far as to say hate. And I do
still hate, or strongly dislike,
and refuse to eat, sweet potato pie
or any concoction that involves
brown sugar, butter, or, heaven forbid,
marshmallows. I credit Northstar burritos
and my last two ex-girlfriends
for inspiring me to renegotiate
my relationship with a vegetable
I’ve always felt I really should like.
We got off on the wrong foot, sweet
potatoes and I, that gooey, too sweet
winter vegetable “eat your dinner
or go hungry” foot of childhood,
and I confess, I held a grudge. I just
wouldn’t see that they could be more
than orange mush masquerading
as dessert. We just needed some spice -
salt and pepper, cumin, chili powder –
and some mutual friends – black beans,
onions, tofu, tortillas, olive oil
instead of butter, and never, ever,
sugar of any kind. If we both follow
those rules, I think we can have
a great, long-lasting relationship.
Just an interesting quote
from today's Poem of the Day email. It's from "User's Guide to Physical Debilitation" by Paul Guest. I can't say I love the poem, but this section made me laugh awkwardly...oh sex.....
When not an outright impossibility
or form of neurological science fiction,
sexual congress will either be with
tourists in the kingdom of your tragedy,
performing an act of sadistic charity;
with the curious, for whom you will be beguilingly blank canvas;
or with someone blindly feeling their way
through an extended power outage
caused by summer storms you once thought romantic.
When not an outright impossibility
or form of neurological science fiction,
sexual congress will either be with
tourists in the kingdom of your tragedy,
performing an act of sadistic charity;
with the curious, for whom you will be beguilingly blank canvas;
or with someone blindly feeling their way
through an extended power outage
caused by summer storms you once thought romantic.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Colors and Ideas and Possibilities, Oh My
(alternately titled: It's Finally Looking and Feeling Like Spring!)
http://appalachianphoto.org/members/mary-tortorici
I am fascinated by these photos of topiary in front of a small Applachian house with laundry drying on a clothesline. There is a poem in this, for sure. Actually, the entire photo project is really cool.
Today's PAD challenge was to take a color, make it the title of your poem, and then just write something. Very open-ended, but not a bad prompt. Here's a link to all today's responses. You can find mine by searching for my name, or the title "White, Through Four Seasons".
http://appalachianphoto.org/members/mary-tortorici
I am fascinated by these photos of topiary in front of a small Applachian house with laundry drying on a clothesline. There is a poem in this, for sure. Actually, the entire photo project is really cool.
Today's PAD challenge was to take a color, make it the title of your poem, and then just write something. Very open-ended, but not a bad prompt. Here's a link to all today's responses. You can find mine by searching for my name, or the title "White, Through Four Seasons".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
