Index Poetry

It’s been some years since we’ve done index poetry, and I have to confess that it’s actually Table of Contents poetry.  Last time we used Annie Dillard’s Table of Contents to The Writing Life, and the results you all shared were quite invigorating.

I will take the first word of each chapter listed in the Table of Contents of Brenda Ueland’s wonderful book, If you Want to Write.  Your task is to rearrange these words into a poem that makes sense to you.  You can add up to five of your own words, but not more.  With punctuation, anything goes.  Here you go!

Everybody

Imagination

Why

Works

Sooner

Know

Careless

People

Women

Microscopic

Art

Infection

Dimension

Third

Keep

Know

Using

Tigers

Face

Creativity Feels like This

My creativity feels like this, but I also want to hear about yours. Mine came out as a poem, but that is not required. Just shoot for as much accuracy as you can.

Creativity

Take all your failures
Mash them into every urge to screw around anyway
Throw in a cross-eyed stare
A stubborn lower lip, a tongue between teeth
And lay it all out, end to end, in words.

Take all your happiest smiles
Feel them in your chest
Exhale fear, then shrug and let it back in.
Say, “Who cares?”
And start.

Think of the least obvious
The fourth item past the cliché
Or don’t think
Pretend you’re not really doing this
And are actually off doing laundry or washing the floor
Then hit “Record,” but don’t watch.

Repeat after me:
It’s okay; it’s okay; it’s okay.
Then pat yourself on the knee and tell yourself
You’re a good kid,
And whatever you put out there today is a fine start.

Poems of the Day

For those of you who are new to this site, Poems of the Day are written with great abandon, not care and attention.  They come from within, allowed to be weird, accepted as quick rather than craftsman-like.   I will put one of mine here, and I encourage you to do the same.  Accept your wild inner postures and let them out onto the page.  Say “yes” rather than “oh no.”  Just write.

Poem of the Day 05/11/16

“All shall be well” –Julian of Norwich

But I sleep alone in the wrong bed.

“Que sera, sera”  –Doris Day

The path leads down and away

“Sometimes the magic works, and sometimes it doesn’t.”  –Old Lodge Skins in Little Big Man

I scream and cry, and only then grow silent.

“Things fall apart; the center cannot hold” –Yeats

But the kitchen is clean.

“Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies.”  –Children’s nursery rhyme

Nature grows thin when love is gone.

“Time is on my side.”  –The Rolling Stones

I ache, listening to the clock he made.

“He who can destroy a thing, controls it.”  –Frank Herbert, Dune

I stare.  I wonder.  I wait.

“Where go the boats?” –Robert Louis Stevenson

The Book of Stains

I would like your additions to “The Book of Stains.” It’s a handy how-to guide that needs expanding since stains are always going to show up. Here are some early listings, to give you an idea of what is most helpful:

The splatter of grief

–This stain will fade over time. Many cleaning books maintain that this is a treatable stain, but there is no way to erase the splatter of grief except to wait for it to disappear on its own.

Spilled hopes

–Wipe up with a soft cloth. Wring the liquid into a Mason jar and seal. These will keep indefinitely until you are ready to serve them up along with a fine champagne.

Ground in messages of misogyny

–This stain needs treatment with harsh chemicals. Wear rubber gloves because such stains are toxic to tender skin. The sooner this stain is treated, the better. If the stain is on paper, burn it.

Caked on confusion

–Happily, there are many books on cake making that contain helpful hints. Betty Crocker herself recommends mixing up confusion with the following ingredients: a dictionary, Google, a yellow tablet, honesty, and the will to learn. Bake for a number of years until done.

The dust of dumb decisions

–Here a light touch is best. Dust is everywhere and it tends to come back. Don’t shoot for the perfect dustless home, but rest easy. A little dust never hurt anyone. We all have this kind of dust.

One More Crummy Poem: Please Add Yours!

Supper’s on the table
With sour cream and chives.
One more day of waiting
To see if I survive.

All the pieces are in place
I even bought dessert;
Everyone is happy,
And I am going berserk.

I might sleep beneath a tree tonight,
Stay up until the dawn.
Something’s got to tear loose soon,
Or I am going down.

Forget the happy endings.
I ride the universe.
My hangnails all have offspring.
A thin shell over nerves.

So I conjure, and I write.
This path or that, I try,
Shove made up folks down fancied roads
Where I feel more sane and sigh.

I’m standing on one shaky leg,
Looking out for any handhold,
All preciously grabbed in gratitude
As I read tales I’ve told.

Remember “Poems of the Day”?

A Poem of the Day is when you give yourself absolute permission to write a poem about what you’re doing in this exact moment or what’s on your mind or just to riff on whatever you feel like, without a whole lot of attention to quality.

So you blast it out onto the page.  You act like it’s a poem by using short lines and stanzas.  You don’t say NO as you write, only YES.  It’s all okay.  Bim bam boom.   You’ve written a poem.  Sometimes it’s quite nice.   Sometimes it needs work.  You decide the next step.

Ultimately, I want you to post your Poem of the Day here, beneath mine.  Yes, I worked on this one about half an hour.  I felt like getting the rhymes to work and to make it come out with at least some sense.  It’s not great art.  it’s just a Poem of this Particular Day.  Your turn!

Ann’s Poem of the Day 8/21/12

Supper’s on the table
With sour cream and chives.
One more day of waiting
To see if I survive.

All the pieces are in place
I even bought dessert;
Everyone is happy,
And I am going berserk.

I might sleep beneath a tree tonight,
Stay up until the dawn.
Something’s got to tear loose soon,
Or I am going down.

I gave up on happy endings.
Try to ride the universe.
My hangnails all have offspring.
I’m a thin shell over nerves.

So I imagine, and I write.
This path or that, I try,
Leading made up folks down conjured roads
Where I feel more sane and sigh.

I’m standing on one shaky leg,
Looking out for any handhold,
All preciously grabbed in gratitude
As I read tales you’ve told.