As I continue my poetry quest I know it’s not just about form, but substance. It’s about trying to explain the essence of things, using metaphors and similes. It’s about searching for word images that capture the difficult to explain.
Here is another work from Ripple Poetry which is about that quest for deeper meanings.
Next to work on extending the metaphors?
Art is like memories lost, then found
Memories can be a Pandora’s box.
Camera is like a dear friend sharing special moments.
A dear friend is the antidote to a depressing day.
Fake flower is like a make-up face.
Make-up face is a shield to protect.
Curtains are like eye lids that open and shut.
Eye lids are bridges between night and day.
Guitar is like a bird that wants to be heard.
Bird is a dreamer’s avenue to wings.
Poem is like a letter to a detective called reader.
Once I wrote mainly poems, but since that time I have learnt that some pieces work so much better as stories. True there are poetic forms that work brilliantly to tell narratives – think Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. Ballads are superb for narrative.
Yet I am not a big rhymer – I freely admit it; is it something I will fix? I’m not sure, perhaps with a large and interesting online rhyming dictionary to consult I might have more of a go.
I don’t choose to write ballads, yet my dear hubby can write them endlessly; he is a rhyming machine. He creates beautiful pieces for family and to make us laugh – so effortlessly. This leads me to ask do writers have a form they meld with easily – a form that is their gift? Should they stick with this form? Should they challenge, recreate and test themselves? What do you think?
All I can say is thank goodness not all poetry has to rhyme or I would firmly have my feet in the camp of story.
Poetic prose, verse novels work on the borders of poetry and prose – do you ever wonder why people use these forms? Is it because they can’t make up their mind? Is it because when anyone uses metaphor they realise there is a super fine line between poetry and prose?
I find myself experimenting with boundaries. I tease their limits. I look for the innovators and see just what they are up to. I go on writing field trips in different genre landscapes.
I feel I need to explore the full writing rainbow. I am a child with multi-coloured crayons, lost in my love of the written word, or is it found in my love of the written word?
Writing short meditations on themes that could be prose or poetry can sometimes let me off the hook of a firm decision. I find myself in a liminal space.
Yet if a poem is just become a bit too prosey I switch to writing it as a story. If a story is a touch poetical I see if I need to tip it into that realm. And then of course there are blogs.
Blogs are an art form in themselves.
They rely on how we scroll the screen, do away with paragraphing rules, might be photo essay, filled with hyperlink explorations, part memoir, part passion – and more.
They can be professional, full of dot points, informative, educative, specialist – and yet which blogs do you or I remember? Perhaps another topic for another writing/reading Saturday saga.
Today I’ll write a poem as a story and a story as a poem, just to see what happens.
The Stolen Children our Stories
Talking Ink from Ochre
Words and Silences
Haunted by the Past
The Music of the Soul
Writing us Mob – new Indigenous Voices
Recently I entered our local library’s Spine Book Poetry Competition. This above photograph and words are one of my entries.
The library were chuffed with the response to the competition, with over 280 entries and a massive support from Local businesses to provide prizes.
Why not try one of your own – just for fun.
Here is some of the press release from Cassowary Coastal council:
Quirky poems created from book titles have won Cassowary Coast residents early Christmas gifts from local businesses.
The Cassowary Coast Regional Council’s innovative Libraries Spine Poetry competition has proved a big hit across the region, with more than 280 entries from readers, and with support from a dozen local shops.
Adults, teenagers and children delved into Cassowary Coast library collections to choose a series of books with titles that could be strung together as clever and quirky poems or stories.
One winning entry read: “As I grew older/My mother always used to say/If…/I want to be/Unstoppable/All things are possible”, another “Sylvia/Remember Me?/Partners in Crime/Cat Among the Pigeons/I’ll be Seeing You/At Bertram’s Hotel”.
The Cardwell, Mission Beach, Tully and Innisfail winners are:
Recently the Monday online writing sprint group I love to participate in decided to have a writing challenge about Tupperware. We’d been discussing the directions of our posts within the group, and I quipped “as long as no one tries to sell me tupperware or linen here I’ll be happy.”
It was amazing to find some of us love it and some of us just hate it. Apologies to Tupperware, but I have a few issues with you, and as I wrote this piece I realised it wasn’t so much you as tupperware but what you had become associated with.
I wonder what my readers think about Tupperware. I might ask more of the sprint group if they might share their odes here. See we found out not all of us hate Tupperware, why some of us just love it and even give it away as family heirlooms. As for me here is my take on Tupperware.
An Anti Ode to Tupperware
Tupperware, oh why do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate you for the memories you conjure of rejection and loss. My soul remembers mother’s tears have flown when friends are far and few between.
You live at empty parties full of heartless faces surrounded with little boxes with little lids for little hearts who count each person through the door for the next box they will obtain.
Whilst others naively think at these parties some lifelong friends they might actually find.
I hate you for cost and payment transactions of neighbourhood where there must be something in it for the host; for making friends numbers on a tally board to the achievement of freebies and the façade of social lives where women gather and chatter.
Yet you come in many colours, shapes and sizes, and seal so well and tight, you keep everything fresh and ready for the morning school time runs.
Is it unfair for me to blame you so?
You are so handy for so many and yet you will always have the taint of small minded mothers and their children who used my own mother so.
Tupperware, can I forgive you? Not easily I am afraid, because you are a frequent invitation in a small town where people reach out using you like my mother once did.
Why not simply shop at the bargain store bin, with friends all in a row, stop for hot chocolate and lates? Why seek to make some income from those you call your friends?
Why not have conversations where transactions are nowhere to be seen? Why not have human interaction to understand each other’s dreams?
Tupperware’s my scapegoat, I know it to be so, but there is just no way for me to say I love thee, let me count the ways.