What Makes a Good Poem

 

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GloPoWriMo Day 7 - a list poem

This is a found poem. It consists of sentences and phrases found in this text.

What Makes a Good Poem

 

A good poem is a slip-of-a-thing,

a blind date with enchantment,

emotion surprised.

A good poem is a menagerie of craft; a spinning of sound,

an act of discovery.

A good poem is like medicine:

A flavor that lingers on the tongue,

surprises your senses, shakes you awake,

a word that doubles back on itself, not once but twice.

I want poetry that children can understand,

and a way of ending that makes the reader exclaim with delight,

“Robert Frost is icy blue and white!”

Something Monstrous

 

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GloPoWriMo Day 6

Our task today was to take a look around Poetry International for a poem in a language we don’t know, then read the poem to ourselves thinking about the sound and shape of the words, and the degree to which they remind us of words in our own language, then use those correspondences as the basis for a new poem.

I used Part 3 of the poem Photographs by Mária Ferenčuhová. The poem was written in Slovak and I first "translated" it to Serbian, then translated it (this time really) to English. The result is a very raw draft (especially the Serbian version), but it is the beginning of something that can be worked on. 

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Strava 

Nikada, na rubu vremena.

Sa tektonske ploče

u trenutku prhne

par crnih krila.

Sve se rasprskava.

Posrnuli, ustaje.

Veliki odron tutnji.

A šta joj to kida utrobu?

To strava uzima svoj prvi dah.

Something Monstrous

Once, on the edge of time

something dark flaps its wings,

the tectonic plates crack,

the Fallen stands up again,

the great landslide rumbles.

What is it that's tearing her insides?

Something monstrous takes its first breath.

The Day My Dog Performed a Miracle

 

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The Day My Dog Performed a Miracle

My dog jumped onto my aunt’s legs.

He knew she could do with some protection. 

She started laughing, then asked for dinner.

That was a miracle, my uncle claimed.

She hadn’t said a word for a week.

She hadn’t eaten or slept either.

He was afraid he’d lose her too.

The laughter continued in the days to come.

She cracked jokes, lying on that bed.

She mentioned the boy’s name once or twice.

She never cried or spoke about that day.

Afterwards, she kept Pekinese dogs.

One of them had performed a miracle on her, she said,

had kept her company during sleepless nights, 

his head on her chest, her hands around him,

his little heart beating 

under her palms.

GloPoWriMo Day 5 - a poem in which laughter comes at what might otherwise seem an inappropriate moment 

Snow in Spring

 

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Snow in Spring

What happened to your little red rose?

The days of spring are here.

Jack Frost kissed it, I suppose.

What happened to your little red rose?

Flowers growing in their rows.

My favourite time of the year.

What happened to your little red rose?

The days of spring are here.

GloPoWriMo Day 4 - A Triolet

I used nursery rhymes to create the poem. 

I Have Your Rags

 

Image by Esi Grünhagen from Pixabay 

GloPoWriMo Day 3 - Find a shortish poem that you like, and rewrite each line, replacing each word (or as many words as you can) with words that mean the opposite. 

I have chosen Vasko Popa's Give Me Back My Rags #11. The original poem is here. I am not sure who has translated it to English. The website doesn't say.

I didn't focus on replacing every word. Rather, I replaced the key words with their opposites. The result is rather sinister.

Here is my version:

Image by Adriano Gadini from Pixabay 

I Have Your Rags

I've smudged my face with your face.

Stitched your shadow to my shadow.

Ruffled the plains in you.

Turned your hills into plains. 

Declared ceasefire among your seasons.

Turned all the ends of the world to you. 

Untwisted the path of my life towards you. 

My wide open, my predictable path. 

Just try not to meet me now.

The Empty Shell

 

Image by Briam Cute from Pixabay

 An Empty Shell

The long wait.

There is nothing easier in the world, than to forget

that call in the dark, shrill and urgent.

The melody, half forgotten.

Distant drumroll, a flickering light.

The silver road, now lost.

Her bed, so soft.

Dreams of something pure and white.

They lied.

Time does not heal the wounds.

Her daily work, 

a promise kept.

All her sins, forgiven.

GloPoWriMo Day  2 - questions and answers (The process is a little involved, but it is explained in detail here. My poem ended up being about the oyster.)

The Book of Wonder

 

The Book of Wonder

I am trapped inside.

I turn each new page with a sense of dread, yet

I cannot stop.

Every night the book opens its pages for me.

Every night I enter its world of nightmares willingly.

I cannot stop.

The book writes itself so masterfully.

New chapters show up all the time.

Now I know I will never finish it.

It would be so easy to leave.

The book’s embrace is tender and soft.

The door to my prison is wide open.

Yet, I cannot escape.

I sleep during the day.

I sway softly in my silk hammock.

At night the book opens its pages for me.

I await each new chapter with a sense of dread.

I enter the world of nightmares willingly.

I know these stories too well.

I am the one who writes them, yet

I cannot stop.

GloPoWriMo Day 1 - Judging the book by its cover