Day 18: My Writing Acrostic

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I learned some things from this prompt, from POETRYisEVERYTHING — so I thought I’d share it on my blog. (I didn’t know that acrostics occur in Proverbs, Psalms, and Lamentations.) You’ll find my acrostic at the end.

PROMPT 18 – Acrostic Poem

Relatively simple acrostics may merely spell out the letters of the alphabet in order; such an acrostic may be called an ‘alphabetical acrostic’ or Abecedarius. These acrostics occur in the first four of the five songs that make up the Book of Lamentations, in the praise of the good wife in Proverbs 31, 10-31, and in Psalms 9, 10, 25, 34, 37, 111, 112, 119 and 145 of the Hebrew Bible.[3] Notable among the acrostic Psalms are the long Psalm 119, which typically is printed in subsections named after the letters of the Hebrew alphabet, each of which is featured in that section; and Psalm 145, which is recited three times a day in the Jewish services. Acrostics prove that the texts in question were originally composed in writing, rather than having existed in oral tradition before being put into writing.

Acrostic poetry was very common in medieval literature and often served to highlight the name of the poet or the patron who paid him. They were also used to make a prayer to a saint. You’ll find alphabet acrostic poems which are called Abecedarius poems in the first four of the five songs that make up the the Book of Lamentations. They praise the good wife in Proverbs. There are many Acrostic Psalms, the most notable is the very long Psalm 119 where each section is named after the letters of the Hebrew alphabet.

In Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass, the final chapter “A Boat, Beneath A Sunny Sky” is an acrostic of the real Alice’s name: Alice Pleasance Liddell. (Good trivia question to ask: What’s Alice’s full name….).

The Poem begins….

A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July –

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,

. . . and the poem continues from there…

When the muse moves you,
Runs her hands through your hair, pours
Ice down your spine,
Tickles you until you cry —
It isn’t her call what happens next. It’s yours.
Now is the moment in which to
Gallop in the direction of your dreams.

 

Day 17: Don’t make excuses, make poems…

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The prompt today is to write a poem inspired by hands. (For more details, go to POETRYisEVERYTHING.)

I am reading a novel in which the characters
recognize one another not by their faces,
not by their expressive eyes,
their noses, their lips, not even by height

or the color of their hair or the sound of their voices,
but by their hands. By their hands.
It makes me feel incompetent.
My oldest daughter, I think, knew my hands best,

would scream when anyone else
picked her up. But would I know her hands today,
I mean, if they were all I had to go by?
I’m not sure I could recognize even my own mother

by just her hands. Meanwhile, across from me,
my youngest daughter is learning chords on the guitar.
She knots her left hand over the strings,
a freckle on her index finger.

Her fingers are shorter than mine. The nails
are short, blunt. I ask her to hold up
her hand, to show me her palm,
and she has an X dangling from her lifeline.

She strums E Minor, and then G,
then she looks up and catches me watching her.
She crosses her brown eyes,
sticks out her tongue.

*

No, I am not actually reading such a novel (maybe I will write it). And I am not sure this qualifies as a poem. It could be a prose free-write. Oh, well. Don’t make excuses, make poems! Tomorrow: an acrostic.

Day 13: Emily Dickinson

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The Formidable Emily

Today’s poem — or attempt at a poem — is an homage to Emily Dickinson.  Emily as mother…of my fourteen year old?

Here’s her original:

I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it’s true —
Men do not sham Convulsion,
Nor simulate, a Throe —

The Eyes glaze once — and that is Death —
Impossible to feign
The Beads upon the Forehead
By homely Anguish strung.

And mine:

She likes a look of Agony,
It’s the truest look she knows —
The boys that text
My girl, no likelihood to throw —

Her eyes roll up — I guess that’s No —
Cooperation not her fight
And the purple highlights in her hair
So gorgeous in a snit.

*

Smiley face here.  (Remember, it doesn’t have to be good.)

Day 11 / 30 Poems in 30 Days

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Fritillary butterfly. Photo taken by Beatriz Moisset.

Here’s the prompt for today’s poem from POETRYisEVERYTHING:

“A poet’s autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.”
― Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Welcome to Day 11 of the NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) challenge. One third of the challenge and poetry month is behind us now. If you are just getting started I hope you’ll set a goal to write 20 poems in the next 20 days.

FRIDAY APRIL 11TH Prompt

Prompt: Use 4 or more of these words in a poem: 1. euphonious (pleasing to the ear); 2. mise en abyme (French meez-ahn-ah-beem –placed in an abyss ); 3. prurient –( an unwanted arousal or interest in sex (or violence or?) an itch, craving); 4. anodyne (unlikely to offend or upset anyone); 5. antipodes (diametrically opposite sides of the earth as in Australia to U.S.); 6. fritillaries (butterlies that are usually orange with black spots on the upper sides of the wings and silver spooted on the underside of the hind wing; also Scarlet and White wildflowers in the NorthWest).

Your poem should be a minimum of 4 lines and include at least 4 of these words. Have at it!

 

Remember, your poem doesn’t have to be perfect. Here’s mine.

I have been in love with words all my life —
my father reading aloud Emily Dickinson and Rudyard Kipling,
Christina Rossetti and William Wordsworth from our
big book of verse. Sitting in the scabby pew
in church, running my finger under the euphonious syllables
of Old Testament cities, those antipodes of ours,
beautiful names though not always difficult:
Jericho and Babel and Ninevah.
I loved even my cousins’ repertoire
of cuss words that brought on our prurient giggles
at the way they hammered and bludgeoned
through their jokes. Much later, in college,
I fell into the abyss of words, the dark side
of “creative writing” that the scholars scorned.
Naming my daughters — I won’t speak
of the joy diving among the possibilities gave me.
There is no anodyne, no placebo to smooth over this love,
no tautology to explain it —
I am in love with the words, multi-syllabic, short,
vivid and dull, all of them dancing like fritillaries
amid the flowers — phlox and tidytips and fireweed,
columbine, heal-all, shooting star —
whose names themselves are words I have loved.

I have a feeling that this could either be much longer or much  shorter. It’s interesting, in any case, to type it up and share it. I’ll let it (and the other poems this month) sit a while, and then I’ll return to them to see what else they may have to say to me.