Tag Archives: found poetry

Day 7, NaPoWriMo 2017

Book titles are a great source of inspiration. I pulled these from some catalogs I found while cleaning. Found poetry, indeed.

The secret library

the odd one out
in the great green room
is lost among the living

no time to clean
the mist in the mirror
in simple circles and quick curves

touch the wild
garden at the dragon’s gate
an antidote to venom

the eve of a hundred midnights
the desire of the everlasting hills

nothing is worth more than this day

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Day 3, NaPoWriMo 2017

napo2017button1Some time ago I picked up a discarded library copy (first edition!) of Alan Garner’s The Moon of Gomrath. I finally got around to reading it and found the following passage. The language was so fantastic I could not resist the urge to make a poem of it. The line breaks are mine.

It was dusk: branches stood against the sky, and twilight
ran in the grass, and gathered black
in the chasms and tunnel eyes of the old
mines which scarred the woodland with their spoil
of sand and rock. There was the sound of wind, though
the trees did not move.

– Alan Garner, The Moon of Gomrath, p. 12 (Henry A. Walnick, Inc., New York, 1967)

Found poetry: Sherlock in Love

sherlock-in-love-coverWell, the summer got away from me for a while, but I’ve caught up enough to be able to show my face again. I didn’t lose too much ground with reading, but the writing declined in quality as well and quantity. (I’m sure the two are related.)

During a brief overnight retreat last weekend, I read Sena Jeter Naslund’s Sherlock in Love. Some lines from the afterword (pp. 222-3) kept trying to shape themselves into a poem, so I played around with them a little. The description of depression struck me as particularly accurate.

Light of a day

This morning when I woke up alone
in my cell, sunshine was in my eyes. I sat up
in bed and looked at the great beauty
filling the room. This is what it is
to love, I thought. Someplace the sunlight
falls on your face.

Sometimes imagination fails me: the world
is no longer continuous. A great black cap of depression
sits first on my forehead, then covers
my face, my body. As the years wear on I know
I may live in perpetual darkness. The morning sun
may lose its power.

 

Love light

This morning when I woke up alone
in my cell, sunshine was in my eyes. I sat up
in bed and looked at the great beauty
filling the room. This is what it is
to love, I thought. Someplace the sunlight
falls on your face.

 

Haberdashery

Sometimes imagination fails me: the world
is no longer continuous, and we are not
connected. A great black cap of depression sits
first on my forehead, then covers
my face, my body.

As the years wear on I know
I may live in perpetual darkness. The morning sun
may lose its power. The black cap always
waits: “Deny yourself and enter into darkness”
reads the banner twisted in its folds.

 

Here, now

Sometimes I think of the forbidden and my body
thinks the impossible. What my eye falls on, I love
to see. What the ear hears is thick
with joy. I live in this moment
as I did not before: loving
the texture of the carpet, the glowing
globe of the lamp and its light
falling on my moving hand.

Day sixteen poem: LexPoMo

LexPoMo2016aToday’s prompt was “text message,” and something popped out at me in some text I was reading this morning. Found poetry adapted from a passage in Chapter XXXVI of Adam Bede, by George Eliot.

Reblogged from the Lexington Poetry Month blog.

The journey

The next morning she rose early and set out
walking the road towards Ashby under a leaden
sky with a narrowing streak of yellow
like a departing hope on the edge of the horizon.

It had not yet occurred to her that she might get money
for locket and earrings, and she applied all her small
knowledge calculating how many meals and rides were contained
in two guineas and the odd shillings, which had a melancholy
look of pale ashes to the other bright-flaming coins.

Found poetry: Charleston

Carla McGill over at writingcustoms.com has posted a lovely piece in appreciation of Pat Conroy, who passed away a few days ago at his home in South Carolina. She quotes a passage from his 2009 novel, South of Broad. The language put me in mind of a poem, and I could not resist the urge to shape it as such.

Charleston

I carry the delicate porcelain beauty of Charleston like the hinged
shell of some soft-tissued mollusk. My soul is peninsula-shaped and
        sun-hardened
and river-swollen. The high tides of the city flood my consciousness
each day, subject to the whims and harmonies of full moons
rising out of the Atlantic. I grow calm when I see the ranks of palmetto trees
pulling guard duty on the banks of Colonial Lake or hear the bells of St.
        Michael’s calling
cadence in the cicada-filled trees along Meeting Street. Deep in my bones, I knew
early that I was one of those incorrigible creatures known as Charlestonians.

— Pat Conroy, South of Broad, p. 1

Found poetry: book spines

So what has happened to my Blog Elul poetry, you ask? I’ve been writing, but the poems have been either too drafty (rough, unfinished) or too personal to post. That’s a good thing, though, because it means I have material to work with later, when I don’t have a daily prompt to inspire me.

I spent a couple hours with a friend at the library today, and I can never resist the urge to make poetry out of book titles. So here’s something I cobbled together using words that jumped out at me from the stacks.

***

to whisper her name all day and a night
unbroken against the tide
white hot light of the world long gone
a life of joy in a heartbeat

burning once upon a river
too late to say goodbye
guilt by association
hidden places never far from home

Day twenty-eight poem, LexPoMo 2015

LPM2015-01-1024x768This is a found poem inspired by words from Rosie Seymour’s final guest blog post for Mslexia, a wonderful U.K. publication for women who write.

Reblogged from the Lexington Poetry Month blog.

how slowly the world of publishing

Success seems so sudden
when you aren’t a part
of the process. Writers seem to
burst onto the scene
from nowhere and shoot
to great heights but they don’t.

They edge their way
in with this piece and that, testing
the water, slowly
building
a reputation, showing
they can nail
a brief and hit a deadline.

(found poetry: https://mslexia.co.uk/rosies-last-post/­)