Some New Ones from the Writing Group

The FloPoSo Writing Group continues be a wonderful source of creativity for me. Whether I am working on my novel or using the prompt from the group to write poetry, I connect to something bigger than just me. Plus, the members are -- I want to say nice and beautiful, but that seems so trite, however true -- real. Genuine people with helpful intentions. I am honored that they have accepted me as a writer into their group. Okay, enough of the mushy stuff. On to the poetry. The prompt was "being in the way" or "in the way" poetry. An interesting concept.

In The Way

toe to bed leg
hand to mouth
so as not to
wake the kids
nine of them
on two pull-outs,
three sleeping bags,
and an air mattress
in the living room
secretly, you want
to wake them because
you're leaving and
somewhere in that pile
of teen-aged girls
is your sister but
that would make it worse
her anger at your
drunken interruption
just another reminder
that you don't belong
you move the trash barrels
away from the garage door
it's your father's car
so you adjust the mirrors
before you quietly pull away

ltv


While writing the above poem, a shocking thought came to me when I considered the number of kids to specify in the poem. The first draft had eight kids and I as re-wrote the poem, this other fact and poem came to me.

How Octo-Mom Ruined the Number Eight for Everyone

Eight used to be enough
crazy with cards
and pivotal in billiards
Oh, sure - octagons
will still stop you
but Octopussy isn't
nearly as shocking
as it once was
before her
the ruiner of
all things eight
I hate to even use
the concept anywhere
lest it be construed
as a subtle reference
to her brood

ltv


This last poem is in response to something the group facilitator said at the beginning of the session. He commented that living is sometimes considered being in the way.

[untitled]

I disrupt the molecules of air
as I exhale and then suck them back
into this bio-machine bustling
with cellular energy with
every pulse of blood or
electrical connections amongst
the neurons -- I come into a room
and displace an equal amount
of mass -- is that crass
or since it is sub-atomic
doesn't it matter

ltv

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

I know I am obsessed with two things: my cats and my nephew. Since I am at my Mom's this weekend I will spare you a cute cat story and move straight to the annoyingly adorable nephew anecdote.

James was up way past his bedtime and relatively calm about it -- happily playing and conversing (such as it is for a kid who is not quite two). The adults were all sitting around the dining room table and his mother (my sister, Heather) was showing off the words that James can say. These were the typical words a young man of his age was familar with. "What does a dog say?" "Woof." "What color is your toy?" "Blue." "How old are you going to be?" "Two." That sort of thing. Always, looking to challenge him, I asked him to say "Obama" to which he responded "Oh Mama", which got quite the laugh. We kept trying to get him to say "Obama" until Heather asked him to say "Bush". His response? "NO!" (Does he take after his Auntie Lala or what?)

Poetry on the Fly

Lately, I've been focusing on writing (or, more accurately, procrastinating writing) my sci-fi/fantasy novel. This means that there is less energy I have to write poetry. Granted, I will pen a poem that just doesn't want to stay in my head or go quietly away - and that happens more often than I like to admit; but even those are infrequent of late. So it was with reluctance that I attended the monthly FloPoSo meeting empty-handed. While I enjoy listening to other people's poetry and can offer my own opinions as easily as I can break wind (and sometimes with the same effect), there is a sense of false modesty when someone attends and claims they "do not want to" or "have nothing to" read of there own. This is partly because most poets ALWAYS have SOMETHING to read of their own; and, I haven't met a poet yet (myself included) who doesn't appreciate the positive feedback on their work (and, let's face it, a homespun poetry group like ours is not about tearing poems apart, it is about supporting us non-pro poets).

The group was a good size - 17 attendees -- and more than one person claimed to not have anything. A few of those were cajoled into reading with a "oh, I suppose I could read this one poem I brought with me, that I don't really like." I enjoy this group a lot. Really, I do. Even when I don't prepare a poem beforehand. I tend to get inspired by the poets and personalities that attend. Thursday's meeting was no exception. In addition to the half a dozen little "journal entries" I wrote, I composed four poems. All of which were in response to a poem or person in the group. Where possible I included the reference or inspiration.

Harry Azmitia is a regular in the group. He is a wonderful person who writes in verse and addresses sentimental topics. He is an optimist. I am not. When he reads his poems, my sick nature tends to want to refute them (even though they are beautiful and often true). Here is the poem that his poem about a soldier's sacrifice inspired.

(1)

did he think of the children
or the other soldiers' wives
did he consider the dangers
when he chose to save their lives
did his training simply kick in
when he dove on the grenade
and will anyone consider this
when they laud the choice he made

ltv


Nancy Denig writes clever, poignant poems in haiku and other closely related forms. Some of them make you laugh out loud, others make you go to a far away sad place that you thought you'd never visit again. I enjoy hearing them and her delivery of and commentary on them is just as enjoyable. She commented while reading her poems that she couldn't seem to stop writing them. This is what I wrote in response.

(2)

like potato chips
my fondness for writing poems
doesn't stop at one

ltv


Oh, one quick blurb about religion. Another attendee read a poem that contained some Christian imagery and (as is often the case) a side conversation began about some of the weirder tenets of the religion. A friend of mine (whose name is being withheld since she doesn't care much for publicity) is Jewish and leaned over to me and said: "Just when I thought my religion is the craziest." I commented back "That's like saying my water is the wettest."


We had some new attendees this past week who were a little gun-shy about sharing, but who, with encouragement shared not only their poetry but a little about their backgrounds. This is always the more fascinating part of the poetry group: Why people write poetry. One man was a Vietnam vet who had heard a poet for the first time last Fall and as he put it "began to feel a full-range of emotions again", which inspired him to begin writing poems himself. He had quite the collection judging by his three-ring binder (which is a familiar favorite among amateur poets trying to make a go of it -- I have several myself). Here is the poem that he inspired.

(3)

Shell-shocked

the moment after the mine exploded
and my ears rung - buzzed so that
sounds were muted - my CO whispered
shouts at me to get down
we lost half our platoon that day

happiness since then
like love and anger and everything else
is muffled like the voices of
my doctors assuring me that
everything is going to be alright now

ltv


Another phenomenon that occurs in the group (and especially happens in the following week's writing group), is that common themes will be evident in the poems of the evening. Aside from the fact that a lot of people write about a few topics, it seems that the mood of the groups brings out things from poems even when the poet did not intend them to be there. This month's theme was sex. To the point where we began joking that "there's sex in this one too". Here is my last attempt at poetry that night.

(4)

there's sex in this one

each poem whether focused
on pain or flowers or
hours of nostalgic days
displays more in the reader
or listener as the case may be
occasions such as these
pleases us in ways we choose
to comment playfully on instead

ltv

Okay, so it's not my best work, but it's poetry. It should inspire even the least confident among you to get out and watch, listen and write, write, write! Poetry is not just fixed words on the page - a one-way picture to be displayed and left alone. Poetry can be a conversation - with the reader, with the poet and with yourself. Spring is almost here. Get inspired. Think about sex, question the status quo and tell me about it in verse.