Poetry Exercise # 3

Ingredients:

1. Something you or someone you know (or made up) has never let go of.

2. A massive "thing" (could be an animal, something mechanical, whatever, just BIG)

3. A comfortable place

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Write a poem or story about something someone has yet to let go of. You do not have to name it. But as the poem or story progresses, allow the thing to become bigger until it physically becomes something massive that the person carries with them. What changes has this person made to accomodate this thing? What damage has it done, if any? What does it enable the person to do? What do others think of it? Where does the person take this thing for some peace and quiet?

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(The final exercise in the "Burden" series was inspired by the poem "Fish Out of Water" by Louis Jenkins.)

Poetry Exercise #2

Okay, to build this poem, first you need the following ingredients:

1. a physical feature or talent (either one can be made up)

2. an ability, spectacular or boring, it's up to you

3. an object used for presentation (i.e. a platter, a cake stand, a velvet box, a pedestal...)

4. an obsolete or close-to-obsolete profession (i.e. blacksmith, milk maid, rider for the pony express)


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Write a poem about the physical feature/talent (#1) and make sure it is more marvel than brag, as if the thing is not truly part of you. As if it is a nuisance. What hardships do you endure for carrying this thing? What easy chore is made hard because of it? What can it do that no one else's can (#2)? Decide who passed it down to you. What was the profession of the person you inherited it from (#4)? How was it presented (#3)? What amazing thing might you become, because of this?


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And here is my, er, stab at it:

You might think I have remarkable boobs. You might even call them tremendous when you speak of them with your coworkers, reminisce on how smooth & radiant they are. How they complete small tasks for you with hi-gloss enthusiasm. Changing the light bulbs. Stretching across the room to hand you the clicker. When I awaken from my naps, sprawled on the couch, drooling & bra-less, I often dread discovering what my unsupervised boobs have been up to. It is quite a chore picking up after them. A hair dryer in the fireplace. Stevie’s gasping goldfish flopping around the foyer. I inherited these boobs from my great-great-great-grandmother, Betty the Shoemaker. It is said these boobs were won in a card game by her father. He kept them snug in an apple crate and only brought them out on special occasions. Sometimes I daydream of being a flat-chested maiden, running through a field of tomatoes and daffodils. When I was a young girl, I never imagined I would one day possess such wild, incorrigible boobs. I am frightened to have children because of them. I suspect my left boob, especially, might be capable of murder.


(This exercise inspired by "Confession Poem" by Louis Jenkins)

Poetry Exercise #1

Write down three things that are physically impossible. Now set that list aside and write a fake diary entry about the most boring, most ordinary day.

I'll go first:

I woke up. The sun was out. I went downstairs. I made some oatmeal. I ate the oatmeal. The mailman came. I checked the mail. Bills. A birthday card for my neighbor. I watched some television. I pet my dog. I had a sandwich for lunch. I had another sandwich for dinner. I went to bed.

Now, get that list. Choose one of the impossible things. Rewrite the journal entry as a person who (fortunately or unfortunately) has the impossible power/ability you chose.


Diary Entry of a Fire Breather

I woke up. The sun was out. My pillow in flames,
the toilet water boiling. Burnt oatmeal again.
The mailman came. I scorched the bills.
I singed the birthday card for my neighbor.
I watched Mary Tyler Moore melt. I pet my dog to ashes.
I had a sandwich for lunch. Fried peanut butter and jelly.
Dinner was the same. Fried.
I went to bed. I dreamt of water.


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(This exercised inspired by Louis Jenkins' poem, "Walking Through a Wall")

you shoulda seen it, Betty, it was magic

Last night I wrote a poem about a friend who died 10 years ago, on March 15th. His birthday is Valentine's Day. I always think of him a little more when cupids are pasted onto restaurant walls, when candy in love-shaped boxes invade the shelves at Rite Aid.

You know what would be a cool thing to do today? Find a new thing to love.