In Good Company

 

I still can't quite believe my good fortune. 

I'm so grateful to have this opportunity to join the conversation of our community through poetry! Thank you, as always, to my fellow writers who continue to help me along this journey. 

And, of course, thank you to Shawn Aveningo Sanders and Robert Sanders of The Poetry Box for this honor!

Woof! A Work in Progress

My students and I were writing how-to poetry and prose last week: How to Be a Carrot, How to Let Things Go, How to Be a Bumblebee.

Here's one I'm working on:

How to Live with a New Puppy

Prepare to be unprepared

to forget to do the basics (shower, stretch, breathe)

prepare to forget the pleasure of ironing a shirt and reading beneath a tree

prepare for dainty nails to rake your shins and seventh-octave barks to shatter the champagne flutes of your inner ear

prepare to be hung upside down and shaken like dice in a cup so that keys and coins fly out of your pockets, so that the beads of your girlhood necklace finally break free from their 50-year-old string and tumble to the unswept floor to mingle with bits of dried grass and kibbledust

prepare for everything to come loose, for words like lunch and sleep to become as abstract as infinity or world peace

prepare for even your teeth to unmoor and rattle to the fir floor, leaving you to gum the puppy’s silky ears like a newborn infant seeking love as much as sustenance with its warm, blind mouth.

Improv

Something nice happened a few weeks ago.

A stranger who likes our poetry post slipped a book of their own poems through our mail slot. Inside the book was a handwritten note from the author, Taylor L. Ciambra:

"Hello! Thank you for sharing poems with the neighborhood! It always makes my day when I see a new poem up during a walk or jog. I want to share my poems with you as a way to show gratitude. I hope you enjoy them!"

Bowled over by this gift, I wanted to show my gratitude in turn. I took words from their poems (breadcrumbs, beard, motorcycle, heels, flannel) as well as the title of the book, Away with Words, and wove them into a freewrite/poem. Then I posted it for Ciambra alongside one of their poems to see the next time they jog by. I titled my writing "Improv" because Ciambra's bio says they're a "theatre maker and writer." The ending refers to a popular improv game that asks participants to work together, accepting each other's ideas and keeping a conversation alive. No script required.

Once again I'm reminded that writing is as much about conversation and connection as anything. May we all be joyful participants in organic exchanges with friends and strangers alike.

Improv

           for Taylor L. Ciambra

Away with words

      A way with words

with sentences

and similes

      dressed in hiking boots,

      not heels and stockings

A way

     to weigh

moments

     to follow breadcrumbs

               to bandaids,

                   sleeping bags,

                        and beards

Your words

       the salt breeze on (y)our

              bare neck, whiff

                     of sugar and of smoke --

one shoulder cocked

    inside a leather coat,

              one shoulder nestled

                      in a flannel robe.

                 Away with words

A way with words

                A word:

                     Yes

                or two:

                     Yes, and...

In Their Shoes

Many thanks to the Oregon Poetry Association for awarding my poem "From the Journals of Rumpelstiltskin" first place in their spring Members Only category.

You can read the poem here, as well as wonderfully evocative works by Melody Wilson and Suzy Harris.

I've written a few fictional journal poems, including "From the Imaginary Journals of Venetia Burney," which was published in The Wild Word, as well as a series about a kidnapped heiress, which is part of my forthcoming collection from Finishing Line Press. 

As a fiction writer, I find persona poems let me have my cake and eat it too. You get to imagine what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes, while using the juicy, concentrated language of poetry. If you're stuck for a new writing idea, you might give this a whirl. Simply pick a character (real or fictional) and let your imagination run wild. 

Lone Rock, Oregon -- prose by Ron Smith

The other day my online writing class took inspiration from the first line of Isak Dinesen's Out of Africa: "I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills."

My friend Ron Smith wrote this story in response to the prompt. I love the way he skillfully captures the beauty of a place he had to leave behind. What an act of generosity to let us see Lonerock through his eyes.

 

Lonerock, Oregon

I had a cabin in Lonerock, Oregon, one hundred and seventy-five miles east of Portland, from 1999 until 2005, when I sold it to Boyd Harris, the realtor.

Situated in the approximate center of the Columbia River Gorge basin in Eastern Oregon, Lonerock is located twenty-two miles southeast of Condon, Oregon. It is customary to think of Eastern Oregon as mostly flat or rugged wasteland, supporting little vegetation, home only to jack rabbits and people who want to get away from it all.  However, Lonerock nestles in a gentle ravine, with surrounding clusters of low pine and cedar.

The last several miles to Lonerock are traveled on a narrow, descending gravel road, the hamlet seeming toylike and far away, huddled in the ravine in the shimmering distance. Closer, rising from the small group of dwellings and long-empty storefronts, a stiletto steeple rises above a perfectly maintained white New England style church.

As you cross a small bridge over a part-time creek and enter the small town, population twenty-six, the chief attraction of Lonerock and the source of its name appears, a huge lone rock, egglike, half the size of the church it roosts next to, deposited about seventy-five thousand years ago during the last ice age.

It is a mystery why people don't flock to this spectacle, but all the better that they don't. If a log truck isn't passing through or the sheep aren't quarrelling, there is a quiet in Lonerock that was such a revelation to this Portlander.  The stars at night are so clear, numerous and bright that they seem artificial if you are not ready for them.

I had a cabin in Lonerock, Oregon for six years, no rude hut, twin sinks in the bathroom (his and hers), the pride of Madden Street, but the maintenance at that distance became too difficult so I let it go. I've never been back.     

 

About the author: 

Ron Smith has been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with numerous musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs. 

Celery Tanka -- by Deborah Lee

Isn't it wondrous how an artist can say so much with just a few lines?

A tanka is a Japanese poetic form where every word in its short five lines counts. Enjoy this one by Deborah Lee, who proves you can truly write in a meaningful way about anything...even celery.

Celery Tanka

by Deborah Lee

 

I remember a

Class about Waldorf Salad.

The teacher was handsome.

I think of mom when I cut 

Celery; she loved the heart.

About the author: Deborah is a writer, musician, and a longtime resident of Portland, Oregon. 

An Award-Winning Anthology!

Congratulations to d. ellis phelps and her Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, which won two prizes for its anthology purifying wind.

The book earned first place in the editorial category and at the state level in the National Federation of Press Women's contest.

I'm so honored that my lyric essay "No Place Like It" is a part of this collection!

You can click here to order a copy of the book.