How I “Found Poetry” This NaPoMo

Yeah, yeah, yeah. April is National Poetry Month. Who cares?

Ooh! Ooh! We do! There are so many National Poetry Month challenges, it’s not even funny. But this year, I participated in The Found Poetry Review‘s challenge titled PoMoSco, and it was, as a colleague of mine so eloquently puts it, amaze-balls.

What worked? The people. “202 participating poets published 3,861 poems.” Yes, indeed. And…the prompts. All “found poetry” prompts. Think found poetry is just taking a source and picking out some words? Think again. Think “White Out” where you, you guessed it, take white out to a source to create something new. Think “Picture It” where you take a source and make art all over that shit to create…wait for it…even more art…but poetry. Think “Order’s Up” where you take a menu and poem the crap out of it. Yes indeed.

This was such a blast. I won’t even mention the super-fantastic #AWP15 off-site reading at House of Balls (bowling balls, carved). Oops!

Look. You want to write something good? Something new? Something amaze-balls? Yeah? Then you’ve got to write. Sit down and write. That’s it.

Check out some of the thousands of poems that the scouts created this April here. Try some found poetry…if you dare. And share that experience. Share your inspiration, share your writing, share the love. And, while you’re at it, check out my personal favorite from this past month, Gary Glauber’s “Yes It Is.” Here’s an excerpt:

“All the love despite
silent rages and vague stares
came pouring through
with starts and stops,
desperate efforts.

I want to go to bed, be in my head, just wear red.
Red is the color that my baby wore
and once more, it’s true. Yes it is,
it’s true.

A lullaby: woods and river
calling child to go to sleep.
She sang it every night.” 

Source Text: Bloom, Amy. “Silver Water.” Come to Me. New York: HarperCollins Books, 1993. Print.

I love the way the poem flows around the italicized stanza. This poem is one result of the “Pick and Mix” prompt where participants chose stand-out words and phrases from a text and then put them together in any order. 146 people wrote poems based on this found poetry prompt. Fantastic!

 

And now for some shameless self-promotion. My favorite of the poems I completed (not as many as I would have liked, but what’re ya gonna do?) is a “Picture It” sourced from Marlin Barton’s short story “Short Days, Dog Days” from his new collection Pasture Art. It’s titled “Sleep is a Lock-blade Knife.” Enjoy!

What did I find this past NaPoMo? I found Found Poetry. I hope you’ll try some, too. It works.

Five Reasons Poetry Is Just Like CrossFit

  1. It makes you feel powerful.
    “and he said: you pretty full of yourself ain’t chu //
    so she replied: show me someone not full of herself
    and i’ll show you a hungry person” (Giovanni 19-21).
    Knowing you’ve captured an image or a moment in words is just like a PR — you know you’ve just done something special, difficult, and new, and you want to tell everybody about that surge of power that just ran through you. Hence all the social media posts about achieving writing mileposts and CrossFit goals. Just so you know, not only did I finish a poem I’ve been working on for a few weeks today, but I also actually jumped on all my box jumps. No step-ups. 
  2. You hope other people will notice, but you’re doing it for yourself first.
    “To gain your own voice, forget about having it heard. Become a saint of your own province and your own consciousness” (Ginsberg).
    So it’s been six months since your last acceptance. So what? You will either sit down and write more and write better, or you won’t. You’ll either grab that jumprope and try to master double-unders or you won’t. I’m betting you will. 
  3. It’s a challenge, and you’re up for it.
    “I once told somebody that writing a sestina was rather like riding downhill on a bicycle and having the pedals push your feet. I wanted my feet to be pushed into places they wouldn’t normally have taken” (Ashbery qtd. in Guthrie).
    Sestinas are a challenge. Six end words. Six stanzas. An envoi. A complicated rotating pattern. Sounds like the “Bear Complex” WOD to me.
  4. You don’t have to be good at it to be a part of the club.
    “Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
    the world offers itself to your imagination,
    calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
    over and over announcing your place
    in the family of things” (Oliver 14-18).
    Go to an open mic or a poetry reading or a poetry workshop. You’ll see. It’s just like being in a CrossFit box. Whether you’re Rx or scaled, let’s get it!
  5. It lays you bare. (You look better naked.)
    “We live so often in a damped-down condition, obscured from ourselves and others. The sequesters are social—convention, politeness—and personal: timidity, self-fear or self-blindness, fatigue. To step into a poem is to agree to risk. Writing takes down all protections, to see what steps forward” (Hirshfield).
    Ok, ok. Poetry might not make you look better naked (although a well-chosen, well-timed recitation probably wouldn’t hurt), but it does strip you down. Writing and reading poetry gets at the core, at the human center. CrossFit will eventually help you look and feel better, and, let me tell you, after a WOD involving wall-balls, calorie rows, sit-ups, and burpees, you’ll feel closer to every single athlete in that box. There are no societal masks when you’re writing your heart out or when you’re on your back on the chalk-spattered floor gasping for air.

Giovanni, Nikki. “Poem For A Lady Whose Voice I Like.” Poetry Foundation. 2015. Web. 12 March 2015.

Guthrie, Camille. “Why Write Sestinas?” Poetry Foundation. 16 April 2013. Web. 12 March 2015.

Hirshfield, Jane. “Why Write Poetry?” Psychology Today. 6 Jan. 2014. Web. 12 March 2015.

Oliver, Mary. “Wild Geese.” Poemhunter.com 2015. Web. 12 March 2015.

 

“A Disorienting Place”: On Robert Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover”

During my internet ramblings this morning, I came across three things that have stuck together like the lint, hair, and tobacco shake that inevitably find that random piece of restaurant candy deep in the bowels of one’s purse: an article in The Atlantic titled “The Joy of the Memorized Poem” wherein Billy Collins discusses how Yeats’ “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” got him through an MRI, Robert Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover,” and an article in Vice by James Franco on Richard Ramirez aka the Night Stalker.

Ok. Go with me on this.

I’m cruising Facebook, click on the Collins article, read it. Collins says that he discovered the Yeats’ poem in college and, after many years of reading and teaching the poem, he made himself memorize it. Of memorization of a poem, Collins writes: “This process—going from deep familiarity to complete mastery—is a challenge and a great pleasure. In repeating different lines, your reading becomes more focused than you’ve ever had before. You become more sensitive to every consonant and vowel.” And I remembered reading “Porphyria’s Lover” in college.

This was the first poem that really stuck with me, and I read it over and over, memorizing the first person dramatic monologue from the point of view of a jealous lover who kills his lady-love by strangling her with her own hair so that she would remain “mine, mine, fair / Perfectly pure and good” (Browning lines 36, 37). Naturally, I then Googled “poems about serial killers.” Which brings me to James Franco.

On September 25, 2014, Vice published Franco’s piece on serial killer Richard Ramirez complete with five blood-and-gore pictures of Franco(?) as Ramirez and four poems by Franco about Ramirez. Without discussing whether or not Franco’s poems work (see this great article in Paper by Gabby Bess for that), I want to say that the whole piece disturbed me, and not just because I was a thirteen-year-old female resident of the Los Angeles area when the fear of the Night Stalker took hold.

In the article, Franco says that he doesn’t want to humanize Ramirez; he wants to understand Ramirez from an actor’s perspective. What would it take to get into that character? (In 2011, Franco was supposedly slated to play the part of Richard Ramirez in a film that, apparently, was never made.) Franco goes so far as to write that he “can relate a little to Ramirez’s feelings” because he, too has felt the “need for power — especially sexual power.”

I recoiled at this. I wanted to dismiss the idea that taking bloodied pictures, that writing poetry was a way to get into a character’s head, and that getting into a character’s head does not humanize him or serve to “celebrate a killer” (Franco). But then there was “Porphyria’s Lover” sitting there in the back of my mind, all dead woman posed so that she would remain “perfect” for the speaker forever. Browning put himself into the speaker’s character, someone who saw nothing wrong with murder, someone who, in fact, believed he was answering his love’s “one wish” (line 57).

About his own writing, Collins says, “I want the poem to be an imaginative thrill. To take the reader to an odd place, or a challenging place, or a disorienting place, but to do that with fairly simple language. I don’t want the language itself to be the trip. I want the imaginative spaces that we’re moving through to be the trip.” The imaginative space in Browning’s poem is a disorienting place, and it is a challenging place. The reader is placed squarely into the mind of a killer in plain language. The reader feels Porphyria’s hair pull tight in the speaker’s hands. The reader sits on a bed, the dead Porphyria’s head on his or her shoulder. It is disturbing at the same time that it feels genuine, and that is what makes this poem work.

I’m not quite sure why “Porphyria’s Lover” was the poem that first stuck. Perhaps Gabby Bess comes close to explaining it in her article on James Franco’s Vice piece, “Now more than ever, there seems to finally be a sense of what can happen when men feel entitled (and that entitlement is culturally reinforced) to something that was never theirs.” Perhaps my college self needed to be disoriented, to be challenged to understand that no one owned me but me.

Bess, Gabby. “Some Observations on James Franco’s Serial Killer Poems.” Paper. Web.        14 Nov. 2014.
Browning, Robert. “Porphyria’s Lover.” Poetry Foundation. 2014. Web. 14 Nov. 2014.
Collins, Billy. “The Joy of the Memorized Poem.” The Atlantic. 22 Oct. 2014. Web. 14 Nov.      2014.
Franco, James. “Four Poems Inspired by Serial Killer Richard Ramirez.” Vice. 25 Sept.            2014. Web. 14 Nov. 2014.

Out from the Swamp: Al Maginnes’ “The World of Whiskey”

by Gabrielle Freeman

Last week while on a five-mile walk on our town’s Greenway, a path that alternates between asphalt and wooden bridge, a path of light filtered through oak and walnut leaves, a path bordered in morning glories and Carolina jasmine, a friend and I tried to figure out just where we had acquired our obsession with dark fantasy, black comedy, and the macabre. Like you do.

After much talk of books, movies, and television shows; of Lecter, Dexter, and Pennywise, we decided it was most likely TV series we had watched as kids that sparked our interest in (and natural bent toward) these genres of the shadows. Darkroom, One Step Beyond, Tales from the Crypt; these are a few of the titles that came up. But my epiphany of the afternoon was that my tastes in literature, tv, and film were directly influenced by the Twilight Zone. This really shouldn’t have been a surprise. Every 4th of July of my childhood was spent watching the Twilight Zone Marathon on LA’s channel 13. Wishing people away into the cornfield, “It’s a cookbook!”, and “My name is Talking Tina, and I don’t like you,” became a part of my vocabulary. It’s just that, for whatever reason, I had never consciously thought of the “dimension of sight and sound” as dark fantasy/ black comedy/ macabre before.

Anyway, it’s safe to say that if a poem offers alternate methods of thinking, if it straddles accepted lines or rips them apart; murky lines of smoke lazing up in a a shadowy bar, lines of light and dark through half-closed slats of window blinds, lines between realms of existence; I’m probably going to want to read it. I was excited to read the latest issue of Shenandoah when it came out last week — the noir issue. A whole issue of intrigue, morality plays, silk stockings, off-screen sex and murder? Sign me up. The poems did not disappoint, but one in particular stood out: Al Maginnes’ “The World of Whiskey.”

At first, I wasn’t sure how this poem fit the theme. It takes its inspiration from the blues lyrics “If the river was whiskey and I was a duck / Might swim to the bottom, never come up.” The imagery in the poem evokes a primordial swamp butted up against an ancient forest, of a creature early on the evolutionary timeline crawling out of the murk on to land: “And as we slipped into / the first fringes of tree-shade, / we found ourselves wanting / to sing for the first time / in a long while” (lines 19-23). 

After reading editor RT Smith’s comments on the issue, I realized that not all of the selections in the issue deal in noir. But after reading the poem several times, I came to understand that part of what I love about this poem, part of what works in this poem, is the juxtaposition of dark fantasy, black comedy, and the macabre; all of which are arguably part of the noir feel. The blues lyrics are humorous. Imagine a drunk duck diving to the bottom over and over again. It’s funny, but literally, the speaker would love to be drowned in whiskey forever. The speaker contemplates escaping his world through alcohol, permanently.

In the poem, the speaker includes the reader in a collective “we” who descend into an underworld, into a world of whiskey “Mired in sand and duckweed” (line 7). This is Lethe,  the limbo where alcohol makes us forget, where we stare “up through ambered layers […] searching the ice-melted memory of the sun” (lines 8-12). We are only pulled from the liquid prison by disembodied voices drifting through the trees and a desire to join them.

Maginnes writes a fantasy world complete with real world horrors. There is a membrane between the worlds of whiskey and, presumably, sobriety that is not easily broken. There is a world beneath where we float (“Down here, we all float,” with all apologies) aimlessly and forget, and there is a world above where we may emerge, dripping, and add our voices to the song of the world.

Read “The World of Whiskey” here, and check out the rest of the Shenandoah noir issue here.

Maginnes, Al. “The World of Whiskey.” Shenandoah. 64.1 (2014). Web. 12 Oct. 2014.

Jab, Cross, Uppercut! Humor in Bruce Covey’s Poetry

What would you expect from a poem titled “I’m a Bitty Cupcake”? Some lines about the virtues of buttercream? Maybe a study of sprinkles? Ganache, perhaps? Whatever you might have going on in your head about tiny bits of fluffy wonderful, I bet it wasn’t this: “I’m a Bitty Cupcake But if you fuck with me, I’m gonna kick your fuckin ass, you know what I’m sayin?” (109).

Bruce Covey’s poems are always unexpected, always challenging, and often funny as hell. I know that, from now on, every time I see a cupcake, I’ll snicker inside. Children’s birthday parties will become immensely more entertaining when I envision a dozen cupcakes going off half-cocked. Covey’s humor works. I mean, seriously.

Consider the poem “A True Account of Talking to the Moon in Atlanta, GA.” This is a dialogue between Covey himself and the moon. Like, the moon in the sky at night. He plays with the idea of poets overuse of the moon to hilarious effect. “Look, I don’t know shit about poetry. Fucking poets are always staring at me, talking at / me, writing about me. I’m fucking sick of it. You want inspiration? Use fucking Google, / like the Flarfists do” (83). Covey manages to make poet-readers flinch just a little bit when they think about all the references to la luna that they’ve penned over the years. I started to think about just how many of my own poems involve the moon, and I was a tad embarrassed.

Covey’s Chevy Impala-driving, cigarette-smoking, panhandling moon doesn’t stick to railing against poets and poetry in general, no. She gets personal. “Look, I’ve never heard of you. Bruce, right? Don’t go nuts on me with all of your moon / stereotypes. I don’t give a shit whether you write poems. I just want a fucking cigarette. / Now give me the 5 bucks?” (83). The idea that the moon, something many people dream on, something many people associate with lovers and long moonlit walks on the beach and a way-super-cool light to bathe in, that this moon is indifferent about poetry…well, it makes me laugh. It takes some of the gravity out of the concept of poetry (get it? gravity?).

While not all of Bruce Covey’s poems are this overtly humorous, a good number of them invite the reader to play by playing on words and by playing with concepts. Covey’s sense of joy in language is clear, even while his bitty cupcake throws a mean uppercut to the jaw.

Covey, Bruce. Change Machine. Las Cruces, NM: Noemi Press, 2014.

Poems of Witness: Kathleen Nalley’s Nesting Doll

As I was thinking about my blog post due today and which poet I should write about – yes, I have been and probably always will be a world-class procrastinator, no matter what I teach my students – it occurred to me, again, that I was avoiding the obvious. Kathleen Nalley’s chapbook Nesting Doll, winner of the South Carolina Poetry Initiative’s Chapbook Series chosen by Kwame Dawes and published in 2013, has been sitting on my side table since I got it back on September 13, 2013. Don’t get me wrong. I love this book. It hits hard and makes the reader keep her eyes open, both qualities that make poetry work. But I know the author. I know her well, and that has kept me from writing about this collection. Until today.

Nalley’s poems are hard to read. Not hard like inaccessible, but hard like, Damn. The reader is asked to be inside the heads of a male rapist and a mother who knifes her two children; to be inside the heads of a girl sold into the world of sex slaves and a woman who layers on weight in response to a world of sexual abuse. In “First-Round Draft Pick,” the speaker describes himself raping a drunk girl, “She woke up when I tightened my belt / around her wrists, whining something / about losing her virginity” (14). He states that he never takes no for an answer, and that he “learned it / from [his] dad” (14). The cycle of abuse is fully described in a very few lines, and the reader cannot look away.

In “Fat Lady Singing,” the speaker responds to years of pain including being violated by her father, by peeping Toms and depraved strangers, and by a “German transfer student, / five years her senior,” (18) by putting on weight. “[A]n extra helping of potatoes” becomes “the baggage. Her body became / its own armor and chink” (18). The reader understands this layering, the series of shells that protect the woman within. This echoes the title poem. In section two, “Becoming,” Nalley writes “Outside, you cary history, / weight in years and kids, / line from too much time / smoking or drinking or exposing / yourself to sun, a hated job, hours / upon hours of drying and folding // clothes, socks, your sex, guilt” (6). The final lines of this poem emphasize the power in the series of identities, the “dolls” that encase each other in ever-larger forms to shape the woman: “Seal the / queen last. She’s rough to the touch. / If there are splinters, pick them out” (8).

But it is hard to read these poems full of pain, full of anger, full of things that, as Kwame Dawes writes of the chapbook, “we prefer not to look at.” And yet we read them, and we are empowered by their rawness, their unflinching look at the oftentimes not-so-nice world of being a woman. I think I put off writing about this collection because I was worried about not having the words to show its true craftsmanship, and I can only hope that I have done my friend justice. I encourage you to read this beautiful chapbook with open eyes and a clenched fist. These are poems of witness, and they, in all their honesty, work.

Nalley, Kathleen. Nesting Doll. Columbia, SC: Stepping Stones Press, 2013.

“But what would Robert Johnson say?” Charles Wright’s poem at the Crossroads

It seemed only appropriate to write about Charles Wright’s poetry today, since he has been named the next Poet Laureate of the United States. In a 1998 interview with PBS Newshour‘s Elizabeth Farnsworth, Wright said the following about his work: “I think that the true subject of all poems is a clock, I think, because time is what–time is the great destroyer. Time is what feeds us and takes it away at the same time. Time is what starts us and time is what ends us. We live in time. We would like to live outside of time. But we can’t, of course. And so the clock is what we all write about. Our lives are all about the clock.” My favorite Wright poem is “Poem Almost Wholly In My Own Manner” from the Black Zodiac collection. This poem explores the idea of the clock through the blues and the Bible, through the crossroads and Ezekiel’s burning vision.

The first line reads “Where the Southern cross the Yellow Dog” (Wright 28). The reader knows immediately that this poem will be about the idea of the crossroads, specifically the southern idea of the crossroads. This poem is placed firmly where it can go anywhere, in any of the four directions. This is juxtaposed with Ezekiel’s vision. “Time, like a burning wheel, scorching along by the highway / side, / Reorganizing, relayering, / turning the tenants out” and “Interstices. We live in the cracks. / Under Ezekiel and his prophesies, / under the wheel” (Wright 28, 29). The chariot is drawn by four beings that can be seen as representative of the four directions. In this vision, God can send the chariot in any direction, and Wright puts himself and the reader firmly beneath it, consumed eventually by fire and time. Wright calls upon Robert Johnson and WC Handy, both famous for the use of their own crossroads in their blues: “But what would Robert Johnson say,  / hell-hounded and brimstone-tongued? / What would W. C. Handy say, / Those whom the wheel has overturned, / those whom the fire has, / And the wind has, unstuck and unstrung?” (30).

The reader visualizes the railroad tracks at the crossroads, the lines in the dirt; she hears the rhythm of the train’s wheels on those tracks. This is the sight and sound of the clock hands turning. And here’s the message: “Poetry’s what’s left between the lines” (29). The lines of verse, the lines of song, the lines of a guitar’s strings, the straight lines of railroad tracks crossing. Poetry is what happens in lonely passage, in the rolling destruction of fire. I simply cannot do this poem justice in trying to write a brief analysis. This poem hit me in my gut the first time I read it, and it is one that comes to mind often, and unbidden.

If you’ve never read Charles Wright’s poetry, today’s a good day to start. 

Wright, Charles. Black Zodiac. Farrar, Straus and Giroux: New York, 1997.

Wright, Charles. “Seasons serve as backdrop to Charles Wright’s Pulitzer Prize-winning collection.” By Elizabeth Farnsworth. PBS Newshour. 15 April 1998. Web. 12 June 2014.

 

A Most Excellent Unwanted Dog Sestina, or Why I Heart National Poetry Month

Image Why yes, that is a picture of a picture of Leonard Nimoy and Jimi Hendrix. And what does this have to do with writing? With poetry? I wrote a poem about it, naturally. That’s how I roll. But seriously, I had been wanting to do something with this picture/idea since I first saw it back in January at  coffee shop in Tryon, NC. Nothing came to me until inspiration struck on day 29 of National Poetry Month when two prompts came together from poet Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo site and Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides site. 

NaPoWriMo gave a prompt by Jim Simmerman called “Twenty Little Poetry Projects.” I love list/directions prompts, especially when they have instructions like this “2. Say something specific but utterly preposterous” and this “17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.” This prompt was pretty much irresistible. I came up with lines like this “If you start at my left big toe, you can unpeel my skin like the devil peels a hard-boiled egg.” Yup. For whatever reason, I was thinking about spirals, like the grooves on a record, and then jumped to the image of Robert DeNiro peeling an egg in one, long strip in Angel Heart. Louis Cyphre indeed. Brewer’s prompt was more of a concept – write a magical poem and a realism poem, or a magical realism poem. I think I got a decent draft including both. 

This is the reason I love April. There are hundreds, thousands of poets at all stages of their craft participating in writing and stepping outside of themselves. When these poets post their drafts each day to sites like Brewer’s, to twitter with hashtags like #amwriting and #NaPoWriMo14, or to other social media sites, poetry becomes a shared community. Where else would I have been able to read the sestina “Tricked into a Pet” posted by cindikenn on day 13 at 8:46am with lines that really work like this “With three babies / born in three years and a furry bundle / of peeing wonder bound to be a dog, / lines often blurred between kid and pet”?

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I don’t want to write in a vacuum. I don’t want my work to sit on a flashdrive in a drawer. No, I probably won’t be able to publish any of these poems because, to many, they have already been published. But wait! Thanks to NaPoWriMo’s day 28 “featured journal,” I found out about CSHS QuarterlyAnd they just published two of my NaPoWriMo poems. 

Look, this post is not meant to be a yay me! It is meant to show that community is a good thing. We should share our work. We should critique each other, applaud each others’ successes, share journals we find that we enjoy. It’s fun, and it’s part of what being a good literary citizen is all about. 

This is a shout out to Maureen Thorson, Robert Lee Brewer, and all you poets out there who attempted the poem-a-day challenge of this past April. Thanks for participating in the poetry community, and thanks for the inspiration. Write on!

Punctuated Bodies in Rebecca Thill’s “Punctuation”

In the last few months, I’ve really been trying to up my Twitter presence, and in doing so, I’ve come across a lot of new-to-me journals and poets. Consequently, I’ve been reading even more poetry than usual. You read that right. Twitter, the 140 character flurry of information, has led me to read more poetry. Once I started checking my feed fairly regularly, I found that it’s much easier to find the things I want to read. I follow a lot of journals, and those journals post not only their favorite poets and poems, but also blurbs about articles and deadlines for contests and submissions. Yesterday, I got an email that @melancholyhyper started following me. I checked their website, Melancholy Hyperbole, and I was pleased to find some really wonderful poetry, in particular three poems by a poet named Rebecca Thill.

“Punctuation” is my favorite of the three. The speaker uses the images of quotation marks and parentheses to show the positions of her and her lover’s bodies. “Both bodies curved in, / paired arcs, resting on the crux / of back to chest contact, / we create an opening:” (4-7) describe the lovers, and also shows the space between them which leaves room, a physical opening, for the spoken words that indicate a betrayal in the next stanza. The speaker’s lover says “don’t worry . . . she’ll never know“(9-10) while they are in the quotation mark position. After the words are spoken, the speaker turns to face her lover, forming the parentheses. The images of the punctuation serve not only to show positions, but also to frame those words. When the speaker turns, her body holds the spoken words indicating a betrayal inside, between the two of them. They are “(nested)” (15), and the use of actual parentheses here mirrors their bodies showing inclusion and secrecy. 

In the last stanza, the lovers turn back to back, effectively removing themselves from each other. This position is not a mark of punctuation; it serves no purpose. The words themselves have been let out: “Things said, can never be unsaid” (22), and the fact that the lovers no longer form a purposeful mark indicates that they will not be together again, that they no longer work. 

Thill’s use of punctuation as images helps the reader to navigate the poem, and it shows the delicate balance of love. Thill has two more poems on the Melancholy Hyperbole website, “Anatomy of Impatiens” and “Personal Ontology.” Both poems work. Check them out, then Tweet about them. Spread the word, and read more poetry! Thanks for reading. @TheLadyRandom

Just Right Love Poem

Because it snowed over four inches here in Eastern North Carolina, and because it never snows here, my family and I had two days together in the house, watching the snow fall, listening to the ice pellets hit the thick layer of snow, and playing My Little Pony Monopoly. The ponies teach about the power of friendship and love, and so those things should have been on our minds, but we all managed to still forget that tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, and so it came about that, after working a nine hour day, I found myself at the Walgreens picking out Valentines I thought my son would like and choosing some decent candy from the little that was left.

 I picked two packs of Valentines: cute baby animals and Spiderman. My son chose the Spiderman ones so that he could keep the cute baby animals for himself. My daughter chose to make Valentines for her classmates. And as I watched her draw a unique animal complete with caption for each of her friends (Sssleepy Sssnake says You’re Sssweet!), I thought about what Valentine’s Day has meant to me.

 I can remember my dad leaving small, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates outside my brother’s and my doors when we were little. I can remember wanting to receive sucker-grams in junior high and being largely disappointed. I can remember in high school and college vaguely wanting something lavishly romantic, though I wasn’t really sure what. Now, I’ve been married for twelve years, and I really just want the house to be cleaned by magic, some good food I don’t have to cook or clean up after, and my kids to have good memories, to have fun, and, above all, to feel loved.

And I want to tell you about love poems. How they encapsulate ache, ecstasy, romance; how they reach in and twist, and make you want to come back for more. I remember reading Robert Herrick’s “To the Virgins to Make Much of Time” in my Norton Anthology when I was seventeen and thinking, yes. That’s right. And I remember reading Karyna McGlynn’s “When Someone Says I Love You the Whole” on my smart phone several weeks ago and thinking, yes. That’s right. 

For today, I want to share this: “The Shirt” by Jane Kenyon. “The shirt touches his neck / and smooths over his back. / It slides down his sides. / It even goes down below his belt— / down into his pants. / Lucky shirt.” 

That’s it. And, yes. That’s just right.

Kenyon, Jane. “The Shirt.” Collected Poems. Saint Paul, MN: Graywolf Press, 2005. Poetry Foundation. 2014. Web. 13 Feb. 2014.