Time got away from me before I could enter my poetic post from yesterday. But it was a good day, nonetheless, spent with our grandson's drumline at their final gathering of the season---the annual picnic. Those times don't come often and are their own reward. So, today's post includes the poems from both yesterday and today. And as it turns out, both seem quite a propos.
April 3: Our challenge for today was to "take the phrase "Partly (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of your poem, and then write the poem."
Partly Written
By Bill Kirk
Some days the best we can hope for as writers
Is work partly written.
Try as we might, the words don’t seem to flow.
Maybe the muse has left us
In search of more fertile fields.
Maybe the intrusion of life gets in the way.
Or are some days simply more or less creative?
Yet on those days, is it not better to make the attempt
Than let the time we would spend writing,
Silently slip away unused?
Too bad if that happens.
So, write on, even if the work ends up
Only partly written.
April 4: "... write a history poem. This could mean a poem about your country's history, the history of an event or a tool, or even your own personal history."
On Making History
By Bill Kirk
With each passing day,
In our own way,
We make history.
Each of us carves out some small or large
Piece of meaning in time and space.
What did you do today to mark you place?
Did you simply wake up for breakfast
And wait for bedtime?
Or did you experience
A different kind of awakening---
Learning or contributing
Some certain thing or idea
To give meaning to life,
Your own or others?
With each passing day,
How well will you choose
To use it?
For the day’s relative length grows shorter—
A day in the life of a five year old
Seems much longer than my days
Three generations hence.
Why is that?
Perhaps it is the proportional share
An apparently shrinking
Twenty-four hour clock takes out
Of the increasing span of one’s life.
Until its end, that is.
And then we will no longer make history
In the doing of things;
But only in the affect
We may have had on others,
Through what we have done or left undone.
Either way,
With each passing day,
We make history….
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
Writer's Digest "Poem A Day Challenge"
At the risk of squandering any chances of later publication, I have decided to post the poems I am writing each day as part of the Writer's Digest "Poem A Day Challenge" here on my blog. Of course, after you read them, you might conclude there isn't much I'm risking.
If any readers are interested in joining the effort, the blogsite is at http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/ . A daily prompt is provided and participants are left on their honor to write a poem each day during April which is National Poetry Month. Guidelines are provided on the site.
My apologies for not thinking about this yesterday. So, today you will get two poems. With luck, I'll be able to keep up with the daily prompts.
Yesterday's prompt was to write a lonely poem. The second prompt (for today) is to write a poem about water. Enjoy.
April 1: Write a lonely poem.
Lone-ly Is What We Make It
By Bill Kirk
"Lonely" is a lonely word—
Quite unlike any other.
Its closest kin are worlds apart
For "lonely" has no brother.
Other words with "lone" inside
Don't get the same reaction.
For "lonely" hurts but all the rest
Suggest some satisfaction.
Loners are their own best friends
"Who cares who's angry at us?"
For they can be alone, you see—
Quite happy with their status.
Even those more social need
Their respite from the rabble.
To gain relief from crush and press—
Choose quiet over babble.
In the end we'll be alone,
Each left to make our choices:
Let fear abide or be at peace—
Rob "lonely" of its voices.
April 2: Write a water poem.
Water—A Metaphor?
By Bill Kirk
Our lives are like an endless stream
Flowing from our source—
A well-spring of vitality
As we live and learn and love.
We would do well to practice those three “Ls”,
Wouldn’t you say?
As with water, is there not
A certain inevitability in life?
Do we not live in pursuit of our own level—
Our own happiness abundant?
Sometimes it seems to come in drips and drops;
Other times in a rage.
Or in movements so slow and deep
As to almost be
Imperceptible.
Will we be channeled on this day
Or unbridled, left to find our own way,
Over rocks and roots large and small—
Forming eddies as we swirl and pause?
Yet so profound is the path of our fluid lives,
Do we dare assume
We are in control of our destiny?
Or is the better course to relinquish
To forces unseen and unfathomable,
Knowing no matter what
We will reach our destination?
That’s what water does.
If any readers are interested in joining the effort, the blogsite is at http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/ . A daily prompt is provided and participants are left on their honor to write a poem each day during April which is National Poetry Month. Guidelines are provided on the site.
My apologies for not thinking about this yesterday. So, today you will get two poems. With luck, I'll be able to keep up with the daily prompts.
Yesterday's prompt was to write a lonely poem. The second prompt (for today) is to write a poem about water. Enjoy.
April 1: Write a lonely poem.
Lone-ly Is What We Make It
By Bill Kirk
"Lonely" is a lonely word—
Quite unlike any other.
Its closest kin are worlds apart
For "lonely" has no brother.
Other words with "lone" inside
Don't get the same reaction.
For "lonely" hurts but all the rest
Suggest some satisfaction.
Loners are their own best friends
"Who cares who's angry at us?"
For they can be alone, you see—
Quite happy with their status.
Even those more social need
Their respite from the rabble.
To gain relief from crush and press—
Choose quiet over babble.
In the end we'll be alone,
Each left to make our choices:
Let fear abide or be at peace—
Rob "lonely" of its voices.
April 2: Write a water poem.
Water—A Metaphor?
By Bill Kirk
Our lives are like an endless stream
Flowing from our source—
A well-spring of vitality
As we live and learn and love.
We would do well to practice those three “Ls”,
Wouldn’t you say?
As with water, is there not
A certain inevitability in life?
Do we not live in pursuit of our own level—
Our own happiness abundant?
Sometimes it seems to come in drips and drops;
Other times in a rage.
Or in movements so slow and deep
As to almost be
Imperceptible.
Will we be channeled on this day
Or unbridled, left to find our own way,
Over rocks and roots large and small—
Forming eddies as we swirl and pause?
Yet so profound is the path of our fluid lives,
Do we dare assume
We are in control of our destiny?
Or is the better course to relinquish
To forces unseen and unfathomable,
Knowing no matter what
We will reach our destination?
That’s what water does.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Rhyme Of The Month
For those of you who enjoy using word play in your poetry, here's a short example that has a bit of a riddle twist to it. This selection is the Rhyme Of The Month for April on my website at http://www.billkirkwrites.com . Drop by any time for the latest month's rhyme or just to browse around. All visitors are welcome.
A Tale Of Two Burgers
By Bill Kirk
At dinner one spring evening,
The crowd was all aglow,
As conversation sparkled
And food began to flow.
But over in one corner
I saw the oddest sight.
One table with two burgers;
Both waiting for a bite.
One burger kept his wrap on.
I guessed his "friends" were late.
He seemed quite hot and steamy,
Yet not at all irate.
The second Bigger Burger,
Looked anxious and displeased.
He left no doubt about it,
That he was really cheesed.
Then almost in an instant,
I noticed something strange.
Big Burger's disposition
Had made a major change.
For when the soda got there,
Plus ketchup and some fries.
His quibbles turned to nibbles
Before my very eyes.
When, in a slurp, they finished,
Together in one bite,
Just one--the Burger Meister--
Was still around that night.
The smaller burger'd vanished,
And it was plain to see,
One gulp had made that burger
A mealtime memory.
So, if you spot two burgers
That oddly seem sureal,
One "Burger" might be hungry.
The other? Just a meal.
A Tale Of Two Burgers
By Bill Kirk
At dinner one spring evening,
The crowd was all aglow,
As conversation sparkled
And food began to flow.
But over in one corner
I saw the oddest sight.
One table with two burgers;
Both waiting for a bite.
One burger kept his wrap on.
I guessed his "friends" were late.
He seemed quite hot and steamy,
Yet not at all irate.
The second Bigger Burger,
Looked anxious and displeased.
He left no doubt about it,
That he was really cheesed.
Then almost in an instant,
I noticed something strange.
Big Burger's disposition
Had made a major change.
For when the soda got there,
Plus ketchup and some fries.
His quibbles turned to nibbles
Before my very eyes.
When, in a slurp, they finished,
Together in one bite,
Just one--the Burger Meister--
Was still around that night.
The smaller burger'd vanished,
And it was plain to see,
One gulp had made that burger
A mealtime memory.
So, if you spot two burgers
That oddly seem sureal,
One "Burger" might be hungry.
The other? Just a meal.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Stone Skippers
Boys and rocks and water. What more do you need? There's something about that combination of ingredients that is unlike any other. The locations where the ingredients are combined may vary. But in the end when it comes to skipping stones, location is totally inconsequential.
This weekend, the location happened to be on Angel Island in San Francisco Bay---not bad as real estate goes. On Saturday morning a small but determined group of Sacramento Scouts ferried across from Tiburon to Ayala Cove on the island. With our backpacks securely strapped on, our party of 11 made the short hike to the Kayak Group campsite on the west side of the island. After setting up camp, the water's edge was calling and all in our group answered that siren's call.
The adults among us mostly enjoyed the momentary respite from the weekly grind as small, wake-driven waves lapped at the narrow rock-strewn beach. But the boys? Well, for anyone who might declare that imagination is dead, this day told a different tale. Each Scout became an instant expert in the fine art of stone skipping.
What makes a good skipping stone, anyway? Is it a particular rounded edge that cradles perfectly in the curve between index finger and thumb? Must it be thin and flat? How large should it be? Too heavy and the toss results in a resounding "SPLOINK!" Too small and whatever happens is just not very satisfying. And almost intuitively, all stone skippers know shape is important for a great skip. Yes, you can almost skip anything once. But to get the repeating hops across the surface in rapidly increasing succession takes a shape within certain generally accepted tolerance limits.
But, ultimately, a good skip doesn't just depend on the stone. It also requires the right speed and the right angle, both of which are totally in the hands of the skipper. There's almost nothing worse than wasting a good skipping stone on an insufficiently serious toss. Rarely will a casual approach to skipping earm the accolades of one's fellow skippers. But a good skip is pure joy.
However, much like the short-lived laurels awarded to ancient Olympians, a record breaking skipping toss is transitory and in the moment. Judging is instantaneous by those present and not subject to review. To witness a great toss is its own reward. In fact, even being lucky or attentive enough to see a great toss, sets one apart from those who might have missed it either because they weren't present or simply because they blinked or looked away at an inopportune moment. Yet even the declaration of a record-breaking toss is sufficient to lay down the gauntlet to all others who might attempt to best it.
And so, as boys have done for as long as there have been rocks and water, our Scouts followed suit on this March day on Angel Island, California. They joined all past, present and future skippers, bound in silent brotherhood, standing at water's edge, searching for just the right stone to fling with just the right speed, at just the right angle, hoping to catch the most air or the most bounces across the surface.
Such is the way of the stone skippers.
This weekend, the location happened to be on Angel Island in San Francisco Bay---not bad as real estate goes. On Saturday morning a small but determined group of Sacramento Scouts ferried across from Tiburon to Ayala Cove on the island. With our backpacks securely strapped on, our party of 11 made the short hike to the Kayak Group campsite on the west side of the island. After setting up camp, the water's edge was calling and all in our group answered that siren's call.
The adults among us mostly enjoyed the momentary respite from the weekly grind as small, wake-driven waves lapped at the narrow rock-strewn beach. But the boys? Well, for anyone who might declare that imagination is dead, this day told a different tale. Each Scout became an instant expert in the fine art of stone skipping.
What makes a good skipping stone, anyway? Is it a particular rounded edge that cradles perfectly in the curve between index finger and thumb? Must it be thin and flat? How large should it be? Too heavy and the toss results in a resounding "SPLOINK!" Too small and whatever happens is just not very satisfying. And almost intuitively, all stone skippers know shape is important for a great skip. Yes, you can almost skip anything once. But to get the repeating hops across the surface in rapidly increasing succession takes a shape within certain generally accepted tolerance limits.
But, ultimately, a good skip doesn't just depend on the stone. It also requires the right speed and the right angle, both of which are totally in the hands of the skipper. There's almost nothing worse than wasting a good skipping stone on an insufficiently serious toss. Rarely will a casual approach to skipping earm the accolades of one's fellow skippers. But a good skip is pure joy.
However, much like the short-lived laurels awarded to ancient Olympians, a record breaking skipping toss is transitory and in the moment. Judging is instantaneous by those present and not subject to review. To witness a great toss is its own reward. In fact, even being lucky or attentive enough to see a great toss, sets one apart from those who might have missed it either because they weren't present or simply because they blinked or looked away at an inopportune moment. Yet even the declaration of a record-breaking toss is sufficient to lay down the gauntlet to all others who might attempt to best it.
And so, as boys have done for as long as there have been rocks and water, our Scouts followed suit on this March day on Angel Island, California. They joined all past, present and future skippers, bound in silent brotherhood, standing at water's edge, searching for just the right stone to fling with just the right speed, at just the right angle, hoping to catch the most air or the most bounces across the surface.
Such is the way of the stone skippers.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Twisted Tales Of An Ancient Warrior: A Sestina
Just when you thought it safe to dip your toes into the poetic pool, along comes the sestina. For those up to the challenge, the 39-line sestina is one of the most interesting forms in a mind tickling way.
As it turns out the structure of a sestina is almost as difficult to explain in words as to write. That is, the easiest way to understand it is to write one. Using the line by line break down below, the letters indicate the word at the end of each line in the six stanzas, each of which has six lines; plus a three-line kicker at the end. So, for example, the last word in the last line of the first stanza must be the first word in the first line of the second stanza.
To top it off, the ending three-line stanza (tercet), uses the six line endings from the first stanza in the sequence noted below. Often the endings of the three lines in the tercet are the same as the endings for lines two, four and six in the first stanza. The object is to write the sestina so its rigid structure doesn't appear evident. My attempt is not an eloquent example of a sestina and, in fact, becomes more twisted with each succeeding verse. But it may give you something to go on.
Give it a try and you'll soon be writing sestinas with the best of them. Here's to getting all your line endings to end up where they must.
Enjoy.
Sestina line-ending sequences:
Stanza 1: A, B, C, D, E, F
Stanza 2: F, A, E, B, D, C
Stanza 3: C, F, D, A, B, E
Stanza 4: E, C, B, F, A, D
Stanza 5: D, E, A, C, F, B
Stanza 6: B, D, F, E, C, A
Tercet: AB CD EF
Twisted Tales Of An Ancient Warrior
By Bill Kirk
“I came.
I saw.
I conquered.”
That’s what
The warrior
Said.
And since the day he said
He came,
Each warrior
Who has come after the one who said he saw,
May think he knows just what
That warrior supposedly conquered.
But could he have conquered
All that he said?
And is all of what
He came
To tell us he saw,
The true tale of a warrior?
For which warrior
Has ever conquered
All he said he saw
At precisely the time he said
He came?
Can we be sure of whom or even what?
Alas. The truth of neither whom nor what
Can be verified because the warrior
Who so long ago came
To tell us he had conquered,
Simply said
Only that he conquered what he saw.
Might his tale be just another old saw—
The stretched and embellished bits and pieces of what
Has for centuries been said and re-said
About the deed this fabled warrior
Might have done, were he to have conquered
All that he said he did when he came?
Nay. As all warriors then and since, when the ancient warrior came and saw,
He could only have conquered or been conquered; so what
More could be asked of any warrior? And what better could be said?
As it turns out the structure of a sestina is almost as difficult to explain in words as to write. That is, the easiest way to understand it is to write one. Using the line by line break down below, the letters indicate the word at the end of each line in the six stanzas, each of which has six lines; plus a three-line kicker at the end. So, for example, the last word in the last line of the first stanza must be the first word in the first line of the second stanza.
To top it off, the ending three-line stanza (tercet), uses the six line endings from the first stanza in the sequence noted below. Often the endings of the three lines in the tercet are the same as the endings for lines two, four and six in the first stanza. The object is to write the sestina so its rigid structure doesn't appear evident. My attempt is not an eloquent example of a sestina and, in fact, becomes more twisted with each succeeding verse. But it may give you something to go on.
Give it a try and you'll soon be writing sestinas with the best of them. Here's to getting all your line endings to end up where they must.
Enjoy.
Sestina line-ending sequences:
Stanza 1: A, B, C, D, E, F
Stanza 2: F, A, E, B, D, C
Stanza 3: C, F, D, A, B, E
Stanza 4: E, C, B, F, A, D
Stanza 5: D, E, A, C, F, B
Stanza 6: B, D, F, E, C, A
Tercet: AB CD EF
Twisted Tales Of An Ancient Warrior
By Bill Kirk
“I came.
I saw.
I conquered.”
That’s what
The warrior
Said.
And since the day he said
He came,
Each warrior
Who has come after the one who said he saw,
May think he knows just what
That warrior supposedly conquered.
But could he have conquered
All that he said?
And is all of what
He came
To tell us he saw,
The true tale of a warrior?
For which warrior
Has ever conquered
All he said he saw
At precisely the time he said
He came?
Can we be sure of whom or even what?
Alas. The truth of neither whom nor what
Can be verified because the warrior
Who so long ago came
To tell us he had conquered,
Simply said
Only that he conquered what he saw.
Might his tale be just another old saw—
The stretched and embellished bits and pieces of what
Has for centuries been said and re-said
About the deed this fabled warrior
Might have done, were he to have conquered
All that he said he did when he came?
Nay. As all warriors then and since, when the ancient warrior came and saw,
He could only have conquered or been conquered; so what
More could be asked of any warrior? And what better could be said?
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