Read these poems; notice which particular poems, lines or images make you stop and think, distract or disturb you, make you want to respond. Both poetic forms are about communication, messages, venting, questioning, finding ways to articulate things that cannot be articulated. I focus on Prayer Poems for this blog, since these are often raise more complex questions for writers than the Epistle.
CHOICE #1: PRAYER
Poets on Prayers and Poems (bold emphasis added):
Poets on Prayers and Poems (bold emphasis added):
Odysseus Elytis, the Nobel-prize laureate from Greece, captures a sense of this when he says poetry is "the art of leading you toward what goes beyond you." - sounds a lot like prayer.
Edward Hirsch says,“There are ways in which poetry is similar to prayer. Serious poetry seeks the transformation both of the speaker of the poem and the reader waiting somewhere down the line. ‘To understand poetry,’ Garcia Lorca once said, ‘we need four white walls and a silence where the poet’s voice can weep and sing.’ One enters that space with the hope that, through the making of language, the making of poems—poesis, after all, means making—one will be taken away, one will go where one hasn’t been before. We hope to be possessed.”
Pattiann Rogers takes up the theme, commenting, “In a very real sense—real to me, anyway—my poems are prayers. They’re prayers that say, under their words, ‘Here, I make this in praise, in confusion. I make this while knowing nothing. Accept this, accept me.’ I believe that when human beings perform creative acts of imagination and do so with reverence and joy, they are praying. They are bestowing honor.”
Robert Cording sounds a similar note: “Both poetry and prayer acknowledge the limits of the ego. In this sense, their origins are rooted in invocation—a calling out to that which cannot be seen or logically understood and which ultimately cannot be put into language. As Wilbur writes in his poem ‘For Dudley,’ ‘All that we do / Is touched with ocean, yet we remain / On the shore of what we know.’ For me, prayer and the kind of poetry I admire...reside at this shoreline of the inarticulate. Both embody a longing and a reaching toward the inconceivable. Both refuse to be silent when they face that mystery, though they both admit that all words reach toward and end up in silence.”
As you'll see, "prayer" is a word that opens many, many doors. What is prayer? Who prays? Who listens to prayers? Carl Sandburg creates an extended metaphor (called a 'conceit') in this poem:
Prayers of Steel
by Carl Sandburg
Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.
Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars.
Sandburg's imagery of beating, steel spike, girders, fastening, and the line "let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper" also brings to mind images of Christ on the cross, an image he may or may not want us to imagine as our own Crucifixions, our own sacrifices. Or is this Jesus speaking? Or is Jesus speaking for us? How does Sandburg's use of industrial jargon make this poem both contemporary, and American?
Patrick Donnelly's poem, below, does several things at once: it praises, it gives thanks, it questions God, and it brings prayer into the mundane, everyday life in ways that can be both surprising, and refreshing. Donnelly reminds us that prayer need not be formal, or ritualized, to be heart-felt and meaningful; that pleasure in the world is, in fact, another form of prayer.
On Being Called To Prayer While Cooking Dinner for Forty
When the heavens and the earth
are snapped away like a painted shade,
and every creature called to account,
please forgive me my head full of chickpeas, garlic and parsley.
I am in love with the lemon
on the counter, and the warmth
of my brother’s shoulder distracted me
when we stood to pray.
The imam takes us over
for the first prostration,
but I keep one ear cocked
for the cry of the kitchen timer,
thrilled to realize today’s cornbread
might become tomorrow’s stuffing.
This thrift may buy me ten warm minutes
in bed tomorrow, before the singer
climbs the minaret in the dark
to wake me again to the work
of thought, word, deed.
I have so little time to finish;
only I know how to turn the dish, so the first taste
makes my brother’s eyes open wide--
forgive me, this pleasure
seems more urgent than the prayer--
too late to take refuge in You
from the inextricable mischief
of every thing You made,
eggs, milk, cinnamon, kisses, sleep.
-- Patrick Donnelly
-- Patrick Donnelly
Joy Harjo's "Eagle Poem" (SM, 8) is one she's put to music, further blurring the line between prayer and poetry.
Eagle Poem
To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.
Harjo almost seems to be answering the question, "How do you pray?" How do you pray? How would you teach someone the ins and outs of prayer? Or, alternatively, what would you like to know about prayer? What questions do you have?
Carolyn Forche, author of "Prayer," creates an invocation of sorts. Read aloud, the chanting quality produces a powerful experience (don't worry; in the clip she is introduced in Greek, but she reads in English).
Prayer
Begin again among the poorest, moments off, in another time time and place.
Belongings gathered in the last hour to be taken, visible invisible:
Tin spoon, teacup, tremble of tray, carpet hanging from sorrow’s balcony.
Say goodbye to everything. With a wave of your hand, gesture to all you have known.
Begin with bread torn from bread, beans given to the hungriest, a carcass of flies.
Take the polished stillness from a locked church, prayer notes left between stones.
Answer them and in your net hoist voices from the troubled hours.
Sleep only when the least among them sleeps, and then only until the birds.
Make the flat-bed truck your time and place. Make the least daily wage your value.
Language will rise then like language from the mouth of a still river. No one’s mouth.
Bring night to your imaginings. Bring the darkest passage of your holy book.
Writing Tips:
Prayers can take the form of a Beatitude (praise: "Blessed are..."):
- Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
- Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.
- Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted.
- Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.
- Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
- Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
- Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
- Blessed are they that suffer persecution for the sake of justice, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
You can also try Vespers (evening prayer), Matins (morning prayer), supplication (request), blessing, a Novena (nine verses for nine days; a request with special urgency), even a rant (see the Book of Job!), or the Praise poem, which emerged out of the Psalmic tradition in Hebrew and Christian texts (Praise poems are also known as an ode, which is not always a prayer poem). Experiment with your personal religious knowledge about prayer: is there a particular form you love? a form you'd like to argue with?
One of the best things about the Beatitudes is their praise or benediction for things we don't normally think of as praiseworthy - the poor, the damaged, the suffering. Here is my version of a Beatitude; notice how I made it very place- and time-specific:
L.A. Beatitudes
Blessed is the cereal bowl
with a crack down one side,
for it is a hollow center, filled.
Blessed is your favorite spoon,
tiny forget-me-nots scrolled on the handle,
for it is beauty in your grasp.
Blessed is your grandmother’s old plate
with a fluted rim, for it is a patch
holding a fragile story together.
Blessed is your older sister;
a winged creature trying to hatch out
in a small dark box.
Blessed is your brother, refusing
to eat his peas; he is a superhero
who must someday save himself.
Blessed is the thick elegance of black mascara
Mama applies at the bathroom mirror;
it frames the bluest of souls.
Blessed is Daddy’s Tres Flores
sleek in his hair; it anoints you with his presence
long after he is gone.
Blessed are Saturday TV shows:
Howdy-Doody -- American Bandstand -- Star Trek –
for they are certain, and fixed, and always.
Blessed are the bruised spots on the rug,
pale raised rings on the coffee table,
for they are the scriptures of your first religion.
Blessed are floury tortillas on a gas flame,
spread with butter, rolled up in your hand,
for they are sacrament of the mundane.
Blessed are streams of cigarette smoke wafting over you,
creases along your cheek from cotton sheets,
for they are the crooked maps through dreams.
Blessed is the hum of the refrigerator motor
steady through hot nights; it is a lullaby
even when your mother cannot sing.
In the Sacrament of the Mundane, "Poem in My Mother's Voice" by Susan Browne takes on the persona of someone else in order to speak to God in that person's voice. How does this free Browne up? In what ways does she address God that, speaking in her own voice, she might not? What kind of "relationship" do you think Browne's mother had with God, in order for her daughter to imagine this conversation? What kind of conversation would you, or someone you know, have with God?
When my mother meets God,
she says, Where the hell have you been?
she says, Where the hell have you been?
Jesus Christ, don't you care about anyone
but yourself? It's time you wake up,
smell the coffee, shit or get off the pot.
You must have won your license in a fucking raffle.
You’re grounded, and I don’t want any back-talk.
In fact, don’t talk at all until you can say something
that is not a lie, until you can tell the truth.
You know, the truth? Something in sentence form
that comes out of your mouth and is not a lie.
Could you do that for me? Is this possible
in my lifetime? Don’t ever lie to me again
or I’ll kill you. And get off your high-horse,
WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?
Running around the world
like a goddamn maniac, creating havoc. You have lost
the good sense you were born with. Shape up or ship out.
I can’t believe we’re related.
My mother lights a cigarette, pitches the match
through the strings of a harp, inhales profoundly,
letting the smoke billow from her nose.
Her ruby lips press together in a righteous grimace
of disgust. She never stops watching God.
I’ve really had enough this time.
What do you take me for? A fool? An idiot? A patsy?
Some kind of nothing set down on earth for your convenient
entertainment? A human punching bag? For your information
I was not born yesterday. I know what you’re up to.
I have been around the block a few thousand spins of the wheel.
I have more compassion in my little finger
than you have in your entire body. I am a mother
I care. Maybe you don’t care, but I do. Care.
Do you know what that word means? Bring me the dictionary
and I will tell you what the word care means. Never mind.
How could you find a dictionary in that dump you call a room.
The whole universe of care down the toilet
because of your dirty socks. Do I look like a maid?
Did you think the purpose of my existence was to serve you?
You are barking up the wrong tree. We need to get something
straight: I am not here for you. I am here for me.
But I care. Can you possibly, in your wildest imagination,
hold two ideas in your tiny mind at the same time?
This is called paradox. Par-a-dox. We need the dictionary.
No, we need to talk. What do you have to say for yourself?
“I’m sorry,” God replies.
You’re sorry. Well, that’s not enough. Wash that sullen look
off your face, or I’ll wash it off for you.
And quit looking down. Look at me!
God lifts his heavy head,
falls into the fierce love
of my mother’s green-blue eyes.
Grow up, she says.
The key to a prayer poem: stay in the concrete for much of the poem (earn those abstracts!)' strangely enough, prayers full of abstract imagery are rarely compelling for anyone but the speaker/writer.
Go ahead. You have permission!. What do you want to say about prayer?
CHOICE # 2: EPISTOLARY POEM (LETTER POEM)
Dear Poets,
An epistle is a letter – a form of written communication from one person to another, or from one group to another group. Letters make for moving and effective poetry when the author gives us two very clear images: a speaker, and a listener (one who gives, and one who receives or is meant to receive). In some ways, an epistolary poem is a form of eavesdropping for us, the reader: we get to peek inside a message meant for someone else. This means that the epistolary form can be especially intimate. It is an excellent form in which to develop a ‘voice’ – to speak from someone else’s perspective – but the key is to develop imagery that helps the reader/listener fully envision both the letter-writer and the receiver.
Sacrament of the Mundane has letter poems on pages 4, 5 and 6. 13 Ways features "The Letter," by Alan Shapiro (72) is a kind of retelling of Orpheus/Eurydice; and "The Letters of Sun Gee," by Darrell Fike (243), which is about receiving mail from the former resident of the speaker's apartment.
A few points to think about:
SALUTATION: Dear John, Querida, Sweetheart, To Whom It May Concern, Dear Mr. Congressman, Mr. Postman, Parents of Incoming Freshmen, Greetings, Hello, Hi, – the possibilities here each set a tone for the rest of the poem. Formal? Business-like? Intimate? Neutral?
CLOSING: again, choose a tone: fondly, sincerely, regretfully, all the best, love, etc.
POST-SCRIPT? A P.S. can be very effective in delivering that last line.
WHO IS SPEAKING? Remember, it does not have to be you, or anyone you know, or even an actual human being. Try these freewrites:
- If dogs could write their masters a letter, what would it say?
- If Mt. Rushmore’s heads could dictate a note to the United States, what might they have to tell us?
- If an emotion (such as Sorrow, Rage, Joy, Love) could speak for itself, what would it say, and to whom?
- If star or a planet wrote an email or a memo, how would it sound?
WHO IS THE LETTER ADDRESSED TO? By now you’ve realized that the poetic license of the epistolary form means you can write a letter to anyone – human, vegetable, mineral, animal, alive, dead, imaginary, mythological, Biblical, embodied or disembodied. The possibilities are endless.
- time-travel: write a letter to yourself as a child of a certain age. What would you tell that 5 year old self?
- What would you tell your 80-year-old self?
- Your grandmother, who died 5 years ago?
- Your mother, if you could tell her what you really need from her?
- The river outside your door?
The key to developing an image for your reader lies in the specifics. For example:
A pet writes to his/her master: Think about famous pet/human pairs. Lassie writes to Timmy, after a lifetime of saving that kid from wells and raging rivers. Toto writes to Dorothy after their adventures in Oz. Babe the Blue Ox writes a dear john letter to Paul Bunyan before taking off with the Babette. The abandoned cats and dogs in the animal shelter write Goodbye Cruel World notes to their former owners. The more specific you can be in how you imagine your speaker, the more vivid and moving your poem will be for your reader. Don’t be afraid to over-write during free-writes, to pour on the sentiment or to beat a metaphor into the ground; let it spill. That’s the beauty of editing, later.
An emotion speaks for itself: which emotion? Whose emotion? Under what circumstances? Sorrow writes to your body’s tear ducts after a broken heart. Pride writes to a broken leg. Rage writes a rant claiming you as her own. Guilt writes an apology. What do these emotions look like? Give them bodies, clothing, skin, forms, places to live. Make them whole and real.
Your adult self writes to your 5 year old self: about what? Warnings, reassurances, appreciation, apprehension? Don’t worry, you’ll learn to ride that bike? Eat candy while you can? Watch out for that blond girl with all the Barbies? You’ll get another cat? Your rotten older brother will save your life? Remember this beautiful moment at the lake?
Your current self writes to your elderly self: make a list of life’s best moments so that you won’t forget them no matter how foggy the brain gets. Be as descriptive and energetic and lively in your language as possible. Cull all the senses. Don’t forget that what you take for granted now might be a precious memory much later. Big moments; little moments. What do you want to tell yourself to remember? How do you want to say it? How do you address your future elderly self? -- Hello you old geezer, have I got a list for you?
In Mona Van Duyn’s “Letter from a Father,” (below), she tells a story that reveals the ugliest things about growing old, as well as the slow shock of re-learning to see beauty even as the body gives way to age. I love this poem because it’s so full of compassion despite all the hinted-at history between father and daughter. Watch how Van Duyn moves us from one side of the emotional scale to the other – delicately, tenderly.
Letter from a Father
by Mona Van Duyn
Ulcerated tooth keeps me awake, there is
such pain, would have to go to the hospital to have
it pulled or would bleed to death from the blood
such pain, would have to go to the hospital to have
it pulled or would bleed to death from the blood
thinners,
but can’t leave Mother, she falls and forgets her salve
and her tranquilizers, her ankles swell so and her bowels
are so bad, she almost had a stoppage and sometimes
what she passes is green as grass. There are big holes
in my thigh where my leg brace buckles the size of dimes.
My head pounds from the high pressure. It is awful
not to be able to get out, and I fell in the bathroom
and the girl could hardly get me up at all.
Sure thought my back was broken, it will be next time.
Prostate is bad and heart has given out,
feel bloated after supper. Have made my peace
because am just plain done for and have no doubt
that the Lord will come any day with my release.
You say you enjoy your feeder, I don’t see why
you want to spend good money on grain for birds
and you say you have a hundred sparrows, I’d buy
poison and get rid of their diseases and turds.
but can’t leave Mother, she falls and forgets her salve
and her tranquilizers, her ankles swell so and her bowels
are so bad, she almost had a stoppage and sometimes
what she passes is green as grass. There are big holes
in my thigh where my leg brace buckles the size of dimes.
My head pounds from the high pressure. It is awful
not to be able to get out, and I fell in the bathroom
and the girl could hardly get me up at all.
Sure thought my back was broken, it will be next time.
Prostate is bad and heart has given out,
feel bloated after supper. Have made my peace
because am just plain done for and have no doubt
that the Lord will come any day with my release.
You say you enjoy your feeder, I don’t see why
you want to spend good money on grain for birds
and you say you have a hundred sparrows, I’d buy
poison and get rid of their diseases and turds.
II
We enjoyed your visit, it was nice of you to bring
the feeder but a terrible waste of your money
for that big bag of feed since we won’t be living
more than a few weeks long. We can see
them good from where we sit, big ones and little ones
but you know when I farmed I used to like to hunt
and we had many a good meal from pigeons
and quail and pheasant but these birds won’t
be good for nothing and are dirty to have so near
the house. Mother likes the redbirds though.
My bad knee is so sore and I can’t hardly hear
and Mother says she is hoarse form yelling but I know
it’s too late for a hearing aid. I belch up all the time
and have a sour mouth and of course with my heart
it’s no use to go to a doctor. Mother is the same.
Has a scab she thinks is going to turn to a wart.
the feeder but a terrible waste of your money
for that big bag of feed since we won’t be living
more than a few weeks long. We can see
them good from where we sit, big ones and little ones
but you know when I farmed I used to like to hunt
and we had many a good meal from pigeons
and quail and pheasant but these birds won’t
be good for nothing and are dirty to have so near
the house. Mother likes the redbirds though.
My bad knee is so sore and I can’t hardly hear
and Mother says she is hoarse form yelling but I know
it’s too late for a hearing aid. I belch up all the time
and have a sour mouth and of course with my heart
it’s no use to go to a doctor. Mother is the same.
Has a scab she thinks is going to turn to a wart.
III
The birds are eating and fighting, Ha! Ha! All shapes
and colors and sizes coming out of our woods
but we don’t know what they are. Your Mother hopes
you can send us a kind of book that tells about birds.
There is one the folks called snowbirds, they eat on the ground,
we had the girl sprinkle extra there, but say,
they eat something awful. I sent the girl to town
to buy some more feed, she had to go anyway.
and colors and sizes coming out of our woods
but we don’t know what they are. Your Mother hopes
you can send us a kind of book that tells about birds.
There is one the folks called snowbirds, they eat on the ground,
we had the girl sprinkle extra there, but say,
they eat something awful. I sent the girl to town
to buy some more feed, she had to go anyway.
IV
Almost called you on the telephone
but it costs so much to call thought better write.
Say, the funniest thing is happening, one
day we had so many birds and they fight
and get excited at their feed you know
and it’s really something to watch and two or three
flew right at us and crashed into our window
and bang, poor little things knocked themselves silly.
They come to after while on the ground and flew away.
And they been doing that. We felt awful
and didn’t know what to do but the other day
a lady from our Church drove out to call
and a little bird knocked itself out while she sat
and she brought it in her hands right into the house,
it looked like dead. It had a kind of hat
of feathers sticking up on its head, kind of rose
or pinky color, don’t know what it was,
and I petted it and it come to life right there
in her hands and she took it out and it flew. She says
they think the window is the sky on a fair
day, she feeds birds too but hasn’t got
so many. She says to hang strips of aluminum foil
in the window so we’ll do that. She raved about
our birds. P.S. The book just come in the mail.
but it costs so much to call thought better write.
Say, the funniest thing is happening, one
day we had so many birds and they fight
and get excited at their feed you know
and it’s really something to watch and two or three
flew right at us and crashed into our window
and bang, poor little things knocked themselves silly.
They come to after while on the ground and flew away.
And they been doing that. We felt awful
and didn’t know what to do but the other day
a lady from our Church drove out to call
and a little bird knocked itself out while she sat
and she brought it in her hands right into the house,
it looked like dead. It had a kind of hat
of feathers sticking up on its head, kind of rose
or pinky color, don’t know what it was,
and I petted it and it come to life right there
in her hands and she took it out and it flew. She says
they think the window is the sky on a fair
day, she feeds birds too but hasn’t got
so many. She says to hang strips of aluminum foil
in the window so we’ll do that. She raved about
our birds. P.S. The book just come in the mail.
V
Say, that book is sure good, I study
in it every day and enjoy our birds.
Some of them I can’t identify
for sure, I guess they’re females, the Latin words
I just skip over. Bet you’d never guess
the sparrow I’ve got here, House Sparrow you wrote,
but I have Fox Sparrows, Song Sparrows, Vesper Sparrows,
Pine Woods and Tree and Chipping and White Throat
and White Crowned Sparrows. I have six Cardinals,
three pairs, they come at early morning and night,
the males at the feeder and on the ground the females.
Juncos, maybe 25, they fight for the ground, that’s what they used to call snowbirds. I miss
the Bluebirds since the weather warmed. Their breast
is the color of a good ripe muskmelon. Tufted Titmouse
is sort of blue with a little tiny crest.
And I have Flicker and Red-Bellied and Red-
Headed Woodpeckers, you would die laughing
to see Red-Bellied, he hangs on with his head
flat on the board, his tail braced up under,
wing out. And Dickcissel and Ruby Crowned Kinglet
and Nuthatch stands on his head and Veery on top
the color of a bird dog and Hermit Thrush with spot
on breast, Blue Jay so funny, he will hop
right on the backs of the other birds to get the grain.
We bought some sunflower seeds just for him.
And Purple Finch I bet you never seen,
color of a watermelon, sits on the rim
of the feeder with his streaky wife, and the squirrels,
you know, they are cute too, they sit tall
and eat with their little hands, they eat bucketfuls.
I pulled my own tooth, it didn’t bleed at all.
in it every day and enjoy our birds.
Some of them I can’t identify
for sure, I guess they’re females, the Latin words
I just skip over. Bet you’d never guess
the sparrow I’ve got here, House Sparrow you wrote,
but I have Fox Sparrows, Song Sparrows, Vesper Sparrows,
Pine Woods and Tree and Chipping and White Throat
and White Crowned Sparrows. I have six Cardinals,
three pairs, they come at early morning and night,
the males at the feeder and on the ground the females.
Juncos, maybe 25, they fight for the ground, that’s what they used to call snowbirds. I miss
the Bluebirds since the weather warmed. Their breast
is the color of a good ripe muskmelon. Tufted Titmouse
is sort of blue with a little tiny crest.
And I have Flicker and Red-Bellied and Red-
Headed Woodpeckers, you would die laughing
to see Red-Bellied, he hangs on with his head
flat on the board, his tail braced up under,
wing out. And Dickcissel and Ruby Crowned Kinglet
and Nuthatch stands on his head and Veery on top
the color of a bird dog and Hermit Thrush with spot
on breast, Blue Jay so funny, he will hop
right on the backs of the other birds to get the grain.
We bought some sunflower seeds just for him.
And Purple Finch I bet you never seen,
color of a watermelon, sits on the rim
of the feeder with his streaky wife, and the squirrels,
you know, they are cute too, they sit tall
and eat with their little hands, they eat bucketfuls.
I pulled my own tooth, it didn’t bleed at all.
VI
It’s sure a surprise how well Mother is doing,
she forgets her laxative but bowels move fine.
Now that windows are open she says our birds sing
all day. The girl took a Book of Knowledge on loan
from the library and I am reading up
on the habits of birds, did you know some males have three
wives, some migrate some don’t. I am going to keep
feeding all spring, maybe summer, you can see
they expect it. Will need thistle seed for Goldfinch and Pine
Siskin next winter. Some folks are going to come see us
from Church, some bird watchers, pretty soon.
They have birds in town but nothing to equal this.
she forgets her laxative but bowels move fine.
Now that windows are open she says our birds sing
all day. The girl took a Book of Knowledge on loan
from the library and I am reading up
on the habits of birds, did you know some males have three
wives, some migrate some don’t. I am going to keep
feeding all spring, maybe summer, you can see
they expect it. Will need thistle seed for Goldfinch and Pine
Siskin next winter. Some folks are going to come see us
from Church, some bird watchers, pretty soon.
They have birds in town but nothing to equal this.
So the world woos its children back for an evening kiss.
This poem, a series of letters, illustrates the story of a depressed man being brought back to the world by the simple addition of a bird feeder to his life. Suddenly, beauty comes to him - and he is compelled to look at it. The changes his letters reveal chronicle a slow, reluctant retreat from his negative mood, and the ending - "so the world woos its children back for an evening kiss" - is clearly the daughter's take on her father's late-life hobby.
You might try writing a series of letters - they don't need to be this long, or could even be haiku! - between two people, or (as this poem does) just show one side of the correspondence. What's the story you want to tell? How might letters best tell that story?
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely,
Professor Miranda
No comments:
Post a Comment