Hi, all:
I’ve decided, as much as possible, to participate in the remarkable space that is #VerseLove2022, put together by ethicalela.com . Each day in April (National Poetry Month), a prompt is provided by one of the participants. It comes in the form of a mentor text, and then a poem that the day’s facilitator has written based on that text. I need to send a thank you out to Joel Garza (@JoelRGarza) on Twitter for posting that he was going to take part, which sent me off to look at the event. The other expectation is to read other poems that are being written and posted, and give some positive feedback. Let me be clear that this is a humbling experience. The people taking part in this process can write! Among them is Kevin Hodgson, who is one of the people that helped me make the decision to create this blog years ago. (thanks, Kevin).
Please consider coming over and joining in, if that appeals to you. The poems and prompts would also be great to use with a writing class.
If you are checking out the posts at VerseLove, please take a minute to read the amazing poem that Rhiannon, one of the other poets wrote with my last lines from yesterday. Super powerful, and how cool to see your words turned into something completely different.
Today’s poem is a 4 x 4. This is a form with major constraints, which means it might work for some of your writers in class. 4 stanzas; each stanza has 4 lines; each line has 4 syllables, AND the first line of the poem becomes your refrain – it is the 2nd line of stanza 2, the 3rd of stanza 3, and the final line of the poem. Denise Krebs, who wrote today’s prompt, suggested that we challenge ourselves to come up with a 4 syllable title.
I also owe a debt to the driver who drove past the post office where I was locking my bike this afternoon. They were playing The Marvelettes’ Mr Postman, with that great “Wait a minute, wait a minute” chorus. Hey, wait a minute – that’s 4 syllables. I had the poem written by the time I rode home. Also influenced by buying boxes to mail goodies to faraway boys.
Confessions of a sparkplug 