Leah wasn’t quite ready to play. Sharing her poetry felt like a risk.
A few months ago she discovered Every Day Poems and began clicking around. She spent a few dollars on our poetry daily subscription. She found intriguing writing prompts and colorful features. Most importantly, she encountered conversations.
In fact, I met Leah (@Barebrancheshvn) through a back-and-forth exchange while Tweetspeak was hosting a book club on Rumors of Waters by L.L. Barkat. She also shared a few words with me about her re-entry into poetry.
@Barebrancheshvn: “i wrote a poem this week in response to the photo of a modern “Little Red” – my favorite yet, total departure 4 me”
@matthewkreider: “Fantastic! I’m so happy to hear that! Have you shared it anywhere? Yet? :)”
@Barebrancheshvn: “only with family! Not ready to share yet. First time ever, I wrote something in 30min. Only minor revisions since”
Most of us can relate to Leah’s hesitancy about wading into those deeper waters of visibility. We all have times when sharing our play with others feels as awkward as wearing a new bathing suit. But as we engage in a community of conversation, we find the strength to take another step.
Once we begin splashing around, like Leah, we just might find ourselves calling out words of encouragement to others.
@Barebrancheshvn: “Congrats @pathoftreasure for your @tspoetry #mayplay post! Put my timid toe in the water for the 1st time w/ a “public” poem, terrifying!”
@pathoftreasure: “Yay! I know, it’s risky!! Once you’ve dipped the toe in the water, it’s easier to dive right in… 🙂 Awesome #mayplay!”
Tweetspeak Poetry’s May Play
We decided to play together at Tweetspeak Poetry this month. We call it May Play. This week we wrote found poems using words taken from “On Inspiration”, a found poem by Kimberlee Conway Ireton. Whenever we had a few minutes, we sat to play and and uncover a poem. We played on Facebook, Twitter and personal blogs.
This past week, several writers joined the May Play conversation for the first time. Connie Cornwell Chipman wrote,
No longer able to bear
the sound of Red Hot Chili
Peppers, she saunters over
next door.
With rose petal lips and
hands on hips,
she sugar snaps off on the guy
until he turns the music down.
And leximagines wrote,
Just Peachy
Rolling down
worn wooden planks
the creamy coral orb
came to rest at my feetBarely kissing my toes
cajoling me to pick it up
I surrendered
raising it to my lipsOne should never allow
such cheek to go unanswered
Lorraine, who joined us for the first time last week, stopped by for another visit.
Mint Juleps anyone…
Taking shelter from the red hot Kentucky sun
she rests on worn wooden planks
beneath the willow tree…
stirring the chiffonade of mint
into the sugar rimmed, frosted glass…and she sips…
and she waits…
to see the black steed
race his way to the finish line;
and she hopes…he might take his princely ride
through the field of clover,
draped in his blanket of roses
and his cobalt ribbon prize…and she sips…
while she waits.
nancy davis rosback also returned for a visit.
if i had a speckled hen
i would gather eggs into a basket
tightly woven and strongif i wanted tea
i would put a kettle of water on heat
the warmth to pour over withered leaves
giving back what was takenif my mother were alive
i would make her eggs and tea
we would sit at the table
and visit
Others shared their May Play on Twitter.
@monicasharman: I sit atop handmade inspiration/ to pin it down/ but it escapes like slippery/ soap even before I can catch/ the scent of lavender
@bristowmom1: Sigh for today: What Hand will invite you/into what green dance, across what white-blooming field?
Creative play leads to great conversations, so keep playing with those words — and encourage each other along the way.
____
Here’s how May Play works …
If you haven’t already, please consider subscribing to Every Day Poems.
1. On Mondays, the Every Day Poem in your inbox becomes Play-Doh. Pinch off a word. Or more. Mix in your words and colors. Until yours.
2. Tweet your poems to us. Add a #mayplay hashtag so we can find it and maybe share it with the world.
3. Or leave your found poem here in the comment box for each week’s May Play post.
We’ll read your tweets and share some of your weekly play each week. At the end of the month, we’ll choose a winning poem and ask the playful poet to record his or her poem to be featured in one of our upcoming Top 10 Poetic Picks.
Here’s today’s Every Day Poem. Now go play.
_____
BONUS: Winner Takes the Chocolate
If you have a short story about why you love Every Day Poems, leave it in the comment box here or post it to your blog and leave us the link. We’ve already received some great mentions! Check out Leah’s reflection — as well as her poem “Little Red”.
We’ll pick one of these stories and send the winner a box of gourmet chocolates.
Photo by Claire Burge. Used with permission. Post by Matthew Kreider.
___________
Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $5.99— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In May we’re exploring the theme Roses.
- Casting a Line for Surrealist Poetry - November 12, 2012
- The History of the World in Beer - October 22, 2012
- Journey into Poetry: Matthew Kreider - July 23, 2012
Kimberlee Conway Ireton says
I love reading all these poems! Nancy’s even made me tear up.
It’s so fun to see how one poem (whose words and images were taken from prose) can proliferate into so many more.
Maureen Doallas says
Wonderful to hear these new voices! Lovely to see Nancy’s poem highlighted.
Leah Downs says
Thank you Matthew, this is a great community. I look forward to learning and playing some more!
Monica Sharman says
Loved Connie’s poem! It made me think that I’ve been on both sides of that scenario: in college, a guy a couple of doors down had to knock on my door: “I’m taking a midterm now. Can you turn it down?” (We had take-home exams.) I also remember living in a small apartment, and we had just bought our first (used) piano. At about 8 p.m., while we were tinkering with our new toy, someone in the apartment below started banging on their ceiling/our floor with a broom handle or something. But when I’m the one annoyed by loud music, I’ve never had the boldness…
The last two lines of leximagines’ poem truly made my day. I love it when the end of a poem (pleasantly) catches me off guard that way.
Loved how Lorraine’s poem gave me a unique combination of excitement, anticipation, and calmness.
And how nancy brought the eggs and tea around and together… That one had power for me.
Thanks for these great Mondays! And for the conversation. Poetry is THE reason I opened a twitter account.
Sandra Brower says
My May Play fun
Sandra Brower says
http://sandralynnbrower.blogspot.com/
Sandra Brower says
^- Oops, sorry about the domination of the comment section. The darn enter key was a little happy to be entered.
I am in love with these Word Grabs- they are so fun. Here is my May Play fun!
http://sandralynnbrower.blogspot.com/
Megan Willome says
I really like Nancy’s.
Lorraine says
I loved them all and yes, I felt a lump in my throat over your ending Nancy!
I’m really enjoying this May play! As I hesitate at first, I usually feel great afterwards…sign of a great stretch! 😉 Fun!
Rosanne Osborne says
…Breaking off the Play-Doh one more time
Before We Knew
Smoking was the old normal
of my childhood.
My mother’s friends
lit their Camels between Cokes
on Saturdays at the local drug store.
My dad plowed the corn
with his Lucky Strikes
in his shirt pocket.
The crimson circle on the white
pack, the golden camel on hers
were images transferring
meaning to letters, my eyes
learning to read.
Her moon eclipsed his sun,
the ring of fire that held
them, comforted me
on darkened nights
curled to dream of
camels and pyramids
and the journey home
in our Studebaker sedan.
Lexanne Leonard says
Thank you for including my poem Just Peachy. I love Every Day and Tweetspeak. Even though I don’t write everyday, you keep a smile on my face and inspiration always abounds.
davis nancy rosback says
Matthew . i love your story of encouraging people toto write and share. You are helping to make this a place where people can feel accepted and loved, which opens the door to creativity, growth and healing.
~
It is so fun to see the way each person writes their own unique piece that no one else could write.
And i feel totally encouraged by the really nice comments, thanks.
Patricia Spreng says
Nancy, your poem took my heart and I felt my “mother ache” in it.
Maureen, your poem is gripping and it made my heart ache.
I haven’t joined in here before, but I’ve been watching and reading. I’m pretty good at making snakes and marbles out of playdoh. =) Thank you for making it a safe place. Here’s my found poem offering.
Moonlit Tears
Empty nightgown
lost in a bed too big
Failing, at her window
moonlit
tears
fell softly
patricia spreng
Matthew Kreider says
This does my heart good, everyone. 🙂 Busy day here, but it’s so good to hear your voices.
Nancy, you made my heart feel like a fondue pot. Poetry doesn’t matter if it can’t make room for people.
And, Leah, see what happens when we dare to step out? Think of all the conversations and play that would be lost. 🙂
Rosanne Osborne says
…and here’s another piece of dough
Embracing the Nightmares
Catching them by their manes
is the hardest part.
They’re wary of touch.
the revelation of day
when their distortions
are chastised.
A tight grip on the forelock
might work. Dare to be Bellerophon
grabbing Pegasus. What nightmare
can resist a golden bridle?
They wait to be subdued,
They long for the touch
that transforms the inner core.
Nightmares ironically wish
for the day. Coming
in the last cycle of sleep,
they push the psyche
to confront the reality
of resistant reconciliation.
Shackle the forehoof
of any nightmare, stroke
him until he is yours.
Natalie Salminen says
I was inspired by “On Inspiration” to enter the waters of May Play. So fun! Not sure if I got the right poem for the week…come what may. Thanks for such a creative, communal platform. Brilliant!
“Choices ”
Mint, grey. Peach and the hot chili of pink.
Hmmmm….what to paint the basement.
For years I evaded the dark,
the damp, the buried underneath.
But now I tread easy towards the shadows,
even inviting them to tea,
bitter herbs and raw honey.
You won’t know until you face them,
looking into their dark eyes,
black steeds,
now fit for a fearless queen.
The paint chip says “Choices,”
the dreamy color of courage.
Brush dipped and
painting the shadows with Light.
laura says
Matthew, this weaving together is exquisite! I am so envious of all the poetry play. My muse has left me high and dry of late. Too much of the busy, too much of the tired. But when I stop in here I find inspiration. So very grateful.
Rosanne Osborne says
What fun–pinching the dough.
Word Habits
She wears her words like a wimple,
starched and confining,
they rarely engender dialog,
The black serge flowing
to the floor measures
each syllable
for its suitability
in the moment,
stewardship of expression.
Her underskirts cover
the slip of the tongue
the intimacy of feeling
the unguarded response
of a woman more nearly human.
But the pointed toes
of the serviceable shoes
punctuate the sense
of a mind trained
in precision not fluency.
Connie Cornwell Chipman says
May Play “Conversations” taking a few words from “Breaking it off: Letter from Anne Sextion.”
God, He can be so kind.
On bent knees I breathed a prayer
and God thought of me and
sent you here.
I buried my lips
into your little hands
as I rocked you to sleep,
my baby.
path of treasure says
Not only is May Play fun, but we can also make new friends (hello Leah!) 🙂
Here’s a little piece of May Play Doh from this past Monday’s poem:
I hide rumors in my tightly
clenched fists before I
swallow them, whole.
You won’t find me asleep,
nursing my wounds,
fading like dusk.
I lose your roses,
crush them in hand–
and find my soul.
Rosanne Osborne says
and the play goes on
Hunch Weaving
The flicker house was mounted
on a backyard tree
with desire to conserve,
to ensure a presence.
But squirrels thought
the box to be theirs,
a homestead for generations
of furry tails.
They remodeled the opening,
wove pine straw ticking
and birthed the first brood
of tiny sunflower seed thieves.
The yard wars were on
and raged for decades.
The day wind felled the box,
hunch drove me to look inside
and there perched
on a pillow of dawn
was a single speckled egg.
Lorraine says
Connie, your poem is sweet and at the same time, strong…it captured my heart!
Rosanne Osborne says
After the Storm
Even the trees bend their knees
toward the dawn when the winds
come in the night. They sense
the power in the zephyr grazing
their leaves, spiraling in patterns
with increased velocity, darkened
to the sinister forces they endure.
Their faith lies in the subtlety
of shared creation, their certainty
that life’s cycle renders completion.
Bending toward the dawn, they know
that the light of photosynthesis
will beam on leaves tossed askew
restoring the vitality the Son gives.
Lane says
@LaneArnold: I enjoyed playing with the Roses theme:
Arose
she
at
magenta
sunrise,
just after
twinkling bouquets
faded.
The summer damask rose
shimmered
in an
old cut glass
vase
beside her bed.
He always
left one
waiting there.
She thought of
that other day,
fifty-two summers ago,
when her
now-snow-headed
sweetheart
knelt on one knee,
and asked
what he already
knew the answer to:
Will you?
I will.
Every morning,
The yes of
Whimsy and joy,
wafting among quotidian
moments,
Lovers lasting
Aroma.
Outside the
bay window,
roseate puffs
proposed,
flushing the face
of craggy young Rockies.
Alpenglow blush:
Two beauties
dancing to dawn’s delight,
on the ice-fringed
alpine lake,
alongside
two
old
mountain roses.
Lane M. Arnold
© May 2012
Lane says
@LaneArnold played with the scent of Irish Tea…
Tea Travelers
Her cabinets
trace the journey
of her long-grown
children.
The winter of the weddings
in India,
the daughter,
passport-giddy,
sent
Darjeeling.
Later,
her lilting sing song voice
gushed
about
lush tea plantations and a new love,
as dark ringlets fell across her
cheek.
The fall of St. Andrews studies,
the kilted red-bearded son,
told tales of
clan castles
over Scottish breakfast tea,
loose and lovely
in a very proper tin.
After the traditional
Moroccan Tea Ceremony
and a flight across the ocean,
the eldest son, mustached and mysterious,
sipped green minted tea as he charmed her with stories,
a sweetness not lost on her.
She turned the kettle on,
and memories whistled.
At the tiny table, miniature tea cups tremble.
Three set of hands
belonging to her oldest
rosy-cheeked
grandchildren,
eagerly await
the afternoon
tea party
with Gran-Mére.
They wonder why
a globe spins nearby.
© Lane M. Arnold
May 2012
Donna says
Every Day Poems Throws a Life Line… (or maybe a better title might be ‘the Care and Feeding of a Muse’… a blog to share, chocolate or none! http://unmixingcolors.typepad.com/along_the_way/2012/05/every-day-poems-throws-a-life-line.html
Rosanne Osborne says
Sleeping with Promises
The empty nightgown
hanging on the door.
its bodiless shape
the vacuity of hope
that resurrection is more than myth.
The sleeveless wonder
of remembered arms, fingers
frozen in a single
caress.
Whole visions emerge
from thinning fabric
cloth returning
to threaded
memories
patterns of provocation
casus belli.
Wisps of delight and destruction
hidden in shapeless folds
soft, cool to the touch
utterly empty…yet full.
Donna says
Sleeping with promises …. Leaves me speechless…
davis nancy rosback says
Looks like the May play is becoming more popular 🙂
http://alittlesomethin.wordpress.com/2012/05/26/10/
Rosanne Osborne says
and last bit of play before we turn to a new poem
Rumors
Some prefer their rumors in pieces
words to chew and consider
cows in a huddle beneath the oaks
cuds to digest
in the companionship of kind
Connection more important than truth
words binding one to another
shreds of evidence
happenstance
enduring debris
Sorting out truth is a game
like volleyball with its setup
and spike
the right team
sharing the win
Malevolent process that divides
like cells in a cancerous growth
uncontrolled
insidious
sometimes fatal.
Donna says
rose remembering…
http://unmixingcolors.typepad.com/along_the_way/2012/05/rose-remembering.html
Rosanne Osborne says
Punching Shadows
Refining shadows was his delight
in life. Marking their boundaries,
polishing their angles, he clarified
the fuzziness of their perception.
Living with shadows like he did,
the hard-core, face on reality
lost power. He knew only slant
of experience, glancing light.
When shadow becomes itself,
negative transforms its print.
The eye reverses, sees only
the inner self, loses its dazzle.
Rosanne Osborne says
Ignore that last post. Premature, misplace, casualty of play