Tweetspeak Poetry

Get in Our E-Book: Every Day Ideas

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Every Day Ideas: Poem Starters

Are you an Every Day Poems reader yet?

In a recent survey, we asked our readers how they furthered their experiences with their daily poems in the past year. For some, reading the poem each day (or every few days!) was enough.

But others revealed a variety of ways to bring the poems to life beyond the inbox. One way: use a line from the poem to start your own poem.

Now, when you share poems that you started from one of your Every Day Poem lines, we’ll save them for possible inclusion in a special Every Day Ideas ebook in 2016. The ebook will also include other Every Day Ideas, such as Poem Pinups (and more ideas to come).

So, if you like…

1. Choose a line from one of the Every Day Poems you received in your inbox

2. Use the line in a new poem of your own

3. Include a credit for the original poem you borrowed the line from

4. Send us a link to where you post your new poem online (anywhere is fine: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, Google+). Just drop the link in an Every Day Ideas comment box so we can find it.

And, happy poem starting.

Photo by Pascal Maramis, Creative Commons, via Flickr.

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Want to potentially be in our Every Day Ideas 2015-2016 ebook?

Subscribe to Every Day Poems now and join in our Every Day Ideas projects. Just $5.99 annually.

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What Our Readers Are Saying About the Casual E-book

This year we published some of your poems in an another anthology called Casual: A Little Book of Jeans Poems and Photos. Here’s what some of our readers are saying about it:

I’m over the moon about being included. This is beautiful. —Sandra Heska King

Wow! The book is beautiful! —Amy Billone

Delighted to have my photo grace your book. —Susan Etole

What a beautiful final product. Grateful to be included. Thank you for investing in us. —Elizabeth Marshall

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L.L. Barkat
Latest posts by L.L. Barkat (see all)

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About L.L. Barkat

L.L. Barkat is the Managing Editor of Tweetspeak Poetry and the author of six books for grown-ups and four for children, including the popular 'Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing.' Her poetry has appeared on the BBC and at NPR, VQR, and The Best American Poetry.

Comments

  4. Donna says

    I’m so glad for this post because, although I enjoy my inbox goodies, I had forgotten about how I got started… finding poems of my own …. Geesh. 🙂 So glad to be reminded.

    Reply

  9. Richard Maxson says

    From EDP, Marvell’s The Fair Singer: “all resistance against her is vain.”

    Singer
    —for Whitney

    All resistance against her is vain;
    watching the singer sing her song,
    like the sea sliding on the shore.

    And pausing, her dark eyes,
    with lashes so like wings, tilt
    as she looks down from her flight,

    the echoes of her song still
    in the air, in every ear
    and we are taken to the mountaintops.

    Then the waves resume their tone,
    the flourish joins the blown leaves
    in the wind that carried her away.

    Reply

  11. Elizabeth W. Marshall says

    We Are Water

    We are water, endless;
    As the sea
    Vapor, liquid
    Silver fish break through the water line
    A thousand punctuation marks
    End the phrasing of our
    Love
    Every drops turns from placid, still and resting
    Into a transfiguration of new birth
    I know now
    Every cloud,
    A gathering up of every drop of us
    The rain will soon return us to the place
    From which
    Our love was born

    From Sara Barkat’s
    Juliet’s Aubade
    Appearing in T.S. Poetry’s Every Day Poems

    .

    Reply

    • Bethany R. says

      What a lovely poem, Elizabeth:

      “I know now
      Every cloud,
      A gathering up of every drop of us
      The rain will soon return us to the place
      From which
      Our love was born”

      Reply

  21. Richard Maxson says

    http://theimaginedjay.com/matins/

    For this First Line Poem Starter I used:
    “If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”

    I used the first half of this line to begin the poem and the last half to end it.

    Matins

    If Winter comes, and the colors
    of my world have not yet fallen,
    I will wear it like the morning snow.

    And though it seems the distance,
    which is only sky between the cliffs
    and trees, is near enough to hold

    my breath in its hands, like a child
    that for a moment I can touch, I’ll hope
    to ask, can Spring be far behind?

    Reply

  24. L. L. Barkat says

    Just popping in to say we’re reading these and saving them if they seem like possibilities, and we’ll make decisions later in the year.

    Keep writing, and we’ll happily keep reading 🙂

    Reply

    • Bethany R. says

      Oh, this is haunting–it feels so real. Adding the contrast of the mother’s reassurance brings a sharpness to the experience.

      Thanks for sharing your piece with the TweetSpeak community, Richard.

      Reply

  28. Bethany R. says

    I wrote a piece, but it isn’t formatting the spacing/italics correctly on my blog. If I could email it as a Word Document, that might do the trick? In any case, I’ll paste it here. 🙂

    The line, “The wind has lost its will” is found (in a different tense) in William Wilfred Campbell’s, “How One Winter Came in the Lake Region.”

    **

    Do speak of him

    The wind has lost its will

    Who will recreate his likeness
    for us who remain?

    Who will wipe their clammy finger pads
    through a gray clay slab
    and form those lines that once
    moved freely?

    How did you make your knock
    sound warm, nut-wooden
    on my steel door?

    At my opening
    your smile would ease back into itself–
    into the fold-coves of your cheeks

    The soft-shore wave swells as it rolls

    I will carry you in this bone-smooth shell
    I will listen to you echo off
    my inner ear

    where you ever-form
    your own sounds

    Reply

  43. Laura Brown says

    First line from Dana Levin’s poem “Sentences.”

    Ship of Tools

    Train of spoons,
    speedboat of forks,
    forklift of knives,
    kayak of whisks,
    wheelchair of tongs,
    toboggan of ladles,
    lifeboat of graters,
    golf cart of corkscrews,
    Conestoga of peelers,
    paddlewheeler of mashers,
    magic carpet of mortars,
    motor home of pestles,
    pedal boat of scoops,
    school bus of spatulas,
    spaceship of basters,
    bathysphere of cleavers,
    convertible of zesters,
    Zamboni of timers.

    http://www.lauralynnbrown.com/ship-of-tools/

    Reply

  44. Elizabeth Marshall says

    From Maybe This Is, by Rachel Blum

    For every year of us
    There is a place holder
    Space holder
    Joining betrothed in holy we
    There, in lieu of words
    Holding quiet in the cracks of time
    I end your sentences
    You start mine
    We fall into habitual solitude
    Wearing out our words long ago
    Stringing verbs of love in this economy
    Giving up the worn out adverbs, a charitable act of my goodwill

    Maybe this is where the conversation ends

    You use your fingers and I my lips
    Saving the spoken words for the last will and testament

    Of love

    Reply

  46. Elizabeth W. Marshall says

    From Malachai Black’s “Terce”

    Exposed

    I have known you as an opening
    Always
    Adept at determining degrees
    Thin hair-line fracture in the marrow
    Unwittingly hiding pain
    Wide-open window frame
    Shaken from last August’s violent storm
    Half-way shut, like bivalves at the shore
    Secrets steal away, hidden behind haunting squeaks
    No more
    Pried open, no so long ago
    Slightly cracked
    To air the aging secrets out

    But now you have become unhinged
    Void of open
    Void of closed
    No one can frame the space that you once held

    Lock and key no longer needed
    I now know you as
    Exposed

    Reply

  47. michelle ortega says

    Here’s my link: https://www.facebook.com/michelle.rinaldiortega/posts/929800410375291?pnref=story

    And the poem, with a line taken from “On Music” by Rainer Maria Rilke.

    “The Muse”

    The ancient muse who comprehends

    the unexpected ebb and flows

    and language where all language ends

    relieves the snow with spring’s amends

    while keeping steady in repose.

    That ancient muse does comprehend

    the breath between two souls transcends

    tornadic tangoed lovers’ throes

    and language where all language ends.

    More fragile than the mind intends

    (while hide and seeking) to disclose

    the ancient muse does comprehend

    the cages made to self-defend

    but gently coaxes out from those

    in language where all language ends

    a whispered, “yes.” The heart extends

    a slow-unfolding gossamer rose

    to the ancient muse who comprehends

    the language where all language ends.

    Reply

  48. Alyse says

    [The first line is from The Alien by Greg Delanty.]

    of your ultrasound, scanning the dark,
    she tells you that the red color means blood
    and also that your uterus is backwards.
    (she calls it ‘retroverted.’)
    a stranger’s hand between your thighs,
    and you think, this is familiar,
    and also, what the hell does that mean?
    no one is there to hold your hand,
    and you slip on your panties as the nurse waits.
    this explains so much, you tell yourself when you look it up later,
    but what exactly does it explain?
    why it hurts to be on top?
    you can’t come up with anything else.
    you wish all the prodding would result in better answers.
    instead all you get are weirder questions.

    Reply

  49. Alyse says

    Here’s another one, based on my experience as a foster parent.

    [The first line is from My Sentence by Dana Levin.]

    train of spoons,
    a voyage across the carpet–
    this life is imaginary
    and all too real.
    where do they come up with this stuff?
    a pillow becomes a doghouse,
    and then it’s a pair of hair clippers.
    they don’t stay like this forever.
    in fact they don’t stay at all.
    a few weeks, a few months–
    they come, and then they leave.
    we start over:
    the crying, the readjusting.
    sometimes I think it’s too much.
    I wish that train
    would take me far away
    and never return.
    but then the moment comes
    when she lays her head
    on my leg, and I think,
    this carpet isn’t so bad.

    Reply

  52. Alyse says

    [The first line is from Spring Is Like A Perhaps Hand by e.e. cummings. This can also be found on my blog: wordsnotmadewithlungs.wordpress.com.]

    people stare carefully
    so as not to disturb.
    they look with their
    eyes so no harm is
    done. they turn around
    only when you’ve passed
    to save you from knowing,
    and then they whisper to
    each other to save you
    from hearing. you are
    impervious, oblivious–
    playing the part of the
    deaf and blind. you look
    straight ahead, at the
    ground, away from them.
    you hear nothing, see
    nothing. people stare,
    and you– you have
    nothing to look at.

    Reply

  53. Lexanne Leonard says

    Using Charles Bane Jr.’s My Old Soul line: He is a petal, I see inside his heart.

    Fingertips

    He is a petal, I see inside his heart.
    He loves me, he loves me not.

    I hold him up to the sun, trace veins
    from tip to stern, watch blood flow,

    and feel his pounding heart
    between my fingertips.

    I cannot love him more.
    He loves me, he loves me not.

    Reply

  54. Richard Maxson says

    From Jennifer K. Sweeney’s poem (6/03/15), “Beyond a Longing Lying Bluely.” Using her lines,

    “The world conspires to make more
    of itself with its not-much spark and sap.”

    Blue Berry

    How merely a cup of milk
    and the morning’s last blue berry,
    rising slick,
    with wisps of white rolling round
    over its sides,
    lost in a dark thrown bowl
    made firm by fire,
    for a moment holds us all in its form.

    The world conspires to make more
    of itself with its not-much spark and sap.

    Reply

  56. Donna Z Falcone says

    Eday Poems sent this today:

    A Fly and a Flea in a Flue

    A Fly and a Flea in a Flue
    Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
    Said the fly, “Let us flee!”
    “Let us fly!” said the flea,
    And they flew through a flaw in the flue.

    — Anonymous, more Child Life: A Collection of Poems

    And now… the rest of the story (or at least the next little bit…)

    That Fly and that Flea from the Flue
    Flew freely the happy day through
    A home they did make
    On the top of a cake
    In a sugar dust rose built for two.

    Reply

  57. Lexanne Leonard says

    Our writing group met this morning on my deck among the flowers and bees and squirrels. We each chose at random an Every Day Poem and wrote. I am the only one who writes poetry, the others have their own genre and style. It was lovely and perfect and the writing incredible. Thank you for the inspiration.

    My poem was Delphiniums In A Window Box by Dean Young, author of Fall Higher. I used the line:…because of you I’m talking to crickets, clouds….

    Because Of You

    Because of you I’m talking to crickets, clouds,
    like a madwoman with thistles braided in her hair
    a band of daisies round her waist, forget-me-nots
    between her toes.

    Because of you I laugh with lady beetles scurrying
    on their way to drink a draught of nectar wine
    in hopes of intoxicated stories shared.

    Because of you I plant sweet peas to trace a lacy frame
    girdling my womb and blue delphiniums to reach the sky
    to become our lure to ladder up for us to disappear
    into Arcadian azure.

    Because of you I will go mad with lavender sprigs as
    arrows to my heart, lemon balm to soothe my wounds,
    and spearmint tea to bring the night of moonflowers
    as our bed.

    Because of you I am possessed by the marrow of creation.

    Reply

  58. Rick Maxson says

    The Way Light Changes

    —from a line in Burlington Arcade by Julian Stannard

    They’re always going through
    tunnels, those days
    the winds rocked
    the trees I scaled high
    over the quilt of rooftops.

    Weightless as a cloud,
    in the blue of my eyes,
    I lifted myself
    into the world of wings.

    That was the distance of a life
    away. Now, my feet remind me
    each morning that I am
    no longer, even for a moment,
    one of those birds few watched,
    small and quick as a year.

    I go there, nevertheless,
    and maybe it is practice for a time
    to come, the traffic of so many days
    surrounding the way to the light
    at the top of a tree, so much taller now,
    so bright among the stars.

    Reply

  59. Rick Maxson says

    In a Light Rain
    — from Matthew Rohrer, “There Is Absolutely Nothing Lonelier”

    In a light rain, I wonder
    at the gray sky, releasing drop
    by drop. Fearless of thunder,
    in a light rain, I wonder,
    do the deep droughts stop
    gripping ground, give water up
    for a light rain? I wonder
    watching the lake’s light chop.

    Reply

  60. Rick Maxson says

    Correction for this Triolet:

    In a Light Rain
    — from Matthew Rohrer, “There Is Absolutely Nothing Lonelier”

    In a light rain, I wonder
    at the gray sky, releasing drop
    by drop. Fearless of thunder,
    in a light rain, I wonder,
    do the deep droughts under
    gripping ground, give water up
    for a light rain? I wonder
    watching the lake’s light chop.

    Reply

  61. L. L. Barkat says

    Thanks for all these submissions! Just an update: we are going to continue to accept submissions through National Poetry Month 2016 and then look to publish within 3-6 months after the April 30 closing date.

    Reply

  62. Christina Hubbard says

    I love the poems in my inbox. And the challenge was just what I needed. Thanks!

    Unshelled

    Naively, I expected more from life,
    The one I scratch here on blue lines.
    Won’t words reincarnate me into a leopard,
    An eagle, or butterfly?

    Pens have power to change us,
    Baptizing us black with ink.
    I had hoped to roar, soar, or morph
    From under the page corner, reborn.

    I fear I am a turtle
    After a run-in with a lawnmower’s blade.
    Shell smashed, six months to heal.

    The little toil of love, I thought,
    Was large enough for me
    Shrinks with each stroke.

    The whole menagerie I imagined
    Myself to be,
    Crossed out,
    A reptilian spine exposed.

    The line: “The little toil of love, I thought
    Was large enough for me”
    From Emily Dickinson in “I Had No Time To Hate, Because”
    https://www.instagram.com/p/BE1wl4DFC3T/

    Reply

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  8. […] met this morning on my deck among the flowers and bees and squirrels. We each chose at random an Every Day Poems from Tweetspeak Poetry and wrote. I am the only one who writes poetry, the others have their own genres and styles. It was […]

    Reply

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