Once upon a time.
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the idiom “Once upon a time” has been in use in some form since at least 1380. Used to introduce a narrative of past events, it is most common in fairy tales and folk tales. It’s definitely English in origin, though it’s hard to say how old it is. The dictionary has examples going as far back as Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, but it had probably achieved the status of a conventional phrase even before then.
Nearly every language and culture has a “story-starting phrase.” Common phrases include, “Once there lived a king”, “There was a time, long ago…” In the Turkish language, one particular story begins: “Once there was, and once there wasn’t. In the long-distant days of yore, when haystacks winnowed sieves, when genies played jereed in the old bathhouse, [when] fleas were barbers, [when] camels were town criers, [and when] I softly rocked my baby grandmother to sleep in her creaking cradle, there was/lived, in an exotic land, far, far away, a/an…”
This traditional opening phrase by the storyteller is rich with rhyming word plays, tongue-twisters, as well as comedic and bizarre situational juxtapositions that are meant to draw listeners in, and set the stage for a whimsical, fantastical story line.
Grab your paper and pen and get ready to create your own once upon a time…
Try It
Create your own story-starting phrase and write a poem around it. How does time play a part in it? Use humor, creative word-play, and your folk-tale imagination.
Featured Poem
Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a time-machine-inspired poem from Glynn we enjoyed:
It’s simple, really:
open the door of the booth,
sit, strap myself in,
set the dial to whatever
year I wish, and travel,
backward or forward,
or backward and forward,
a real Dr. Who,
or a Dr. Whatever.
I consider.
For now,
the only time machine
I have going backward
is memory;
the only time machine
I have going forward
is hope.
It’s likely, I think,
that my memory surpasses
reality, a rose-colored
filter simultaneously
enhancing and obscuring.
And do I replace hope
with reality or its shadow,
like Scrooge who saw
the reality and choose
hope.
I consider the door
once again, the temptation
of the tree, and before
I walk away I padlock it
with a lock I cannot open.
Memory and hope will suffice.
Photo by christiangirl16. Creative Commons via Flickr.
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How to Write a Poem uses images like the buzz, the switch, the wave—from the Billy Collins poem “Introduction to Poetry”—to guide writers into new ways of writing poems. Excellent teaching tool. Anthology and prompts included.
“How to Write a Poem is a classroom must-have.”
—Callie Feyen, English Teacher, Maryland
- Poetry Prompt: Misunderstood Lion - March 19, 2018
- Animate: Lions & Lambs Poetry Prompt - March 12, 2018
- Poetry Prompt: Behind the Velvet Rope - February 26, 2018
Richard Maxson says
Interlude
In time, the story goes, he returned
to constellations that defined him,
and once again he was named.
What we perceive as the infinite,
he knew as interlude.
It passed through him as a brightness,
to a form unknown.
Then sound began,
as if it carried him in its oscillations—
what we call waves he learned and endured.
There was a movement that was not him,
and a moment, when the ear was ready—
the sound of rivers awakened him.
Before thought, there was urgency
beyond memory—in the veins, a sameness—
fading in the circuitry of touch,
another in the darkness that was not him,
at the terminus of reach, where time began
with the finite spaces of the world.
It was the harmony of hearts that made
a rapacious longing in him,
the original sorrow, we have called sin.
The world entered him as symphony and cacophony,
a blindness waiting heedlessly for music.
Once, and suddenly, touch and touched,
the eternal forgotten, the mirror of identity
began the searching in him
for that, which he will never find.
Light—unremembered and disguised—
sound like nothing before, the weight of being.
Symphonies are searches for the music of two hearts,
the echoing of an echo.
He followed home the crumbs of a language
that appeared, slowly within the spaces of breathing.
With these, he makes pictures
of a half remembered light, colors,
parsed and bent toward the earth.
Heather Eure says
“…he returned
to constellations that defined him,
and once again he was named.”
Rick, a splendid poem. Thank you.
Donna says
Wow… that first stanza floored me. Beautiful poem.
Maureen says
This is a “found poem” inspired by author Lee Martin’s post this morning:
Once upon a time
he was a toddler,
dimpled hands plump.
Innocent
once upon a time
but then angry, his whip
a switch
from a persimmon tree,
the measure of struggle
to be.
He changed
in a moment of mistakes,
gentle hands
lost in the shucking box,
and with them
all he wanted. Once,
before but also after,
he was someone who needed
and all my life I tried
to save. I couldn’t
but I also do not forget
this image of a father’s hands,
their vulnerability, the weight
of their hooks
tender on my head.
Dedicated to Lee Martin
Here is the link to the post:
http://leemartinauthor.com/2016/03/couldnt-save-father/
Heather Eure says
What a wonderful “found poem,” Maureen. I enjoyed reading Lee’s haunting memory and reflecting on your lovely poem. “the weight of their hooks tender on my head.” Beautiful.
Donna says
Oh, Maureen… thank you for sharing this, and for the link back to the originating essay where you found it. This is all so filled with emotion, pain, love, shock.
I wonder – when you “find” a poem, as you do so wonderfully, do you have a sense that there is a poem there waiting to be found – or do you set out to write a poem about a piece because it moved you. I hope that question makes sense. I am always blown away by what you find and create and share.
Donna says
Oh, the poignant groundlessness of this line:
he was someone who needed
and all my life I tried
to save.
Maureen says
Thank you, Heather and Donna.
Donna, I’ve been reading Lee’s work for some time, so I already knew the story behind his post yesterday.
Sometimes while reading prose that affects me in a particular way (and usually there is something in the prose that “gets” me) I will go back to it and try to use the words to create a poem from it. When that happens, I’m being deliberate in my writing. In the case of Lee’s post, I began right away to write, seemed to know exactly what words to select, and then did a bit of editing (paring away, not adding) before posting here. In some ways this poem wrote itself.
It’s difficult for me to describe this, and I doubt I could “teach” it; it’s as if the words present themselves in my mind in the shape of a poem; I also hear them as a poem. And then, voila.
Writing found poetry is different from writing erasure poems; for the former, I don’t follow word order in the original text; for the latter I do.
Maureen says
P.S. I did share the poem with Lee.
Donna says
Oh, great. I bet that meant a lot to him. 🙂
Thank you for sharing your process with me and all of us. I know it can be really hard to break down and explain that sort of thing! This one really felt like it came from a place of wanting to be written – as if it presented itself to you and your keen eye/poet’s heart found and nurtured it.
Glynn says
Once upon a time
Once upon a time
I read books, and wrote
about books, and now
I curate literary content.
Once upon a time
I protested war, and lit
my anti-war candle, and now
I protest perceived microaggressions.
Once upon a time
I prayed to God, and lifted
my prayers upward, and now
I pray downward to my smart phone.
Once upon a time
itself is no longer
once upon a time
Once upon a time
has become
once upon a spin,
once upon a brand,
once upon a tipping point.
Rumpelstiltskin sits
at his wheel, spinning
straw into what passes
for gold, turning
to demand the child.
Heather Eure says
“…turning to demand the child.” Love that, Glynn.
Glynn says
Thanks, Heather!
Megan Willome says
Glynn, “Memory and hope will suffice.” I like that.
Glynn says
Megan – thank you!
Monica Sharman says
Not so long ago
ten years, even five,
seemed a long time. The story
would never end, he thought,
repelled. When will we get to the next
chapter or even turn the page? The slope
of this rising action needs to be steeper,
more angle than arc. Then, steeped
in the sweat of trekking, he pick-axed
to the peak, did not rappel
but switchbacked
the long way down.
Heather Eure says
I especially like the ending of your poem, Monica. Thanks so much for sharing with us!
Simply Darlene says
Once
Upon
A
Time
As if tiny tick-tocks sliced
Thick
lemon curd crusts crisp with desires, sweet dream frostings.
As if minutes stacked
Steady
heavy bricks mortared with first baby teeth, soccer cleats, graduation rings.
As if hours captured
Hot
popcorn flying off life’s skillet fires, buttered, finger-licking perfection.
As if days, weeks, months shelved
Upright
leathered memories bound, unbreakable spines, set apart, embossed titles.
As if years gathered
Thrown
summer’s sunset shadows, long, skipping over sidewalk cracks.
As if lives blipped
Untangled
red and yellow helium-filled, birthday balloons without songs, without strings.
Once
Upon
A
Time
As if.
Heather Eure says
Glad you’re here, Darlene! Thanks for sharing your “once upon a time.” 🙂
Samuel Smith says
Columbus Sails (Eventually)
O Muse! Headmistress of our history lessons,
O coiffured keeper of the loud and tardy,
To thy dark desk stacked high with homework and
Red pencils once again ensconce thyself;
Set thy firm ruler to its early laze. To us,
Thy pupils — who, dilating in the night
Of our suspensions, of the Principal,
And thine own ominous eyes, remit the chalk,
Recant the troublemaker in the corner cap,
Descend our seats, and shall with attention rapt
Command the self-same cushions, whilst our laps
Our hands from mischief and from paper planes
Shall keep — to us we pray, good Muse, relate
How it was that a student from Genoa —
How it was Cristoforo, as we’ve been told –,
Who wore establishment as one would wear
A dirty cloak — devoutly to be washed
And then hung up to dry –, while he was yet
Little in Italy had picketed
Among the Free Iberia radicals,
Redrawn the maps, incensed the court savants,
And, when he had sufficiently impugned
The board of educators, was then expelled,
And left to seek his fortune overseas
In three ships on a dole from Portugal.
On him, fair Muse, do end our speculation,
For we could not set fact from fabrication.
Heather Eure says
Love the invocation of the muse in your mini epic, Samuel. 🙂
Lane Arnold says
“Cross that cliff when the blackberries ripen, right after the clouds whir above,”
Grandmother’s voice,
laughter-laced, shouted
as I let the
screen porch
door slam.
I’m not sure what she meant.
But back then
when the blackberries ripened
decisions came easy
picking through
brambles high on
Rowan’s Crown.
How many summers
had we traversed the
stream on
logs felled
In a storm?
Of course, back then,
the most
famous excursion
came during
drought summer.
Six trips
up, over, down, over,
up, over, down over,
over,
over,
over,
over,
Just to make blackberry
cobbler for Grandpapa
the summer, back then,
when he
broke both legs.
Eighty-nine
quarts of jam,
purple as storm clouds,
lined the cool dark pantry.
Eleven more
sparkled like amethysts
in the glass-front cabinet,
inviting us to
toast and jam
every single morning that
August, back then.
“Cross that cliff when the blackberries ripen, right after the clouds whir above.”
Back then,
was she talking of
cliffs of bills,
purple as storm clouds,
when Grandpapa had
no work that
Unlegged summer?
(but everyone pitched
in and
still we ate
every single meal:
bellies full of
zucchini from Auntie Mae’s kitchen patch,
tomatoes red-headed as Mr. Reese’s seven sons,
corn golden as the sun setting
late into the muggy
July night)
served up with
fresh-ground graham flour
biscuits, dripping
in butter
(accompanied by blackberries, of course)
Back then,
was she talking of
cliffs of grief,
purple as storm clouds,
bruising our hearts the winter I turned six?
“Black ice,” Sheriff Willingham proclaimed,
prophetically descriptive
of our hearts
after we buried
those two.
Grandmother (and Grandpapa, too) lost
their first-born daughter;
my ten aunts and uncles hung
low that winter,
grazing-the-earth-low
when their sister
(and her mister)
slid home.
Back then, I lost
past and future:
mother and father,
childhood sweethearts
frozen in time
after
the blizzard
hit in ’57.
Wild blackberry brambles
Still entwine those
two granite-honed
headstones,
carved back then.
Was she talking
back then
of
cliffs of impossibility
she and Grandpapa
climbed,
raising me, their oldest
grandchild,
having finally
gotten the last
of their brood of eleven
out of the house?
“Cross that cliff when the blackberries ripen, right after the clouds whir above?”
Mr. Benedict shook
his head, bepuzzled.
“Mr. B, it’ll be fine. It will be. Really.”
How was I
to know
my boss
thought me
too young for the position
suddenly vacated
because of
a black ice wreck,
putting me
next in
line of succession?
Irony smiled
back then,
tangled, prickly,
ripe as blackberries,
lavishly rich beauties
found up high
just past the
cliff on Rowans’ Crown.
Heather Eure says
Thank you for sharing your poem with us, Lane. Glad you’re here!