April is, among other things, National Poetry Month. I love poetry, and while I consider myself a decent writer, I’ve never tried to write poetry because it requires a level of skill and creativity I believe that I lack. This month, I’m trying to change that negative self-talk.
My writing coach and friend, Carol Adler of
, often uses a poem as a prompt in our weekly writing workshops, encouraging students to take imagery or a phrase from the poem to begin a piece of writing. It’s a wonderful exercise, and gives me an opportunity to read at least one new poem every week. I’ve always been a fan of poetry. I remember memorizing the first stanza of a Langston Hughes poem as a child. It still resonates today:Hold fast to dreams
for if dreams die
life is a broken-winged bird
that cannot fly.
My favorite poet is
(the one from Ohio - not to be confused with the late, great British actress). Earlier this month, I had the honor of seeing her at Symphony Space here in New York City as she welcomed other poets, singers, and writers to help launch her new book, Dear Writer: Pep Talks & Practical Advice for the Creative Life. It was a soul-nourishing night of inspiration, a brief pause from the global dumpster fire. The speakers all reminded us that creativity matters, that every person has the capacity to be an artist, and that, most importantly, we should create as often as possible, if only for ourselves, without judgement or pressure for publication. Living a creative life is its own reward. We would all do well to pay attention to the beauty around us, and let it inspire us. As Mary Oliver wrote in her poem, Instructions for Living a Life:Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
I devoured Dear Writer and recommend it to EVERYONE - whether you consider yourself a writer (or artist/“maker” of any kind) or not. When we were kids we were encouraged to finger paint, draw with crayons, write stories, dig in the dirt for treasures, look up at the clouds and identify shapes. We used our imaginations. We experienced wonder and awe on a daily basis. Sadly, somewhere along the way to adulthood, we were told that we weren’t artists anymore. We weren’t any good at it and we shouldn’t “waste our time.” Well, Maggie Smith is here to tell you that the creative life is never a waste of time. We all have stories to tell, beauty to share and poetry to write. I think we could all use a healthy dose of paying attention and being astonished right now. I believe we all have the ability (and the need) to tell about it.
So, having learned about many of the actual tools of writing poetry from Dear Writer, I decided to take a stab at my own poem, in honor of National Poetry Month. I wanted to reawaken the creative soul inside of me, inviting the little pig-tailed girl I used to be, the one who sang and danced, painted and crafted, to come out and play more often.
I hope you enjoy my poem. I hope it inspires you to write one, too
My 17 year old Is Having a Beauty Emergency
I love that you notice the cherry blossoms starting to open.
I love how you point out every golden retriever we pass on the street,
noting how their tails look like long feathers. I love how you run
to the window to snap the pink and orange sunset hanging over the Hudson.
The poet Maggie Smith calls these beauty emergencies.
Stop, she says, look (or look up from your phone) and see. Really see
the world and its’ beauty, its’ quirky people and cute dogs.
We play a game where we name a dog, based on its physical traits.
The black and white dog is always Oreo because Oreos were my Mom’s
favorite cookie. If that was my dog, you say, mimicking, I would name it Oreo.
That one looks like a Patches, because he has black spots on his eyes.
I love that when the elevator opens and there is a neighbor with a leash
asking if we mind the dog joining us, you say No! We don't mind.
Please come in. We love dogs. What's his name?
Love your poem Natalie! Here’s one from my best friend Rllen Bass
Relax
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Ellen Bass
Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she’s a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—
the one you never really liked—will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours. Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn’t plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you’ll come home to find your son has emptied
the refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick up—drug money.
There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs half way down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.
"Relax" from Like a Beggar. Copyright © 2014 by Ellen Bass. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc. on behalf of Copper Canyon Press,
I love this piece and I love your poem Natalie! Thank you for the reminder to be creative. I needed it. :)