Tag: poetry

Exploring the Art of Haiku Poetry

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Virginia Watts

Many people are familiar with the haiku, an unrhymed form of poetry that dates to 17th Century Japan. It consists of three lines and observes a strict five, seven, five syllable count. Traditionally this form of poetry was about nature, often seasonal change captured in a moment of time. Matsu Basho is considered the be the haiku master who brought haiku into its place as a serious poetic form.

Here is one of his well know poems.

An old silent pond . . .

A frog jumps into the pond,

splash! Silence again.

People may be less aware of Western or American haiku which is often not as strict in form but nevertheless mirrors the traditional haiku. The reason for a more relaxed rule on syllable count is that the syllables in Japanese don transfer smoothly to English. Some famous poets known for American haiku are Amy Lowell, Sonia Sanchez and Ezra Pound.

Jack Kerousc

Then there is Jack Kerouac who wrote thousands of haiku and often included them in his correspondence and novels. Kerouac was a serious Buddhist who credited composing haiku with sharpening his mind. He was drawn to the idea of keeping poetry simple without trickery. Here is Jack Kerouac reading some of his Western haiku: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WMwAtOom7CA

The allure of the haiku form rests in showing the beauty in the ordinary, in the belief that simple moments should be captured and preserved. It’s fun to draft haiku. People are often surprised by how much they enjoy it. Some tips: Keep a notebook with you to jot down observations, ideas, those little, unexpected life events that none of us can predict. When you have something you want to write about, do it. Don’t worry if your idea seems silly. Write about what inspires you and don’t look back or question the inspiration. For a first drafting session, try grouping words in a loose 5 -7-5 format. Don’t try to be perfect or overthink this part. Go for flow, rhyme secondary to an honest reflection of what inspired you. The next step is to put your draft on the back burner. This helps with all forms of writing. After drafting, put a temporary distance between you and your draft.  As Jack says:

Nightfall—

too dark to read the page,

Too cold. 

—Jack Kerouac

In a day or two return and rework as necessary. Look for awkward syllables or weak word choices. Most of all, trust your gut. If the haiku represents what you wanted to capture and keep then you’ve done it!  Bravo! Drafting haiku is wonderfully addicting and rewarding. It’s like a bag of chips. You won’t stop at one.

Virginia Watts is a member of the Old Scratch Press Poetry and Short Form Collective and the author of Echoes from the Hocker House.

Exploring the Intersection of Sports and Poetry

Published on by rdfauthorLeave a comment

October is a sports lover’s dream. Most of the major leagues are in full swing, from the NBA, NFL to the NHL. There are college football games every weekend, and even the crisp Fall air makes it feel like football weather.

So what does this have to do with poetry?

There are some cases, perhaps uncommon, where sports and poetry intersect. While in school, I was introduced to the excellent baseball-related poem “Casey at the Bat” by the poet Ernest Lawrence Thayer. From the roar of the crowd to the “Strike!” being called by the umpire, Thayer does a remarkable job of transporting the reader to that fateful match in Mudville. The poem culminates with perhaps its most famous line: “But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.”

In college my friends and I would play pickup basketball on the courts on campus. These were disorganized gatherings with teams hastily assembled at the last moment, but these were some of my favorite memories from my college years.

My poem below is an attempt to recapture some of those moments. Unlike “Casey at the Bat”, there was much joy to be found in College Park during those amateur games.

This was written during my college years, and I don’t know if I could write this today, or even should write something like this today, as this poem is full of rough edges and not overflowing with beautiful language.

However, that is what I think I love about it. Much like our simple attempts at basketball all those years ago, the poem is pure and raw, even somewhat unfinished. Ah, the folly of youth!

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

So without further introduction, I hope you enjoy my poem “Hoops”.

Hoops

It wasn’t the easy, fluid style of play you see on TV,
It was the jerky, nervous style of amateurs
played on asphalt several feet away from where I was sitting.
My shorts had ripped horrendously down the back during the last game,
but that really didn’t matter in the big scheme of things,
and besides, the jocky guy Chris would have never
picked me to play after screwing up the last game so badly.
An observer watched the game from the other side of the court, grinning to himself secretly.
Perhaps he was happy to see the different bodies working so well together, Van, the Vietnamese guy; Joy, the Indian; Greg the African American and Danny the Anglo; or perhaps that was just what I wanted to see.

Chris the jock made a three-pointer, and murmurs of approval such as, “Good shot, man” or “Nice one, Chris” fill the air, replacing the sound of the tennis shoes against the pavement.
I never questioned Chris’ basketball prowess.
It was his attitude that puzzled me.
I wanted to shake him and say, “Hey, Chris! Listen to what I’m saying, man! You’re just a pebble in the stream, man! Just a lowly grain of salt! This shot won’t change the world, dig?”
But you can’t tell a guy like Chris something that big.
He would just laugh it off and call you a stinkin’ liberal hippie, and go about his business of shooting politically correct jump shots, while I would go about my business of trying to change the things that couldn’t be changed.

-R. David Fulcher, OSP Founding Member

Post-Election Poems & American History

Published on by dianneP1 Comment

The United States has just had an almost 50-50 split on the concept of what our country is, of what our country should be, but, more than that, of who our country should be.

It caused me to take my coffee time this morning to take a read of the Declaration of Independence, because so many Americans like to say that they know the original intent of the Founding Fathers. I do not claim to know their original intent at all, but I did find the Declaration of Independence to be beautifully written, and to me, very clear.

First, I want to share this image of one of my favorite national monuments with you, because, just like when you see it in Washington DC, it is surprising, and takes my breath away:

I want to use part of this post to call on us all to remember what has been given so that we can continue this experiment in democracy, this experiement of liberty and justice for all, this government of the people, by the people, and for the people, and though it is maybe too easy to get behind one man, and too hard, too abstract, to try to get behind 334 million humans, never was this grand experiement to be for only one man.

And so I read the Declaration of Independence today, and of course there is this part that almost all Americans know:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.–“

But what I found interesting this morning, in this beautifully-written document, were these sections:

The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.

For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us

That’s not the entire document, just the parts I found interesting this morning as I think back over the last 100 or so days. Are things so different now than they were then? Have we gone forward to go back?

You can read the whole transcript at the National Archives.

In times like these we can experience anger that can feel overwhelming.

Or we can experience hopelessness that can take all our breath away.
For myself, as my daughter is an immigrant, these times are making me nervous. Many people legally adopted from foreign countries into the United States have been unjustly deported, so you can imagine how a mother would fret when she senses a taste for blood in the crowd.

In times like these we need something unexpected to come along and lift us from our sticky mood, because we have work to do! We have to get back to the business of trying to create a world we’re proud to live in.

So to this I say, “America, I’m with you!”

Because I have my doubts you’ll read the whole thing, here is the third section of the mighty

“Howl” by (the wonderous) Allen Ginsberg:

III

Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I’m with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

My fellow Americans (if I can be so bold to type those words) we will, I believe, endure, as we have for so long. And we will be here for each other, as ever we have been.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

Much love to all~ Dianne

The Legacy of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Nadja Maril

As a writer and a poet, I do a lot of reading. Sometimes I read a poem that resonates with me so strongly, I read it several times. Sometimes I commit a poem or favorite passage to memory to make it easier to revisit. One of those poems is

“Recuerdo”

by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

(February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)

It starts out

We were very tired, we were very merry—

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—

But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,

Composed of three stanzas, each containing three couplets, you can read the rest of the poem courtesy of the Poetry Foundation here.

Maybe it’s the rhythm, that mirrors for me the rocking of a ferry boat, the repetition of the line “We were very tired, we were very merry” that begins each stanza or the way she captures the exuberance of youth and the generous spirit of the poet and her companions, but I’ve always loved that particular poem.

Surprising, is how many people are unfamiliar with the name Edna St. Vincent Millay. The very first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry (1923), she was one of the most famous and successful American writers of the mid 20th century. Millay broke sales records and was a cultural celebrity who traveled across the United States giving captivating poetry readings to sold-out crowds.

A feminist, who openly loved both women and men, she was a prominent member of the literary community writing plays, publishing an opera libretto, as well as magazine articles under a pseudonym as well as publishing more than one dozen poetry collections. Her prize-winning poem “The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver” was dedicated to her mother. The poem tells a story of a penniless, self-sacrificing mother who spends Christmas Eve weaving for her son “wonderful things” on the strings of a harp, “the clothes of a king’s son.”

Raised in Maine by a single mother who elected to leave her husband during an era when divorce was not widely accepted, Millay was the eldest of three girls who largely had to take care of themselves while their mother would be absent from the house working as a homecare nurse. Surrounded by poetry, music and literature, Millay began writing her own poems at a young age.

WHERE TO LEARN MORE ABOUT EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

To learn more about her complicated life, I highly recommend Nancy Milford’s biography, Savage Beauty; The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Over 500 pages in length, it was comprehensively researched with the cooperation of Millay’s sister Norma, sole heir to the Edna St. Vincent Millay estate. and contains excerpts of Millay’s letters and poetry.

Here are two more poems to whet your appetite for Millay’s poetry.

“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why”

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.

Vanity Fair 1920

“I shall go back again to the bleak shore”

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

I shall go back again to the bleak shore

And build a little shanty on the sand,

In such a way that the extremest band

Of brittle seaweed will escape my door

But by a yard or two; and nevermore

Shall I return to take you by the hand;

I shall be gone to what I understand,

And happier than I ever was before.

The love that stood a moment in your eyes,

The words that lay a moment on your tongue,

Are one with all that in a moment dies,

A little under-said and over-sung.

But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies

Unchanged from what they were when I was young.

To learn more about her life and times, information is available from the Edna St. Vincent Millay Society. https://millay.org/

The author of this blogpost, Nadja Maril, has been published in dozens of publications including, Defunkt Magazine), Lunch Ticket, The Compressed Journal of Creative Arts, BarBar and Across the Margin. A former journalist and magazine editor, Nadja has an MFA in Creative Writing from the Stonecoast Program at the University of Southern Maine. She recently published a collection of

poems and short essays: RECIPES FROM MY GARDEN– (Old Scratch Press Sept. 2024) a great gift to yourself and for friends at $8.95. To learn more about Nadja’s writing visit Nadjamaril.com

The Healing Power of Poetry

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Virginia Watts

Poetry is an old art form dating back to ancient Greece. Why has it been with mankind so long? For one thing, writing and reading poetry is good for us. It allows us to manage our emotions which in today’s complicated and divided world can be an overwhelming task. During the recent pandemic many literary journals called for submissions about their experiences during the pandemic. Many poets answered the call, and no doubt felt better for it.

During the months of lockdown, people all over the world lost many things. We were suffering. Some of us lost loved ones, some of us were very ill ourselves. We all lost our normal sense of community, isolated as we were. Humans aren’t meant for isolation. Many people were lonely. Things we enjoyed such as travel, comradery in an office or school setting, had to be put on hold. Writing poetry and sharing poems created a bond among people when it was sorely needed.

 As it turns out, poetry can be a powerful healer. Rhythmic language is soothing. Think of a lullaby. Poetry also helps us contemplate and reflect our lives back to us. Through poetry, we learn about different cultures and histories which helps us to stop focusing on ourselves and leads to a better understanding among peoples.

 Through poetry we can stop to appreciate and experience what is beautiful in our world or share a poet’s experience with something we are also struggling with. This improves our mood. Poetry is often read to hospitalized children to reduce their fears and worries. Additionally, reading poetry out loud has been shown to slow breathing and help a person relax.

            So, three cheers for all the healthy things poetry does for the human body and spirit. During the pandemic I remember reading this famous poem by Maggie Smith. It has stayed with me.

Maggie Smith, poet

Good Bones

By Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

Copyright Credit:
Maggie Smith, “Good Bones” from Waxwing.  Copyright © 2016 by Maggie Smith.  Reprinted by permission of Waxwing magazine
 

Source: Waxwing magazine (Issue IX, Summer 2016) (2016)

To learn more about the writer/poet Virginia Watts, check out her short story collection https://www.amazon.com/Echoes-Hocker-House-Virginia-Watts/dp/1957224177/

Some Odes to Autumn

Published on by rdfauthorLeave a comment

By R. David Fulcher

Autumn has always held a special magic for me, a season in which the poet John Keats aptly described as “a season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.”

Indeed, if there is an hour for magic, it strikes in the crisp dawn of an early Fall day. And further, if magic has a language, surely its language is poetry.

So I find this an appropriate time to post some of my own verse (hopefully imbued with magic itself) for your reading pleasure.

The first poem is “Ode to the Night”, and it hints at the darker aspects of this time of year, a time when pumpkins cast you crooked smiles and ghosts and goblins are generally free to roam:

Ode to the Night

To the Night, the Night, the dark delight,

The children sleep soundly in gentle white,

Breathing in time with the Raven’s flight.

To the Night, the Night, the waxen moon,

Audience of one to the witches’ croon,

Driving the tides for the sailors’ doom.

To the Night, the Night, its starlit fires,

Which guide the ghosts from funeral pyres,

Which soften the Harpy to play the lyre.

I hope you enjoyed “Ode to the Night”, and at a minimum it puts you into the Halloween spirit!

My second poem is “Melinda”, a story of lost love, and although not directly a tribute to the season was nonetheless designed to evoke a haunted mood:

Melinda

Sometimes in the lonely hours

I would walk the hill

Leaving the clamor and din behind

For headstones gray and still,

As I neared the place where the dead did lie

I knelt and bowed my head

A fool is he who visits the graves

Without homage to the dead,

‘Melinda’ read the stone I sought

Melinda, my betrothed,

Only a thief as clever as Death

Could steal the health of Melinda, my love

Often I hear Melinda’s voice

Soft upon the breeze

I answer her call of eternal love

And grow hoarse among the trees.

I hope you enjoyed “Melinda”! Last but not least is an ode to a much maligned creature, a symbol of the undead, but in reality a beautiful animal that sustains our ecosystem. This last poem is called “The Bat”:

Photo by Photo By: Kaboompics.com on Pexels.com

The Bat

Taking inverted Sabbath in the caverns of Carlsbad

I measure time in locust-breath and calcite drip,

My bird-chest rising and falling with the gentle tides

Of this black carpet of brotherhood.

Footsteps fill my dreams,

Sun-bleached tourists groping into the cavern’s belly

To enter the sublime,

Their voices like a million valves releasing pressure.

For an instant they will recognize the face of God in this hard darkness,

The stalactite points of his beard,

The cascading rock formations of his brow,

And that fraction of animal intellect will rush forth,

Freed from concept and equation,

To join our ranks as we veer through this Jerusalem darkness

Toward dusk and sustenance,

Toward the amphitheater where they wait for their own departure.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed these odes to the season and wish all of you a sublime Autumn.

-R. David Fulcher, Founding Member of Old Scratch Press

REST

Published on by morgangolladay1 Comment
Photo by Erik Mclean on Pexels.com

I am recovering from major surgery nine weeks ago. I have been described by some who are nearest and dearest that I am not just an overachiever, but a classic type A personality. To which I say “Balderdash. Not in the least.” But one thing that has become all too apparent is that I love naps. At last one, if not more, a day. And while it feels like an enforced putting down of my will to write, and do, and create, and clear out, I don’t really care. My body has other plans. This is what my medical team refers to as “rest and recuperation.” Rest. Now there’s a thought.

I’m a writer – poetry, short stories, and an almost completed first novel. In all writing (and my reading) I find that the rest periods allow me, the reader, to think, to consider what I just read. One habit I recently developed is reading my poetry out loud, primarily to myself (unless there is a willing listener close by). This is not a new habit, just rediscovered, after a lapse of more than 50 years. I used to do this in college, for it helped me understand what the writer was trying to get across.

What I found in my personal poetry was timing. which phrases required slight stress, pauses, clear enunciation. And my habit of reading each one thee times allowed me to hear with different ears. The rhythm, the internal stresses, cadence, alliteration.

Poetry has always been a way of understanding the emotional frame of mind of both the poet and the listener. The oldest poetry we have records of shows that the stories and sagas were all oral, as well as aural. They transported the listener into another world, a world of magic, feeling, creation, alternate realities, explanations of heroic journeys.

And reading and hearing poetry aloud gives me a different perspective. I remember my grade school librarian reading stories to us. Magic. We could not get enough. It whetted an appetite for more, for it was a group activity led by an older and wiser person.

And the greatest value in my listening, was when she paused, created a resting spot, and then continued. I can imagine sitting around a night fire, listening to a traveling bard recite sagas. Just for me. It became personal, and valuable, and I was personally included in the vast story.

My current resting spot is in my recliner, head back, legs propped up. Napping away. I am not “shoulding” on myself as much. I am resting more, waiting for the next phrase, the next idea, the next thing I don’t have the energy to do. Resting is good, although it is contrary to my nature. But the recliner is so very comfortable!

Play a Game With Us and Win a Prize!

Published on by dianneP2 Comments

It’s the spooky season! Let’s play Exquisite Corpse!

“What,” you may ask, “is Exquisite Corpse, and how do I engage in such an outlandishly named game?”

Before we all get the vapors…

Exquisite Corpse is a collaborative poetry game that traces its roots to the Parisian Surrealist Movement. Exquisite Corpse is played by several people, each of whom writes a word on a sheet of paper, folds the paper to conceal it, and passes it on to the next player for his or her contribution.
In order to write a poem, participants should agree on a sentence structure beforehand. For example, each sentence in the poem could be structured “Adjective, Noun, Verb, Adjective, Noun.” Articles and verb tenses may be added later or adjusted after the poem has been written. The game was also adapted to drawing, where one participant would draw thehead of a figure, the next the torso, etc. The name “Exquisite Corpse” comes from a line of poetry created using the technique: “The exquisite corpse will drink the young wine.”
https://poets.org/text/play-exquisite-corpse

While we cannot share a piece of paper, we can, all the same, play the game. Please join us!

The rules for this game are as follows”

SUBMIT: one line of “poetry”

FORM: The line must be arranged to have these elements in THIS ORDER ONLY as the main elements:

Adjective, Noun, Verb, Verb, Adjective or Adverb (one only), Adjective, Noun

Punctuate (or not) as you see fit.

YES! You can add conjunctions, articles, etc., as needed, but the main words must be Adjective, Noun, Verb, Verb, Adjective or Adverb (one only), Adjective, Noun

So, this would work:

Happy frogs jumped and swam quickly, green sparks

Happy(adjective) frogs(noun) jumped(verb) and swam(verb) quickly(adverb), green(adjective) sparks(noun).

And this would not:

Frogs jumped happily and swam quickly making green sparks

Got it?

You do!

Send it to dianne@currentwords.com between now and October 29th at midnight PT, for publication on Halloween!

Make the email subject: Exquisite Corpse.

ONE entry per person!

PRIZES:

SUBMIT and you will be given a free digital copy of the OSP book of your choice!

Three lucky people, chosen at random by Robert Fleming and his random number generator, will be given a print (paperback) copy of the OSP book of his/her/their choice!

One Lucky Person (not publishing with CWP) will win a free 5-page edit from me!

OSP members and other people CWP publishes are welcome to join in, and can claim a free Kindle of their choice from OSP, but are not going to get one of the three free print books or the edit (so sorry! Let’s give those to our guests!).

YES, everyone who enters will be subscribed to OSP news through Current Words newsletter, which is sent out to email addresses one time almost every month. At the bottom of your first newsletter (and all the rest of them) is an unsubscribe button, and if you really don’t want to stay on the list, that will get you right off (Mailchimp don’t play.).Honestly, we’re not trying to bother you; we’re out to have fun!

So, let’s have fun!

Ooooo, you can already start dreaming of the OSP book you’re going to choose for your prize! Take a look at your options:

Catalog

Happy Fall, y’all, and Happy Halloween!

I cannot wait to read your exquisite corpse!

🙂 Dianne

FREE BOOK OF THE QUARTER: white noir

Published on by diannePLeave a comment

Where Art Meets Poetry: Fleming’s creative prowess knows no bounds. He’s a poet who wields images like a maestro conducts a symphony, infusing each verse with a visual narrative that ignites the imagination. Brace yourself for an electrifying literary experience that shatters the boundaries of storytelling.

A Feast for the Mind and the Eyes: white noir is more than poetry; it’s a a tapestry of emotions on paper. Featuring a striking cover designed by the author.

What They’re Saying:

“…you will see and think things you never did.”
Matt Wall, publisher of Poetic Anarchy Press

“Robert Fleming is outrageous and original in word and image.”
Michael Sindler, beat poet laureate of Colorado

“…a raw and curious visual journey through human history.”
Crystal Heidel, author of Still Life in Blood
Owner of Byzantium Sky Press

AND IF YOU WANT A FREE COPY… ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ASK. RIGHT HERE.

Happy Birthday, Sylvia Plath

Published on by gilliampoet1 Comment

Alamy/BBC

The month of October (October 27) marks the birthday of Sylvia Plath, one of the most famous poets of the 20th century. Sylvia Plath is known for writing about deep feelings like sadness, frustration, and the search for who we really are. Her poems are powerful and still connect with readers today.

Who Was Sylvia Plath?

Even from a young age, Sylvia Plath loved to write. She was born in Boston, MA in 1932 and published her first poem when she was only eight years old. Major themes that appear in her poetry are how hard it can be to figure out who you are, mental illness, and what it’s like to be a woman in society.

She studied at Smith College and, later, Cambridge University in England. While at Cambridge, she met and married the poet Ted Hughes. Sylvia Plath faced many struggles in her personal life, and took her own life when she was only 30 years old. However, her writing has lived on, and she remains one of the most important poets of her time.

You can hear a brief interview with Sylvia Plath about her early influences here:

Sylvia Plath’s Powerful Poetry

I first read a poem by Sylvia Plath in high school for a Dual Enrollment English course. I’m fairly certain we read “Lady Lazarus” because I can recall discussing the pronunciation of the German words in the poem. I remember being amazed by her work and remember that it was the first time I really paid attention to the language in a poem. Her word choices were striking and she was the first poet whose work I sought to read outside of class. 

Plath’s poems often show strong emotions. She writes in a way that can feel personal and sometimes painful, but also very honest. She nearly lost her life multiple times before her death and discusses those experiences in one of her most famous poems, called “Lady Lazarus.” In this poem, Plath writes about feeling reborn, even after going through something difficult. Here’s a part of it:

“Out of the ash  
I rise with my red hair  
And I eat men like air.”

While most of the poem recounts her previous experiences with death, these lines show how strong and fierce she feels after going through those difficult times. She compares herself to a phoenix, a mythical bird that rises from the ashes.

Another well-known poem by Sylvia Plath is “Daddy.” In this poem, she talks about her feelings toward her father, who died when she was young. It’s full of anger and sadness. Here’s a line from that poem: 

“You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.”

Plath uses intense language to talk about how hard it was to live in the shadow of her father, but also the complicated feelings she has about him now that he’s dead.

These lines are just a small sample of Sylvia Plath’s ability to use words to explore complex feelings like despair, identity, and the search for meaning. Each one is a powerful reminder of her unique voice in literature.

Sylvia Plath also wrote a novel called “The Bell Jar” and her prose is just as lyrical as her poetry. In “The Bell Jar,” she writes:

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.”

This quote is famous for capturing the feeling of simply being alive, despite the struggles that come with it. It’s a powerful reminder of existence itself, and, paired with her poem “Lady Lazarus,” shows you how much she needed to remind herself that she was still alive.

Why We Remember Sylvia Plath

On Sylvia Plath’s birthday, we honor her for the way she used her writing to express feelings that many people go through. She wasn’t afraid to write about things like sadness, anger, and the search for identity. Her work gives readers a window into the struggles of life, but also shows the beauty of using words to express those feelings. Her poetry continues to inspire people of all ages. Even though her life was short, her words continue to resonate with readers.

What do you think about Sylvia Plath’s poetry? Does it make you feel something special? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

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