Now Playing: My Life Would Suck Without You (Kelly Clarkson)

I was trying this weekend to pack for a short upcoming trip.

Word Raccoon opened the suitcase, pulled out some clothes we had forgotten existed, and then wandered off to wave at passing cars like she’s the pre-fall parade marshal. The suitcase is still on the bed, still open. Mostly empty.

Instead of finishing my list (which includes “actually put things in the suitcase”), I ended up reading Mary Oliver again. A Poetry Handbook.

I haven’t touched it in years, not since the days when poetry felt like some volatile chemical reaction I kept trying to mix, only to set the tablecloth on fire.

But I’m different now. I write poems. I submit them. Sometimes they even find homes.

This time, the book didn’t scare me as much. In fact, I even felt brave enough to quibble a bit with her use of the word and even light encouragement for metrics. I have multiple reasons and not time to explain any of them just now. And I’m likely being cheeky, pedantic, and ignorant, so… my apologies. But I learn best when I can debate an idea or at least engage with it in writing.

I wrote this “poem” as a response to her advice. And though occasionally, I confess, WR breaks out in rhyme, it still gives me the heebie-jeebies to find myself doing it unless I’m writing a song. (The exercise below is meant to be read with tongue solidly in cheek, Babe.)

Rhyme makes it feel like I’m making the language fit the container rather than letting that “spontaneous overflow” be just that. To me, that suggests artifice, which I find to be the opposite of art. If I have a character tell another “I love you,” for instance, in my novel, she may not necessarily use pretty words and she’s sure as hell not going to rhyme. 

She’s going to get out whatever words she can, probably, and then run away.

Unless she doesn’t. Unless she’s a tree with poetry as sap and is tired of running.  

Also: I know the birds-and-rice myth has been debunked, so don’t @ me, loves, please? LOL. My writing exercise needs it. 

And it’s just an exercise, so please don’t mock it. Gentle chuckling, however, is encouraged. Word Raccoon says she likes your chuckle. Don’t ask me how she knows. The Raccoon knows all. 

Meter, Meter on the Shores

(after Mary Oliver)

Meter meter on the shores,

bouncing language sounds like lore.

Stuff of fairy tales, stuff of spells.

Who can carry such music?

Who can hollow out a poem’s core?

Fall comes, fall goes.

Meter’s too on the nose,

like pumpkin spice, or weddings and rice.

Except, wait, now we use birdseed.

See, that’s why we don’t use

the tools of before.

Because like birds and rice,

the results aren’t nice.

Okay, I think I am going to actually open my novel now and take a gander. What does it want to be today? 

Word Raccoon says she doesn’t much care. She’s just hoping for a snack soon. 

P.S. A couple of clarifications from an earlier post: 

1. I have nothing against thrift shop resellers. In fact, when eBay was pretty new and easier to sell on, I helped make rent money in Nashville a few times selling online. I’m just talking about price gougers or people with no heart. 

2. No light fixtures were harmed in the making of my bookends. Museum putty is perfect for using in part because it can be easily removed without hurting the glass. (Also, I can’t stop imagining those with lights added. That has to happen! I think I might have a couple of mini light strands hanging around somewhere. Stay tuned.)