There are a few common themes in poetry: love, hate, pain, happiness, anger, guilt, loneliness, time, and family. If you write about any of these themes, you can be sure that there are at least one million poems about that theme that have preceded you. Poets have been writing about those themes since the earliest days of language. You will not be the first or the last.
That can be intimidating. When you realize that at least one million love poems were written before you got around to writing yours, you can understand how daunting the task of writing a new love poem can be. You can bet, for example, that there have already been thousands upon thousands of comparisons between love and a flower. It is well-trod territory.
Does this mean that you shouldn’t write a love poem? Does this mean that you can’t compare love to a flower? Not at all. If love is what you want to write about, love is what you should write about. The key is to be specific. Plenty of people have said that “love is like a flower”, but “love is like a flower that has lost all but one petal and is rapidly being eaten by a fat green lizard that is just about to be snatched up by an overly eager owl” is a statement that just might be specific enough to be original. Specific details mean the difference between a poem that anyone could have written and a poem that only you could have written. It is the details that allow you to set yourself apart and it is the details that draw a reader into your poem.
The point of creating specific and detailed images is to make those images feel as if they could only be written by you. The thoughts and themes you write about can be universal, but the way you write about them should clearly reflect who you are as a person and as a poet. When someone reads your poems, they should get a feel for the person who wrote them. That is one of the ways that you develop your own “voice” as a poet and as a writer. You find ways to say things that come from your perspective rather than from a common perspective.
When you are writing and especially when you are editing a poem, ask yourself these three questions:
- Is what I wrote original?
- Is what I wrote specific?
- Are there any other details that I should add?
Using those three questions as guidelines should help you create a poem that only you could have written.
Today’s Poetry Prompt
Write a poem that includes at least one description of an object that is six or more words long.
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{ 24 comments }
Ha ha, I think I’d better join the forum after all! My piece is a little risqué. No naughty words but a naughty suggestion, which perhaps is best not aired out in public here. (Though I’ll include it on my own blog where I’m also posting my efforts.)
Rosemary Nissen-Wade (aka SnakyPoet)s last blog post..Thinkin’ Trim Taut Terrific: 2
My Beloved Stilettos
I.
I put on
My stiletto heels
My identity
The symbol
Of me
My career
My life
My heels
My stilettos
My beloved.
II.
But
You asked me
To take off
My stilettos
Should I
Do so
For you?
If I took off
My stilettos
If I took them off
For you
Am I still
Me
Can I still
Be me?
III
My stilettos
A
Part of
The me
You fell
For
A
Part of
The me
That fell
For you
So if I
Took off
My beloved
Stilettos
My
8-inch
wicked heels
Am I still me
Am I still
The me
That loves you?
IV
So
Let me keep
My stilettos
Let me keep
The me
That loves you
So
Let me be
The me
In my stilettos
The
Ambitious
Working
Me.
Gorgeous!
Rosemary Nissen-Wade (aka SnakyPoet)s last blog post..What Object Is This?
Elegy
Weathered
Beaten about
By time and storms.
Forgotten
Unhallowed
By those who knew.
It lists toward the dry dirt.
No grass or flowers
Soften it.
No tree to shade.
They are dead, too.
A hand-hewn stone.
A hand-carved name.
Nothing else to tell
Who he was,
When he lived,
When he died.
I have it all
In a notebook.
All the facts
About this man.
My ancestor,
Once lost,
Now found.
I stand silent.
One visit.
One photograph.
One rubbing.
He is alone again
For all eternity.
After reading the propmpt, I found myself on a one-track mind. Or is that a ‘Single’ track mind: Itsy Bitsy Eenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini. (7 words, HA!) Having a bit of life experience, I just had to ‘revisit’ this one. My efforts are on the private forum.
@Sheer,
Very nice treatment of facades!
Keep
the stilettos
if you like.
But one day–
perhaps not today
one day,
for love to grow,
the stilettos
may need to go.
Bunny Boy
My son, the semi-grown man-child, memorizes rap music and says fuck too much.
He wanted something to love, never having had a girlfriend and his Dad long dead.
Now he has a tiny, baby, long-eared, softer than silk, white and brown rabbit
That follows him wherever he goes.
It eats bright green, crunchy lettuce from his hand.
He makes little box houses for it to crawl in and out of.
I was there the first time the little bunny let him pet her with two extended fingers.
His touch was barely there, almost above her, as though he were petting her aura.
His smile was so gentle and loving as he petted her the door to his heart was left
wide open.
Anyone could have walked right in. I sure did.
Maryellen Gradys last blog post..I ACTUALLY WROTE A POEM TODAY
@ Rosemary: Thanks! =) PS: I read your risqué piece….any prize for guessing the object? *grin*
@ James: Liked your comments, it even rhymes! And you are absolutely right. Perhaps someday, the stilettos might have to go. How I look forward to that someday….but should that day never comes, at least I still have my 8 inches wicked heels.
Empty Heaven’s Entourage
I stood in the rain
molting droplets from
the surface of my earth worn skin
beneath the tatters of my ancient clothes.
I looked up
to the oblivious sky
pouring its fury
to the scattered lost
residents of the land below.
I never knew what alone meant
til I observed the icy urgent rain drops
exacting their revenge beneath
the clarity of their beings.
I turned my etched face down
avoiding the relentless rage
and resumed my walk
amongst the shiftless, aching souls
in their blue corduroy jeans
and soft pink tattered umbrellas.
Carrying little but their names
they trembled on
looking for the hope, once remaining
now lost beneath the shattered sky
of their hollowed blackened minds.
Kimberlee Ferrells last blog post..Day 2: Be Specific
@ Sheer – no prizes, sorry. But I’d be fascinated to know if you did guess. I don’t know if I have been blindingly obvious or too misleading! Leave me a comment on my blog?
Rosemary Nissen-Wade (aka SnakyPoet)s last blog post..A poem about finding something
The Hour
The plates come floating along next to the table
Caught in the undercurrent that keeps them in continual display
Carrying today’s catch covered in rice and wrapped in seaweed
Until we snatch it up and swallow it down
Every day at lunch we occupy the same chairs
Listen to the Japanese versions of American pop
Watch soccer on the giant LCD and dip the rolls into the bowls
Garnished with wasabi and ginger
The lunch rush flows by with cell phone addicted conversationalists
Eating one handed and never missing a beat
Alongside the clean scrubbed sorority sisters who have wandered
Out to our corporate wasteland to share gossip unfettered
Next to the aging HR versions of themselves
Who match them giggle for strained giggle
We start fast but finish in leisure with the haunt of work
Keeping us around the bar until the last possible moment
When we turn our backs and face the rest of the day
@ Rosemary
Should I rename the private forum “Poewar after dark”?
@ Sheer
Nice work. I have no idea how you walk in those things.
@ Peaches
I like how you focued on a single object. Very nice.
@ Maryellen
It’s amazing how people open up to animals.
@ Kimberlee
There is certainly no shortage of description in your poem. The images come one after the other.
@ John: WIth a lot of confidence and style….failing which, buy dependable, well made 8 inches. *deadpan*
Good piece on the lunch hour at a sushi bar. Everything sounds familiar. Amazing how sushi has invaded the daily life of an ordinary working person….
This advice about description sounds good for fiction-writing too. I used this prompt to describe my computer–occasionally annoying but definitely precious when it comes to writing. Besides, it was right in front of my face as I was trying to come up with inspiration.
@ Sheer
There are eight sushi places within two miles of my job. It is by far the easiest food for me to find.
@ Key
Good description works in any form of writing. Good computers are hard to find though.
An Object of Six Or More Words
Behold the
Rapid
Grappling
Mixing
Pumping
Loud
Machine,
It falters in a China Shop, besmirks a Mezzanine,
It unbelongs in Bowling Alleys, Living Rooms and Skiffs
It has no need for Heraldry, Embroidery, or Spliffs,
In fact it only has one truly rightful, safe milieu:
It fills up Concrete Forms, manipulated by a Crew.
Kimberlee Ferrell – your poem was beautiful.
I think the most powerful lines where:
“I never knew what alone meant
til I observed the icy urgent rain drops”
…..just beautiful!
I seem to be writing mainly about cosmetics and toiletries at the moment!
Financial arrangement
Bank notes in an envelope
arrived limp and worn,
soggy with perfume,
probably Chanel.
She washes it off her hands with
special new soap.
It’s called ‘moody blues’,
zesty and smooth in the
colours of Monet’s
waterlillies.
The Flow
White knuckles
sweat dripping down
hot pressure building
spinning around
total control
although feeling free
i feel your body
your power invading me
such sweet taste
liquid warm smell
a listless beauty
for her how i fell
my hair
the imagary of me
represeting wigs
that make me
my hair
the volger, hip style weave
that others recognize the women in me
my hair
go natural go curly afro
fits the need to be bold
my hair
one day long, the other day short
or maybe one day i will wear it bald
my hair
is what makes me, my personality
my hair is a status symbol to go freely
Little raised scribbles on the tree -
Mid-brown, wriggly, growing, free
A few mls wide, telling me
That soon a tiny moth we’ll see.
Hidden underneath the bark
Safe and sound in cosy dark
Each making an artistic mark
Like a little “I’m here” plaque.
Caterpillar crawling there
Do not give in to despair
I think your life is very fair -
You’ll soon fly in the warm, bright air.
I wish that I could fly like you
But then they’d put me in a zoo!
Something they will never do
To you, so trust me, it is true
You’ll have your moment flying free
When you escape from bark and tree
Lois Eaton 2-2-9
pop! the twisty can opens
doughy, speckled, flat, round disks
on the greased pan
into the preheated oven
out they come, golden, puffy biscuits
topped with cinnamon goodness
smells like heaven.
Pillsbury cinnamon rolls bake in ten minutes.
you saw me later lookin’ hot
then you wanted a piece of my roll top
i remembered you from college when like these sticky buns
you were always baked.
back then you played me
and i thought inside you, there must be something more
behind closed doors, you declared your love for cinnamon rolls
but when i made them for you, you told everyone i was psycho.
mmm, mmm, you suck.
We build the wall
the bricks we carry upon our back,
as we live from day to day
the cement we take from peoples stares
as they judge us because “lifes not fair”
and so we build the wall.
we build the wall
to shield ourselves from hypocritic eyes
we build the wall to keep people out
and protect us from our final goodbyes
we build the wall to block the shouts
and to limit out our cries.
the wall we build to keep people out,
will only keep us inside
Our true colors,
our true rhyme,
the true “me” inside.
The wall now our only friend.
charcol stone in the form of square bricks.
Stacked together perfectly,
And piling up to the sky
While disapearing at each side.
And yet the wall traps us,
in the contense of our own mind,
Surrounding us completly,
While threatning to take over.
We find ourselves completly lost,
Until, that is we find,
a friend worth of showing the “me” lost inside.
understanding your friend will be patient,
while you slowly take down the bricks,
carring, with wisdom they will help you find your way.
And when you do finally make your way through,
your lovable, unique friend will be there waiting for you
i lie hidden
underneath this mass
ovations trickling hieght
consumed within my own world
a metaphore for an alibi
i lie hidden
underneath this mask
identity a hidden past
muddled confusion; a simile
of failed accomplishments
to be misunderstood
in a world of progress
The pine needles are a bushy yellow today
Like an aging man’s beard, who is still young
And clasps the younger ones on his knee without complaint
Of rheumatism or aches
They still frisk when the rain hits
And toss when the wind scowls on them
And batters them into place, they bend
With the winds of time
They are softer in many ways, the dying ones
And they draw the vivid green from those still alive
Until all are one in dying
And we humans notice as we wander by
Our hearts fixed on the road before us
Eyes rushing past change we can’t comprehend,
Until our day comes and plows us off the road
And into the woods where we belong
And we too shiver in the cold, and at the last
We change our colors to suit who we were all along
Under coats of chlorophyll contagions of success
Always seeking green, seeking money, excess
Suddenly blazing yellow, red, purple with defiance
Because all are one in death, cowardly, bold, and royal in death
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