Molly challenged the Inklings to write luc bats in November, and it’s a good thing I started playing with the form early on, because my November kind of evaporated starting with NCTE. Not only did I write a luc bat for the burr oak across the street and her “burr oak buffet” which feeds the neighborhood deer, squirrels, and groundhogs, I wrote one in response to the news
The Poetry Sisters’ challenge for November was to write in the style of Valerie Worth. Attempting to narrow my focus, I went from garden, to fennel, to the ladybug larva I found in the fennel last week. Liz commented that this could be an on-going practice — choosing small and/or ordinary things and writing without the restrictions of form or rhyme. I agree. It’s quite satisfying to find the extraordinary in the ordinary that surrounds us.
I have stumbled recently both in posting regularly and in commenting generously. Please know that I am thankful for each of you and for your words! This community is one of the bright spots in my world.
Ruth has this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town. Since it will be December next week, we need to start thinking about January-June roundups. Watch for signups.
Here’s how the other Poetry Sisters met our challenge:
Write a prose piece–find a poem in it. Or, write a poem, expand it into a prose piece. Or, find a prose piece, transform it into a poem. Or, find a poem and transpose it into a prose piece.
Any interpretation of this prompt is perfect.
Sometimes a very narrow and constrained challenge is just right, and sometimes a wide open invitation is what a writer needs. Thanks, Linda!
Here’s how the other Inklings met Linda’s challenge:
What is a Bouts-Rimés poem? Part game, part puzzle, they are hard to get started, but once you do, the possibilities are myriad! Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about Bouts-Rimés.
The Poetry Sisters shared rhymes…and then MORE rhymes when we figured out we didn’t have enough to satisfy the requirements of most sonnet types. Because our poems WOULD be sonnets. Sonnets are apparently the origin story of the Poetry Sisters, but at the beginning I was only there as audience, so I’m a late-comer to the sonnet game. Or a new-comer, as the case may be. I haven’t written many sonnets. This poem is a Shakespearean sonnet, but I also tried Petrarchan and Terza Rima.
For me, the process of writing a Bouts-Rimés poem was similar to writing a golden shovel. I picked my sonnet type, then loaded the right side of my notebook page with the rhymes that fit the sonnet (for Shakespearean: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG). I completely ignored the iambic pentameter syllable count requirement. (Call me cheater, or call me beginner. I’m fine with either label.) I chose my topic, and then started writing (and rewriting, and crossing out, and starting over). Like I said, part game, part puzzle!
Margaret’s poem this week for This Photo Wants to be a Poem was beautiful. Her inspiration was the Poem-a-Day from the Academy of American Poets, “The warble of melting snow is the river.” Though I didn’t manage to join the This Photo community, my daily pencil-scratching resulted in this poem. Thank you, Margaret, for continuing to inspire us with gorgeous photos and your mentor texts.
Bridget has this week’s Dance Party (aka Poetry Friday Roundup) at wee words for wee ones.
This is my prayer for the world: may you have a day or at least a moment of ordinary. In the midst of cleaning acorns out from under the cranberry viburnum, may you find the smallest flower ever. Sitting at your kitchen table, may you have a moment to notice the way the sun moves through the room and perhaps write about it. May the cat wake you up way too early, just like usual, but may you get another hour of sleep before the alarm goes off.
For the people of Ukraine, Afghanistan, Palestine, Israel: I see your unimaginable suffering, and from my place of privilege I offer the most humble prayer from one human heart to another: today may you have at least a moment of ordinary. And may someone in your life bring you the love and caring I’m feeling for you now.
When I ran across the Visual Frameworks site, I immediately added it to my list of possible prompts for the Inklings. Not only are the visuals compelling, the text that follows each is thought-provoking.
My first drafts explored all the possible ways to use a framework. For Coordinates, I wrote a haiku based on the image, then an erasure poem from the text.
Matt has this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme. And there’s been a change for next week. On October 13, Catherine will be hosting at Reading to the Core.
The Poetry Sisters wrote diminishing verse poems this month. Thank goodness I got started early fiddling with drafts and studying mentor texts because the last couple of weeks have been a lot. In all good ways.
Seamstress is the first word that comes to mind. She sewed so many clothes: Easter dresses, guitar recital outfits, twirling competition costumes, matching Western shirts for Dad and David for the fair, doll clothes. All of this on a Singer Featherweight.
She was no chef, though she was a foodie through and through. I remember the smell of scorched lima beans, and the macadamia nuts she secreted away on a top shelf. For a treat, we had broiled spare ribs. I know now that “spare” is the word for “this is a treat even though there’s hardly any meat on the bone.”
She was a saver. A collector. Almost a hoarder. Miniatures, Hallmark house ornaments, glass boxes. And scissors. If I could turn back time, I would ask her – why so many pairs of scissors? Shears (sewing and pinking), embroidery, children’s, vintage, modern plastic-handled Fiskars, and so many manicure scissors.
She was a reader. Mostly mysteries, she bought books at the library sale by the sackful. A secret code in the back cover let her know if she’d already read the book and donated it back to the library.
She gave up salt when she was pregnant with me. I don’t think I can fully appreciate this sacrifice.
She bought me private swimming lessons when I was four because I wasn’t old enough for Red Cross lessons, but I was ready to swim.
She bought me private sewing lessons so we wouldn’t squabble (she the perfectionist, me the good-enough-ionist).
I don’t remember being swatted or spanked, but there was one memorable slap when I disobeyed and walked home from school in my good shoes and was sassy about what the big deal could possibly have been.
One winter, she drove with me out into the country to escape the lights of town so we could see the Ursid meteor shower. We lay on a blanket on the hood of the ‘60 Ford Falcon and watched shooting stars as the car’s engine warmed us, then cooled off until we had seen enough and were shivering.
By the end of her life, her body was covered in scars: hysterectomy, knee/hip/shoulder replacements, double mastectomy. Her soul was scarred by a hateful father and the early loss of her mother. She had a high pain threshold for all the kinds of pain she carried. She wanted for us the childhood she never had, failing to see us as individuals who needed our own childhoods, not hers.
I remember her standing at the kitchen sink, admiring the sunset, often calling me to come and see.
A(nother) Year of Reading 