Mindful Walking Post 2: Poetry

In Afoot and Lighthearted, Bonnie Smith Whitehouse quotes Simon Armitrage: “…there’s a relationship between the poetic meter and the fall of your foot…. Often when I go for a walk I come back with a poem.”

I jumped right on this because I enjoy composing poetry, and I especially enjoy composing poetry with definite rhythm (meter) and rhyme. Free verse (no set pattern of rhythm or rhyme) is very popular these days. I’ve noticed that in many contests and literary publications, free verse is favored and rhyming, rhythmic poetry is considered rather old fashioned or trite. I don’t have a problem with free verse—actually enjoy a lot of it and have dabbled in writing some. But for me, when I determine to write a poem, rhythm and rhyme almost always take over. 

At the risk of being considered the ultimate nerd, I’ll confess to enjoying prosody (the science or study of poetic meters and versification) both as a student and as a former English teacher. I know, I know. I can hear the groans and grinding of teeth. There are many who contend that to analyze a poem’s form is to wrench the very life out of it. They feel—to borrow from E. B. White’s observation on humor—that analyzing a poem is like dissecting a frog. No one enjoys it, and the frog dies in the process. I’ve no desire to murder anyone’s poem, but prosody—like sentence diagramming—appeals to that strong left-brained side of me. 

I think rhythmic, rhyming poetry has fallen into disrepute lately because often it appears too forced, too artificial. But if done correctly,  rhythm and rhyme in poetry can be as natural as our heartbeats … or the fall of our footsteps. And after all, those are the elements that draw us us to poetry in the first place. I used to tell my English students that as far as I knew, no child ever listened to a Dr. Seuss poem and responded, “Wow, that message was deep.”

Sooo armed with these thoughts, 

I sat out on my morning walk in search of a poem.

I sat out on my mindful walk this morning in search of a poem … and maybe a few augers. As I walked, I noted the equally stressed thump-thump my feet made on the packed sand—a spondee! The augers eluded me, but amid the many sounds and sights on the beach, I managed to find this poem. (In case anyone is interested—the odds are, you’re not—it’s eight couplets of predominantly spondaic dimeter.)

                                          Beach Walk

                                       Breeze lags

Flag sags

Waves roll

Walkers stroll

Gulls shriek

Folks greet

Parents shout

Kids pout

Tide turns

Sand churns

Birds glide

Bouys guide

                                            Surf swells,

                                            deposits shells

                                            Sun blazes

                                            The sea amazes!

Try composing a poem on one (or more) of your mindful walks. It’s fun. Take inspiration from the sights and sounds around you and see if you detect a rhythmic pattern. Once you do, let it lead you to a poem! (And don’t worry—identifying the name of the meter isn’t necessary.) 

If you'd care to share the poem from your walk, I'd love to read it!

Orange Jello Fluff

I received an invitation from Maria Polson Veres to attend an open mic event where she would be reading selections from her newly released chapbook Church People. Being a big fan of Maria and her work, I accepted. 

As the title suggests, Church People is a collection of poems about individuals she has encountered on her faith journey as a Baptist, Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, and—I love this—“failed agnostic.” The few poems she read aloud enticed me to buy her book, and since then I’ve read through it at least three times and have insisted other people read it as well.

Having experienced a rather varied path on my own journey of faith and having made my own observations from both the front and back pews, I recognize many of the characters Maria features in her poems: the searching, the sure, the broken, the restored, the disillusioned, the inspired. However, I could never portray them with the heart-tugging poignancy or laugh-out-loud humor Maria does. 

Lines and images from her poems linger with me long after I’ve read them, surely a mark of meaningful literature. In “Breakdown,” the despair of a man who “all his life [has] fixed” things but is helpless to repair his “broken” wife haunts me. On the lighter side, in “Billie Sue Gets Her Way,” the “lurching, dive-bombing” notes of bagpipes screeching out “Amazing Grace” give Billie Sue the final send-off she’d hoped for. 

There it was, right inside the door emitting
an orange, ethereal glow.

As proof of the persistence of Church People, I offer this incident. On one of my tri-weekly drives to Walmart, the image of orange Jello fluff (from “Pot Faith”)  popped into my mind, and I burst out laughing. Not grinning or chuckling, mind you. Laughing. At that point I figured any literary piece that could invade my thoughts at random and elicit such a strong reaction needed to be shared. I toyed with the possibility of posting about Maria’s book on my humble blog but had misgivings. Worrying about whether I could do her work justice, I walked into Walmart. 

What happened next is the stuff of miracles. After I smiled at the greeter and stepped into the deli section,  my eyes were instantly drawn to a kind of orange, flourescent glow. And right there on the middle shelf was ... wait for it ... Orange, Jello. Fluff. With the millions of products Walmart offers, what are the odds that item would be the first one I saw? No doubt, many of Maria’s “church people” would’ve considered it a sign. 

I know I did.

My Poem Didn't Win

The title of this post isn’t completely true. I actually did have a poem that won second place at a recent writing conference. It just wasn’t the poem I thought would win—the one I really hoped would win. But this post is far from a complaint. It’s a celebration of what did win. And it’s chance to share the poem that “lost.”

I’m familiar with the person who judged the category for my poem. I know him to be an excellent poet and, more importantly, a kind person. I’m sure he had a difficult choice in selecting winners from over forty poems submitted by talented writers. And I’m sure the winning entries were deserving of those honors. I’m also sure that while my poem isn’t a winner, it isn’t a “loser,” either. In fact, it might be my favorite of all the pieces I’ve ever written.

Author StevenJames spoke one night at the conference about The Untouched Moment and how writers have the opportunity to capture moments that “resonate with truth.” Here’s the truth behind this poem: A picture of my grandson Brooks, taken by my daughter last spring, inspired it. I set it as the background on my computer desktop, and every time I looked at it, I smiled and thought there's a poem in there somewhere. Eventually, the poem surfaced. The picture takes me not just to the happy place Brooks was experiencing but to those magical times all children encounter through their imaginations. Those moments untouched by logic and reason and fear.

Last Christmas, I had the photo and the poem transferred onto a 5X7canvas and gave it to my daughter. She has it displayed in her living room. At the ripe old age of five, Brooks probably can’t appreciate this gift right now. But at some point in the future—maybe even after his Grammy Dee is gone—I hope he’ll look at the picture and read the poem and be transported back to a care-free, childhood moment. And I hope he’ll appreciate that his mother and his grandmother were able to capture it for him.

 

                                                              Swingset Superman

                                                        Red cape streaming

                                                        o’er field of green,

                                                        Superman flies

                                                         in a backyard swing. 

                                                        Toes in gray Crocs

                                                         reach for the sky.

                                                         Shouts defy death,

                                                         “Push high! Push me high!”

 

                                                         No time to waste!

                                                         Evil must be subdued.

                                                         Wrongs must be righted,

                                                          justice pursued. 

                                                         Gripping chains tight,

                                                          he chaos assails.

                                                          There are buildings collapsing,

                                                          trains off their rails! 

                                                          What danger awaits--

                                                          what marvelous wonder--

                                                           this brave hero’s trek

                                                           through the endless, blue yonder?

                                                                                          

                                                                                             

 

It's Alive!!!

             Look closely. Do you see them? There they are! Yes, there, nestled at the base of bare stems and stalks, hiding under a protective blanket of dead foliage are the first new leaves of my hydrangea. They tell me the bush is alive and soon will be erupting in an ostentatious display of lime green leaves and gaudy pink blossoms. They tell me the bush, like me, has survived another dreary winter and is ready to celebrate the cyclic wholeness of life.

            Every year the first warm days of spring find me out in my yard, nudging aside dirt clods and brown leaves with the toe of my shoe, bending down to closely inspect what might be underneath. As intent as a child hunting for Easter eggs, I’m searching for bits of green. And when I discover that first new sprig—either sprouting from a branch or poking its pointy nose through the dirt—I’m as thrilled as the kid who finds the prize egg.

             This week my friend Sonia wrote on her blog she considers spring the prettiest season in Oklahoma, and she posted some fairly convincing pics to support her claim. But I don’t agree. For me, autumn is the most beautiful season in this state. However, even with its buff-colored grass, mercurial temperatures, and threats of violent weather, spring is my favorite season. And although I’ve now seen quite a few springs, I still get excited about another one’s arrival. After being stuck inside the house and stuffed inside heavy sweaters and coats all winter, I can’t wait to get outdoors—to fill my lungs with fresh air, to expose my bare arms and legs to the sun’s gentle rays (using sunscreen, of course), to dig my fingers into the cool, fertile soil. All my senses are whetted by the sights, the smells, the sounds. By mid-summer the early morning drone of a lawnmower will annoy me, but right now the sound is as inspiring as my favorite hymn. It informs me my neighbor is scalping his lawn and soon the dried turf covering all our yards will be transformed into lush, green carpets. 

            As the famous verse in Ecclesiastes proclaims, “there is a season for every activity” (3:1).  Fall brings relief and refreshment, winter rest and restoration, and summer...well, in Oklahoma I’m not really sure what summer brings other than misery. Just kidding. Summer brings relaxation, recreation, and red, juicy tomatoes! But spring brings renewal. It assures us that regardless of whatever season we might be experiencing in our personal lives, God is in control and there is hope. Spring reminds us God loves us enough to “make everything beautiful in its own time” (3:11). And the triumph of a delicate bud bursting forth from a dry and brittle twig tells us that God, in His abundant mercy, hasn’t given up on mankind—that He continues to offer new beginnings.

Life renewed...the message of spring

            What about you? Does spring put you in the mood to celebrate, to “wax poetic”? What is your favorite season?