James Crews is a poet who teaches Poetry at the University at Albany and lives on a organic farm with his husband in Shaftsbury, Vermont. Each Friday he posts a poem, sometimes one of his own that serves as more than just some mere Poetry Prompt. He recently posted this: I’ve been sitting with this very short but very powerful poem by Jane Hirshfield ever since a dear friend passed it along to me earlier in the week. It speaks to the season so many of us might find ourselves inhabiting, not only that of autumn, but a moment of loss and transition during which we’re asked to accept such changes as necessary, and perhaps even sacred. In this poem, she invites us to see each shedding tree as an icon, “thinned/back to bare wood,/without diminishment.” And there is almost a haiku-like quality to those final three lines that urges us toward deeper contemplation of the richness inherent in these wooden beings. Perhaps what we see as loss and a kind of death each year as fall comes is really just wind and weather having worshipped the trees so much they are returned to their basic essence. In this way, we might reframe any difficult season when we are worn back to our essential selves as holy, worthy of worship for the way such trying times allow us to become something new.
Autumn
by Jane Hirshfield
Again the wind
flakes gold-leaf from the trees
and the painting darkens—
as if a thousand penitents
kissed an icon
till it thinned
back to bare wood,
without diminishment.Invitation for Writing & Reflection: How might you reframe a difficult season in your own life as sacred or holy, seeing how you were worn back to the truest version of yourself even while in pain?
It prompted me to write in kind:
FALLING
And just like that
Summer fell
into a colorfully crisp confetti
of blazenous colors
that never reached the ground
Flutterings
into what can’t always be planted
but never fails to be garnered in
whatsoeversthat find us all
softly soaringly sheltered
in a cooling uplifting Breath
A heavenly satisfied SighMay this Fall Season bring you lots of
Oooooh and A W E
THE POETRY IN US ALL
Back in March I took a Challenge to write 15 poems of 15 lines or less in 10 days and it got turned into a Chapbook that to my surprised someone found when they Googled me and got sent Amazon. . .
In April, National Poetry Month, there was another Challenge to write 30 poems in 30 days with the top three winners getting a publishing contract with Local Gems Press; uhhhhhhhhh, I didn’t finish among the top three but the there’s more to FINISHING than completing a project or subjectively placing into a top three tier that has a poetic justice of itself. . .
I have piles of legal pads with poems or bits pieces of them all over the place, often spilling out of folders and books that surprise me with the horror/delight of:
“I WROTE THAT?”
I’ve known for a long time that I think in poetry, mostly one-liners that pop up in the middle of the night, or during a conversation or while I’m reading, walking, meditating, listening to music or hearing the story someone whotrusts me with as I sit at their bedside or hospital room or coffee shop as I listen to their lives spilling out. . .
These little pop up bubbles are blank but for brief moments as they hover above my head but they are more heart-thoughts than head-scratchers or mind-blowers and they are unstoppable. . .
They are a Blood Letting that literally allows my heart to beat better; please know, it’s NOT FOR PUBLICATION. . .that’s a poor excuse, I’ve found for writing. WRITING for WRITING, because it can’t be helped; can’t be stopped; won’t be dammed up; is a form of happiness I’ve yet to find in other ways that have uncovered this truth:
I WILL DIE WITH WORDS LEFT IN ME, NO MATTER HOW MUCH
I WRITE/SELF-PUBLISH/SHARE
Do you feel that? Know of it? Feel like joining me?
Well, here’s the Challenge. . .
Autumn Poetry Chapbook Challenge – Local Gems Press (localgemspoetrypress.com)
Who knows. . .
Maybe that Blank page which calls for you
is exactly what
Someone
needs to read. .
FIND OUT
C O I N E D
C O I N E D .
Sometimes I feel like an old discarded
C O I N
Worn
Weathered
Unnoticed
In open air
Sunning
With the Shine long rubbed away
To no longer reflect
Sun
Moon
Or Star
Just Because
I’m not in a gutter
Doesn’t mean I haven’t been Displaced
Laying there
I scream out dully
I’M NOT S P E N T
PICK ME UP
USE ME
KEEP ME
SAVE ME
COLLECT ME
BUT DON’T WALK BY ME
like all the Others
So remember. . .
The next time you feel like something that doesn’t spend
not worth being picked up
Un-used
Thrown away
Not sought
Walked past
Shunned
YOU ARE THE CHANGE
THAT DOESN’T JINGLE
(only c o u n t s)
C L O U D E D
During this NATIONAL MONTH OF POETRY I have used poems that have inspired me to write poems. I began the month with a poem by Mary Oliver and could spend months using her poems that have countlessly inspired me not just to write but to pause, reflect, ponder what can’t always be seen, heard, tasted, smelled or touched but most deeply felt. . . here’s hoping it does the same for you in the NOWNESS of your TODAY:
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
— Mary Oliver
They are no longer clouds
but brightly striped ribbons
blown free from packages
never quite opened
or worse
opened and neatly tucked away
in drawers that don’t easily open
seemingly safe
from any robber
any loss
any misplacement
and sadly
any use
These ribbons don’t know of a wind
that’ll wave back
in the harshest or gentlest of breezes
no matter how much
mind
you pay them
They dwell in sunlight
and more of an ahhhhhhhh
to any sunset
if but noticed
But for a Now
This Moment
recognized
so briefly
like confetti
gone in a sudden burp of air
They are seen
as a Comma
in a Pause
that refuses to be left behind
before a never ending sentence
ahead
NATIONAL POETRY MONTH–YOUR POEM
I accepted two challenges recently
FOR PURELY SELFISH REASONS
ONE: Write Fifteen Poems in 9 days
TWO: Write 30 poems in 30 days. . .
W H Y
for me
it’s a form of meditation
of connecting
Me to ME
both reading and writing
p o e m s
so for these remaining four Friday’s
I’ll POEM You
Scary
waking up in a Robert Frost poem
that promises miles to go
while I’m trying to walk out of an inner forest
that’s dark and deep
robbing me of more sleep than a
Bank robber with a combination to the vault
on a deserted Sunday night
Feeling out of Season
Season’d
in a Season is unseasonally strange
gyping you
unless you love the surprise of
unopened gifts on Christmas’s in July
All ways inspiring an
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
begging for a welcomed
not-always-in-season’d
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
R A W P O E T R Y
Words scribbled across
crumbled paper
read the same way
More than mere thoughts
Thunk
More than expressions
Stated
More than feelings
Shared
More than Adventures
Experienced
More than memories
Not yet created
We are all raw poetry
crumbled up on pieces of paper
with scribbled
sometimes unlegible
sentiments
scratched on stained
scrapped posted notes
not so much to be
re-membered
as much as to live on
Be Found
Read
Re-experienced
when needed most
RAW POETRY
we are more
(so much more)
than scribbled words
on pieces of discarded scrapes of paper. . .
a C t
L i K e
i t
SOME WORDS NOT OUR OWN
THERE ARE SOME WORDS
NOT MY OWN
THAT SAY SO MUCH MORE
THAN I COULD EVER WRITE
OR SAY
B U T
need to read or hear
than any that could bounce around in my head
or spill out of my pen
L I K E:
my brain and
heart divorceda decade agoover who was
to blame about
how big of a mess
I have becomeeventually,
they couldn’t be
in the same room
with each othernow my head and heart
share custody of meI stay with my brain
during the weekand my heart
gets me on weekendsthey never speak to one another
– instead, they give me
– the same note to pass
– to each other every week
and their notes they
send to one another always
says the same thing:“This is all your fault”
on Sundays
my heart complains
about how my
head has let me down
in the pastand on Wednesday
my head lists all
of the times my
heart has screwed
things up for me
in the futurethey blame each
other for the
state of my lifethere’s been a lot
of yelling – and cryingso,
lately, I’ve been
spending a lot of
time with my gut
who serves as my
unofficial therapistmost nights, I sneak out of the
window in my ribcageand slide down my spine
and collapse on my
gut’s plush leather chair
that’s always open for me~ and I just sit sit sit sit
until the sun comes uplast evening,
my gut asked me
if I was having a hard
time being caught
between my heart
and my headI nodded
I said I didn’t know
if I could live with
either of them anymore“my heart is always sad about
something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that may happen tomorrow,”
I lamentedmy gut squeezed my hand
“I just can’t live with
my mistakes of the past
or my anxiety about the future,”
I sighedmy gut smiled and said:
“in that case,
you should
go stay with your
lungs for a while,”I was confused
– the look on my face gave it away
“if you are exhausted about
your heart’s obsession with
the fixed past and your mind’s focus
on the uncertain futureyour lungs are the perfect place for you
there is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there eitherthere is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this momentthere is only breath
and in that breath
you can rest while your
heart and head work
their relationship out.”this morning,
while my brain
was busy reading
tea leavesand while my
heart was staring
at old photographsI packed a little
bag and walked
to the door of
my lungsbefore I could even knock
she opened the door
with a smile and as
a gust of air embraced me
she said“what took you so long?”
~ John Roedel (johnroedel.com)
were spoken first by
Someone Else
and echoing intimately within us
For An Ever. . .
ALL DAY SUCKERS
that deliver more flavor
that can be promised
. . .only enjoyed
GIVE ME, GIVE ME, GIVE ME
Thoreau once said,
“IF YOU HAVE BUILT CASTLES IN THE AIR;
YOUR WORK NEED NOT BE LOST;
THAT IS WHERE THEY SHOULD BE.
NOW PUT THE FOUNDATION UNDER THEM.”
GIVE ME, GIVE ME, GIVE ME,
Eyes that see
what they don’t always notice
Ears that hear
what is not always said
A Heart that beats
for someone, something, other than me
Hands that extend
not so much to receive as to give and comfort
Paths that lead
to places I would never choose but need to be
Truths that I’ve refused to consider
Meaning to the seemingly meaninglessness
Food that nourishes
more than just my body
Water that quenches
all thirsts
Breaths that require
no air
Peace that banishes
all war, conflict, unrest
internal, external, eternal
Unconditional love
without hints of the conditionals
Diseases that
lead to healings
Pockets full of change
that are changeless
Time that never has to be traveled
behind or ahead and appreciated for its
eternal Now
Answers to all of the
why’s, what-for’s, how-come’s
Beginnings with no ends
Moments past Forever’s
Prayers that never need
praying only realizing
__________________because there are
endless__________________that’ll be innumerable
GIVE ME, GIVE ME, GIVE ME
NEVER ALONE
I shall
Gather up
All the lost souls
That wander this earth
All the ones that are alone
All the ones that are broken
All the ones that never really fitted in
I shall gather them all up
And together we shall find our homePoem written by Athey Thompson
Taken from A Little Book Of Poetry
Tales of the old forest faeries
Photograph from “Through the back door” by J Pickford and A Green
WHAT WE HOLD
grows beyond whatever
can be promised. . .I can’t aways promise
A clean extended handA cool drink for a hot dayA warm full course mealA heavy coat for winter’s coldA pair of shoes for a dimmed lit roadPromisesAre often waterless wellsEmpty pocketsHolding ChangeThat never jangled
A check written
with invisible ink
and still never given
yearn to be what is needed
and not what is thought to only be wanted
so that we can become
to each’s other
what can’t be a promised land
when sown
we forever grow together
whatever could be promised
THIS POEM
Leaky Ink from a pen
Dull led from a pencil
Dirty computer keys tapped on
Until words appear
Without much definition
And even less meaning
Still tell a story
That can’t be read
That can’t be told
That can’t be heard
That can’t be seen
That can only be experienced
And is
Mostly without notice
Leaving us to question
WHAT JUST HAPPENED
As we bemoan the agony of
Change
but embracing lovingly the
Q U E S T I O N I N G
Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death’s great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses —
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.
~ Anna Akhmatova ~
H U H
along with me. . .