tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54095193050336428952024-02-21T06:21:21.268+01:00AppleHouse Poetry WorkshopReading & Writing PoetryLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.comBlogger150125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-51016418816178929762012-03-09T14:25:00.000+01:002015-09-03T12:23:39.664+02:00Indefinite Sabbatical for AppleHouse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvKf6E5BuiYbskjBLkfadJ0xhFrOGgUBAUxEiV5onscIWlYYwW77U0V09G163gjAQo3B3w1Sy9-THp90t1Quyd_NegSJdVfMcwxrdxErnM-Nhqzu3dzr6zSR15XLnZguNTbcqhmfHnPI2K/s1600/real+port+talbot+pc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
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<br />
It's a good thing because it gives me more time to work on <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Real-Port-Talbot-Lynne-Rees/dp/1781720967/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1383390757&sr=1-1&keywords=real+port+talbot+by+lynne+rees" target="_blank"><em>Real Port Talbot</em>,</a> a book I've been commissioned to write about my hometown in South Wales, which will be published in November 2013. And you know how one project can easily and excitingly lead into another.<br />
<br />
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And it's a sad thing because I will miss this concentration of poetry, your voices, our conversations on this blog.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But the AppleHouse site will remain up for people to browse through. These have been wonderful years and there will be more in the future, I am sure.</div>
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Let me leave you with the following poem that appeared on The Writer's Almanac today.</div>
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Keep saying it too. And stay in touch.</div>
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<br /></div>
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L xx</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;">Saying It<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;">Saying it. Trying<br />
to say it. Not<br />
to answer to<br />
<br />
logic, but leaving<br />
our very lives open<br />
to how we have<br />
<br />
to hear ourselves<br />
say what we mean.<br />
Not merely to<br />
<br />
know, all told,<br />
our far neighbors;<br />
or here, beside<br />
<br />
us now, the stranger<br />
we sleep next to. <br />
Not to get it said<br />
<br />
and be done, but to <br />
say the feeling, its<br />
present shape, to<br />
<br />
let words lend it<br />
dimension: to name<br />
the pain to confirm<br />
<br />
how it may be borne:<br />
through what in <br />
ourselves we dream<br />
<br />
to give voice to,<br />
to find some word for<br />
how we bear our lives.<br />
<br />
Daily, as we are daily<br />
wed, we say the world<br />
is a wedding for which,<br />
<br />
as we are constantly<br />
finding, the ceremony<br />
has not yet been found.<br />
<br />
What wine? What bread?<br />
What language sung?<br />
We wake, at night, to<br />
<br />
imagine, and again wake<br />
at dawn to begin: to let<br />
the intervals speak<br />
<br />
for themselves, to<br />
listen to how they <br />
feel, to give pause<br />
<br />
to what we're about:<br />
to relate ourselves,<br />
over and over; in<br />
<br />
time beyond time<br />
to speak some measure<br />
of how we hear the music:<br />
<br />
today if ever to<br />
say the joy of trying<br />
to say the joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;"><a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/175" target="_blank">Philip Booth</a></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;"><a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/Lifelines-Selected-Poems-Philip-Booth/9780140589269" target="_blank">from Lifelines, Viking,1999</a></span></div>
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Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-5852889461814027132012-01-30T12:41:00.000+01:002012-01-30T12:41:45.780+01:00There's always the weather.This month I've been taking part in a River of Stones, an international writing project organised by Fiona and Kaspa, that encourages participants to write a small 'stone' every day. I know some of you have joined in too but if you haven't you can <a href="http://www.writingourwayhome.com/p/river-jan-12.html">read more about it here</a>.<br />
<br />
The project may run again in July (it did last year) and I'll join in again. The discipline of stopping and looking around my world, the physical, intellectual and emotional ones, for a few moments and noticing what's there, what's really there, not what I think is there, is always a good one.<br />
<br />
Today's writing prompt comes from one of my River posts which is why it doesn't have a title... yet. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh18suwA5S33KTGbOHjJdSO-PRbPd_01jEE_SHPU5GdaeMq3CGmOKp9t5v0z7h4zX5fCCcfm4Gv4Dpt-ldI5XlvFNgads7tKIFfddc5G4ps9jP1Y2dSsk4kjo2WNbaqVAxCKuJBWnEGW2jm/s1600/mist+and+hills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh18suwA5S33KTGbOHjJdSO-PRbPd_01jEE_SHPU5GdaeMq3CGmOKp9t5v0z7h4zX5fCCcfm4Gv4Dpt-ldI5XlvFNgads7tKIFfddc5G4ps9jP1Y2dSsk4kjo2WNbaqVAxCKuJBWnEGW2jm/s320/mist+and+hills.jpg" width="320" /></a>Rain overnight and this morning <br />
not a crackle of frost on the trees <br />
or along the kerb around the yard<br />
only a mist of grey above <br />
and between the bare branches. <br />
<br />
I miss the hills, the green roll <br />
of them swallowed by cloud.<br />
The day is too soft for clear thought.<br />
<br />
<br />
Write about the weather, about yourself immersed in weather, or a rant against a particular kind of weather. Or a poem in praise of weather. About rain, or snow, or unexpected weather, or reliable weather. About the emotions the weather stimulates in us. About the memories it ignites. <br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L<br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-22413148334659195112012-01-05T18:34:00.000+01:002012-01-05T18:34:40.041+01:00And what will you do this year?Where will you go?<br />
Who will you speak with?<br />
What will you dream?<br />
How will you resolve any problems or difficulties?<br />
What will you begin?<br />
What will you give up?<br />
Who will inspire you?<br />
<br />
Write a poem that begins:<br />
<br />
<em>This year I will...</em><br />
<br />
It doesn't have to be factual. It can be imaginary, or wishful, or fantastic too.<br />
<br />
Write wildly at first. Worry about shaping and editing later. Keep going for at least 10 minutes without stopping to judge or change your mind.<br />
<br />
I look forward to reading your final drafts of your year ahead.<br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-5365980757430669192011-12-08T00:22:00.000+01:002011-12-08T00:22:05.789+01:00Celebrating one of our own<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Many congratulations to Catherine (Foster) for winning 1st Prize in a competition run by First Time magazine with her powerful poem, The Prodigal Son. And thank-you, Catherine, for sharing it with AppleHouse:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Prodigal Son</span></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s the hogshit stink rising with the sun</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">that’s done for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My hands webbed, gloved with the stuff.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And the cornhusks: dry as old harlots I’ve had</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">when shekels ran low.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One shindig after another. Sex </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">like shooting stars. My belly a wineskin, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">now scooped out, shrivelled as the last fig of summer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Birds could perch on each rib.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A cowl of shame. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dare I shadow my father’s house?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The utterance of my name<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">-</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">each letter an ulcer on his tongue? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Will I be but a mote of dust</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">shooed out by his hirelings?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I set off, sandals flap like dying fish. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Vultures fidget in my path.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My Father<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">-</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">arms outstretched in folds of the wind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stagger, kneel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The forgiveness of a fatted calf, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">purple robes to cover skin pleated over bones. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Words of silver to quench my thirst.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My son who was lost is now found. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And my brother?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He vomits envy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought it would be a good idea to set a poetry prompt in response to Catherine's poem. Choose a biblical character and write a poem in their voice. 'Persona' poems, as they're called can be written in a number of ways:</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. You stay true to that character's experience and re-tell their story.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. You use that character as a mask to talk about your own concerns (e.g. using the voice of Eve to talk about feminist issues)</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. You update the character and their story and give it a contemporary 21st century spin.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's no shortage of characters to choose from and given the season you might even like to choose one from the nativity story. </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Looking forward to reading your work.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Write well.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lynne</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">x</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-49688774183552232502011-11-16T12:23:00.000+01:002011-11-16T12:23:38.668+01:00Oven cleaner, apples, open firesHello from Kent where I've spent more time inside the oven that I really wanted to and where the cardboard boxes are gradually diminishing. But not in my writing room. We left all our library shelving in the house in France so I'm waiting for new pine bookcases and a new pine desk which won't be here until after Christmas. It's not that I really need access to all my books but I do feel better when they are all facing me, the bright colours and words on their spines smiling at me as I pass, and not lying on their backs in the dark. But not long now.<br />
<br />
Home means apples - there are 20 acres of apple trees just outside my door. It means log fires - we've kept the wood stove alight 24/7 since being home. An open fire in late autumn and winter is one thing I really missed in the house in France. <br />
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This week I've paired things that I haven't paired before: apples and sausage-meat (for a savoury supper), and big paintings and little paintings (to create a different effect on the walls in the lounge and kitchen:<br />
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</div>Placing them next to each other like this made me think of haiku, of the phrase and fragment (or fragment and phrase) construction a lot of contemporary haiku take:<br />
<br />
The haiku at the end of my last post was phrase/fragment:<br />
<br />
fall, yet new leaves<br />
on the plane trees:<br />
we pack to go home<br />
<br />
The longer part of the haiku, the phrase, extends over the first two lines and the fragment (a single image or comment) is confined to the third.<br />
<br />
Free verse poetry can play with similar constructions e.g. long lines alternating with short lines, or perhaps a poem made up from regular stanzas that closes with a single line set apart at the end. The poet's craft lies in knowing why we do this, the effects that changes in pace will have on the reader, on their breathing, how isolating lines will change their relationship to the words on the page.<br />
<br />
Write a poem that changes its form at some point during its development. Think about:<br />
long lines<br />
short lines<br />
changes in stanza structure<br />
a poem of two halves<br />
long sentences<br />
short phrases<br />
<br />
But choose your subject matter to suit this form change. Remember that form arises from subject matter, that it can be used to effectively reflect emotional tone.<br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L<br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-6759852894825780492011-10-20T09:59:00.000+02:002011-10-20T09:59:55.826+02:00Goodbye and au revoir. And quite soon, hello again.Many thanks to those of you who posted poems in response to the end of September's prompt. Catherine, Keith, Martin, Glen, Jim, Anne - I'm sure you'll understand that organising the move from France to the UK has got in the way of me responding individually to you all as I usually do.<br />
<br />
And thank you to everyone who has written a poem and posted it to AppleHouse over the last fours years and those of you who follow the blog and pop in to see what's happening every now and then. Yes, four years! AppleHouse began in December 2007 and I never anticipated that I'd still be here in 2011.<br />
<br />
But I am and you are too. And once I get settled into our home in the UK I'll be back with more prompts and ideas and look forward to reading more of your poems.<br />
<br />
See you next month.<br />
L x<br />
<br />
<em>fall, yet new leaves</em><br />
<em>on the plane trees:</em><br />
<em>we pack to go home</em>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-1000715317097135852011-09-26T11:49:00.000+02:002011-09-26T11:49:32.988+02:00Changes <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0AX89Dsgurc_fZrrdVXwHPxCtVKveLPAqEGo402mp7EIL8D6PVcP_JLgiaZJtzYtnQoPXLVPRz0v_I88kWWjKwl_R0znjBQ7g0Tugm9xk4sk4aYD9VE86YHLpbMh-Elv1U7vv4EBqTXS1/s1600/tree-hugging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0AX89Dsgurc_fZrrdVXwHPxCtVKveLPAqEGo402mp7EIL8D6PVcP_JLgiaZJtzYtnQoPXLVPRz0v_I88kWWjKwl_R0znjBQ7g0Tugm9xk4sk4aYD9VE86YHLpbMh-Elv1U7vv4EBqTXS1/s200/tree-hugging.jpg" width="189px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hugging the Plane tree in the garden<br />
when we first arrived</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm moving from the South of France back to the UK at the end of October. I have mixed feelings about the move. We've achieved so much here but it hasn't always been easy (<span id="goog_1604629878"></span><a href="http://www.lynnerees.com/2010/11/spilt-milk-and-perfect-fried-egg.html">you can read a little bit more about it here<span id="goog_1604629879"></span></a>). <br />
I'm not at the point of having to say goodbye yet but it does seem that I spend a lot of time thinking about it.<br />
<br />
The end of September. <br />
All traces of our summer guests <br />
have gone: sand rinsed from showers, <br />
beach towels folded away. <br />
<br />
Under the terrace <br />
the deflated paddling pool <br />
gathers leaves.<br />
<br />
We will not be here<br />
much longer: palm trees, the Mistral,<br />
the smell of coconut oil <br />
at the supermarket check-out,<br />
things of the past.<br />
<br />
Four years of our life. <br />
We measure it in numbers:<br />
additions, subtractions,<br />
try and make sense<br />
of what we gain, what we lose.<br />
<br />
A language. The scent of bread<br />
carried on a sea breeze. The company<br />
of the sun. The people we love<br />
far away at the end of a phone.<br />
<br />
Let me imagine a year ahead:<br />
my parents' will celebrate<br />
their 60th year together. <br />
The smell of apples in the cold store.<br />
The cat will have captured<br />
a foreign territory and accepted it<br />
as home. Which is what <br />
<br />
we all crave: home.<br />
<br />
I find it relatively easy to feel 'at home'. I can adapt to circumstances and situations. Sometimes it's a temporary home, a writing retreat that's made more familiar with a bed-throw, a rearrangement of the room's furniture. Sometimes it's more permanent: learning a language to feel part of a community. <br />
<br />
Write about changes. About home. About the year ahead. Or the one you're leaving behind. <br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-24603593876490846372011-09-02T12:02:00.000+02:002011-09-02T12:02:45.671+02:00Welcome back to AppleHouseAnd welcome to September.<br />
<br />
How is yours? I've had two September experiences so far. Both in one day. I left Kent, UK yesterday which was a surprisingly summery 20 degrees and a welcome comparison to the wet and cold August. The change in the weather made me want to stay longer but the flight was booked and we took off from London City Airport, flew east along the Thames and out over the southernmost part of the North Sea.<br />
<br />
1 hour and 50 minutes later we landed at Nice and drove to Antibes where it was 32 degrees and sunny, but so humid. This morning I couldn't tell where the wet quilt cover ended and I began as I struggled to lift it over the washing line.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHunOsrvL8qiSueKeqHsN8Sw05do2UWsJkDu0kJqHBmx3Ah4dz2PM-IX1j9iRC9L4IiJbZnrR4sE5UjGR0cu4E5GxNfNRGbe5UZf7LrAj6xtwodJSdUXs5Yaym82N6Pi6l2cffiirPjLf/s1600/figs+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHunOsrvL8qiSueKeqHsN8Sw05do2UWsJkDu0kJqHBmx3Ah4dz2PM-IX1j9iRC9L4IiJbZnrR4sE5UjGR0cu4E5GxNfNRGbe5UZf7LrAj6xtwodJSdUXs5Yaym82N6Pi6l2cffiirPjLf/s200/figs+1.JPG" width="200px" xaa="true" /></a></div>Coming back to France in September meant I missed most of our crop of figs. I took a bowl of them back to Kent and left instructions with my cat and house sitter to help herself to whatever ripened in my absence. <br />
<br />
All that's left now are a few, small late ripeners. September is too late for them. I missed their best time.<br />
<br />
Here's a poem called 'September' by <a href="http://applehousepoetryworkshop.blogspot.com/2008/04/april-poem-prompt-1-joy.html">Linda Pastan, a poet I've previously introduced on AppleHouse Poetry</a><br />
<br />
<strong>September</strong><br />
<br />
it rained in my sleep<br />
and in the morning the fields were wet<br />
<br />
I dreamed of artillery<br />
of the thunder of horses<br />
<br />
in the morning the fields were strewn<br />
with twigs and leaves<br />
<br />
as if after a battle<br />
or a sudden journey<br />
<br />
I went to sleep in the summer<br />
I dreamed of rain<br />
<br />
in the morning the fields were wet<br />
and it was autumn <br />
<br />
from <em><a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/Carnival-Evening-Linda-Pastan/9780393319279">Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems 1968-1998</a></em><br />
W.W. Norton & Company, 2009<br />
<br />
<em>Buy from </em><a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/Carnival-Evening-Linda-Pastan/9780393319279"><em>The Book Depository</em></a><br />
<br />
September is our ninth month but takes its name from 'septem'/seven as it was the seventh month in the Roman calendar.<br />
<br />
We tend to associate September with autumn but in the Southern hemisphere it's the beginning of spring.<br />
<br />
September was always a mark of going back to school. More recently it reminds me of 9/11 and the attack on the Twin Towers.<br />
<br />
Write about September, or the shift from one month to another. Or dreaming. Or waking up. But anchor your poem to a particular time of year.<br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L<br />
x<br />
<br />
<br />
Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com8Antibes, France43.580417999999987 7.1251019999999743.539999499999986 7.08482249999997 43.620836499999989 7.1653814999999694tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-38134525756025932692011-07-03T19:25:00.000+02:002011-07-03T19:25:31.384+02:00Summer BreakAs usual AppleHouse takes a break in July and August as our family and friends fly into the South of France for their holidays with us. We have a busy few months with people we love and I hope that's how you'll spend your summer too. <br />
<br />
Here's a list of 10 things I will do, or attempt to do, this summer. You can add your list too if you like.<br />
<ol><li>Write a poem for my nephew's wedding celebrations.</li>
<li>Take the cat on her first trip back to the UK.</li>
<li>Make soda bread.</li>
<li>Write something small every day in July <a href="http://anopenfield.blogspot.com/">(See my 'open field' blog.)</a></li>
<li>Go swimming in the sea.</li>
<li>Try to spend less time on Facebook.</li>
<li>Think positively about my possible contract for a new book but cross all available bits of my body too!</li>
<li>Be relaxed about sharing the control of my kitchen when I have guests. (Tough one!)</li>
<li>Drive our new tractor around the apple farm in Kent.</li>
<li>Remember to drink more water than wine. (Another tough one!)</li>
</ol>See you in September.<br />
Write well.<br />
L xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-69964006050959099802011-06-09T13:52:00.000+02:002011-06-09T13:52:24.778+02:00Today I want to say something wonderful about...<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My niece and her family have been staying with me for a week.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">'This potato peeler is amazing,' she said as she was peeling carrots for her little boy. He is three and has a thing for raw carrots and cucumber, even for breakfast.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Last year, a friend over from Kent picked up the same potato peeler and exclaimed, 'Isn't it great?!' He had the same one at home.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Fr3aEA3NnMx3m0p8mlnYU9RtAgACgZQuSZqUxMgOUhZK_rIGkl6Ld9RXYeC9nDBojHj63svvY8b_F33Jsdc2DRfDOM-ylNbY1aouhG_inUMdWPp5TE1hF0ujPinldjffmflYqZ7PLK2n/s1600/potato+peeler3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="161px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Fr3aEA3NnMx3m0p8mlnYU9RtAgACgZQuSZqUxMgOUhZK_rIGkl6Ld9RXYeC9nDBojHj63svvY8b_F33Jsdc2DRfDOM-ylNbY1aouhG_inUMdWPp5TE1hF0ujPinldjffmflYqZ7PLK2n/s400/potato+peeler3.JPG" t8="true" width="400px" /></span></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's reassuring to know that you're not completely alone in such extreme appreciation of a kitchen utensil. Although I'm the only one among us to have a written a poem in praise of it.</span><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In Praise of Things</span></strong><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Today I want to say something wonderful</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">about my potato peeler –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">the way the ergonomically designed handle</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">fits snugly in the curve of my palm as if</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">it was made for the valley of my right hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I want to tell you how it is soul-mate</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">to thick-skinned vegetables –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">cloudy tangerine columns of carrot</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">knobbly orbs of King Edward</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">how it slides over them as if it might be</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">wrapping them not unwrapping them</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">as if it might be whispering</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">while secretly stealing their skin.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I love the way the steel head swivels</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">gently rocking from side to side</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">accommodating each slight </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">ridge, bump, lesion. Under the skin</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">everything glistens new born –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">vulnerable, true colours rising.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Write your own celebration of a ‘small thing’. Choose something that is functional. It has to be ordinary, of no real value. It shouldn't have any built in emotional value. You might not even realise how much you appreciate this thing until you start looking around you. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Start with the same opening phrase. Tell me just how wonderful this thing is. Be specific about what it does and how it does it. It’s also an opportunity to have fun. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Don’t try too hard to get a secondary meaning in the poem. My last two lines emerged unexpectedly after writing about the physical aspects of the potato peeler for some time. </span> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">If we work too hard at a ‘sub-text’, what’s going on between the lines if you like, the poem can sometimes come across as too didactic. Writing needs a lighter touch than that, unless you’re writing an instruction manual, in which case you can be as didactic as you want! </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">And the secondary meaning might just be that we should celebrate the small things in life. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2YcQj2rGSFMw0SvXmvbqvq-Ah8TsModcr8shCa999R669IpCMpAmqPV-uBlPwWrCXTQKL3ZCRb-552DWGiwZ_cp1pSYq2uf1E80DCyiTEc9F07uNSeqyN3y1TkhrwN0lGeBleo7jz9Nu/s1600/potato+peeler4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="200px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2YcQj2rGSFMw0SvXmvbqvq-Ah8TsModcr8shCa999R669IpCMpAmqPV-uBlPwWrCXTQKL3ZCRb-552DWGiwZ_cp1pSYq2uf1E80DCyiTEc9F07uNSeqyN3y1TkhrwN0lGeBleo7jz9Nu/s200/potato+peeler4.JPG" t8="true" width="190px" /></span></a></div><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">It was only when I took some photos of the potato peeler for this blog entry that I realised it had a brand-name. I've been using it for years and have never noticed that word written on the underside of the handle. Perhaps because its function is its most important quality I've never even thought of examining it closely - there's never been a need. Perhaps I would have if it had ceased to work properly. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I imagine there are lots of things like this in my life, things I take for granted. There are probably praise poems waiting to be written all around me. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Write well.</span> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">L x</span>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-62322711736972452282011-05-06T09:41:00.000+02:002011-05-06T09:41:13.873+02:00The Beautiful ListI've spoken about and shared <a href="http://applehousepoetryworkshop.blogspot.com/2009/05/may-poem-prompt-2.html">list poems</a> a couple of times before but I really don't think we can have too much of a good thing. List poems, done well, sing to us because of their deceptive simplicity: they wear the disguise of an ordinary everyday thing (shopping list, to do list etc) but the poet's choice of form and language lifts them up out of the ordinary and makes them extra-ordinary.<br />
<br />
The following poem, by <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sound-Many-Voices-Project/dp/0898232414">Tim Nolan</a>, (which you can listen to <a href="http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/?date=2011%2F04%2F01">HERE on The Writer's Almanac</a> before you read it), slows our reading down with its short couplets. It asks us to pay the same amount of attention to the 'forgotten'. But this isn't just a poem about a literal change of season. The introduction of the human relationship in the middle of the poem - <em>the flush of your face/ so much</em> - asks me to reconsider the other imagery, the statements at the close of the poem, and the title as metaphor. Here it is and many thanks to Tim for giving his permission:<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Long Winter </strong><br />
<br />
So much I've forgotten<br />
the grass<br />
<br />
the birds<br />
the close insects<br />
<br />
the shoot—the drip—<br />
the spray of the sprinkler<br />
<br />
freckles—strawberries—<br />
the heat of the Sun<br />
<br />
the impossible<br />
humidity<br />
<br />
the flush of your face<br />
so much<br />
<br />
the high noon<br />
the high grass<br />
<br />
the patio ice cubes<br />
the barbeque<br />
<br />
the buzz of them—<br />
the insects<br />
<br />
the weeds—the dear<br />
weeds—that grow<br />
<br />
like alien life forms—<br />
all Dr. Suessy and odd—<br />
<br />
here we go again—<br />
we are turning around<br />
<br />
again—this will all<br />
happen over again—<br />
<br />
and again—it will— <br />
<br />
<strong>Tim Nolan</strong><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeI9BL0xOJbSNghx43P1A8nv5JwtXjEnnQBf8kZC96VsBdUln5ZDQttf9BtjuB0qRE6TYoVEKHRuG9jSbPWrWBmQwfi7duah5-Mt7KNXkMAEAPfDvXCUeijWkQsM34cuA-K07CrNuf7J9/s1600/tim+nolan+the+sound+of+it.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeI9BL0xOJbSNghx43P1A8nv5JwtXjEnnQBf8kZC96VsBdUln5ZDQttf9BtjuB0qRE6TYoVEKHRuG9jSbPWrWBmQwfi7duah5-Mt7KNXkMAEAPfDvXCUeijWkQsM34cuA-K07CrNuf7J9/s320/tim+nolan+the+sound+of+it.jpg" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you're in the UK or Europe <br />
then check out the <a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/Sound-It-Tim-Nolan/9780898232417">The Book Depository</a><br />
for Tim's collection, <em>The Sound of It</em>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
What do you take from that penultimate couplet and the final line on its own? Inevitability, acceptance, understanding? <br />
<br />
I take comfort from it; repetition in all its guises can be comforting. Although my comfort is tinged by inquietude. I'm not sure I want another <em>long winter,</em> I'm not sure that I want some things to <em>happen over again</em>. But I also know that my experience of life is deepened by living through change.<br />
<br />
Poems that make us think, that shift us between different emotions, these are the ones to cherish.<br />
<br />
I don't want to be prescriptive with a poetry prompt. Let this poem work on you through several readings then set out on a journey of your own.<br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L<br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-22298491397096199052011-04-21T19:55:00.000+02:002011-04-21T19:55:13.643+02:00The poetry of who and what we are and doIt's natural that we read other poets to inspire us with the writing of our own poems. And healthy too! We should be aware of what's going on in the world of contemporary poetry around us. And I know that when I'm reading poetry, I write more poetry. I also know that if I read more prose, I find it more difficult to write poetry. Perhaps the patterns and rhythms of what I'm reading are absorbed by my unconscious and, when I sit down to write, the echoes of what I've read most recently are the first to emerge.<br />
<br />
How about you? Do you write what you read, influenced by the patterns, and perhaps themes, on the page? Or are you able to write in whatever form you choose, regardless of what you're reading? <br />
<br />
And have you identified what kind of poetry you write?<br />
<br />
When someone asked me that for the first time, in the early 1990s, it took me by surprise. I hadn't long been writing and hadn't developed any measure of objectivity towards my own work. But to know what we're doing, to be aware of what matters to us and how we want to affect an audience, can only help us as writers.<br />
<br />
I've always wanted poems I read to make me think and feel, so I've tried to achieve that in my own writing. And feel a responsibility to 'entertain' an audience. But I don't mean that in the sense of superficial laughter and enjoyable trivia. I mean it in the sense of the original meaning of the word, which comes from 'inter' (to be among) and 'tenere' (to hold). Isn't that an amazing thing for us to try and achieve? To be among our audience, to be part of them, and to hold their attention.<br />
<br />
Feel free to respond to any of the above questions and points, and extend the discussion too, in the Comments box, in prose or even poetry.<br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L<br />
x<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-30058865289142082882011-03-31T13:14:00.001+02:002011-03-31T13:59:55.578+02:00Hearts & Minds<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC1JO3LFKdsRue4s04YWmQrCCUrIAyysjMbrdMxkqyW6ZOP8kBpatWCR6oTFHw4EH1_tzB1lS1sqG6y21ZcNZ9F6E7F7HJyFzSEyk3nBLrbNf7KK6SumS_AEUDdndktU9E9odmyZc8Y-XA/s1600/dali+and+moore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC1JO3LFKdsRue4s04YWmQrCCUrIAyysjMbrdMxkqyW6ZOP8kBpatWCR6oTFHw4EH1_tzB1lS1sqG6y21ZcNZ9F6E7F7HJyFzSEyk3nBLrbNf7KK6SumS_AEUDdndktU9E9odmyZc8Y-XA/s1600/dali+and+moore.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dali & Captain Moore</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There's a story about Salvador Dali, told to me a few years ago by his long-time manager, Captain Peter Moore.<br />
<br />
Peter called on Dali at his house and studio in Port Lligat to see how he was progressing with a commission and was alarmed to see that the painting was far from finished.<br />
'No problem, el capitano,' said Dali, 'I have until end of October.'<br />
'But it's already November,' said Peter.<br />
'November!' exclaimed Dali. 'Someone has stolen my October!'<br />
<br />
I feel a little like that about March! Although rather than stolen it was filled to the brim with exciting events for the launches of <a href="http://www.gomer.co.uk/gomer/en/gomer.ViewBook/isbn/9781848513068">another country, haiku poetry from Wales</a> (Gomer Press).<br />
<br />
But I'm back home in France now, catching up with writing and AppleHouse, and I came across this poem, in my <em><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Poems-Underground-No-Gerard-Benson/dp/0304356395/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1301569906&sr=1-2">Poems on the Underground</a></em> anthology, which I can't remember ever reading before:<br />
<br />
<em>from</em> <strong>The Mind is an Ancient and Famous Capital</strong><br />
<br />
The mind is a city like London,<br />
Smoky and populous: it is a capital<br />
Like Rome, ruined and eternal,<br />
Marked by the monuments which no one <br />
Now remembers. For the mind, like Rome, contains<br />
Catacombs, aqueducts, amphitheatres, palaces,<br />
Churches and equestrian statues, fallen, broken or soiled.<br />
The mind possesses and is possessed by all the ruins<br />
Of every haunted, hunted generation's celebration...<br />
<br />
<strong><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Delmore_Schwartz">Delmore Schwartz (1913 - 1966)</a></strong><br />
<br />
Lots of the metaphors make immediate sense to me, particularly the mind being full of monuments 'which no one/ Now remembers' and 'Catacombs', although I'm a little unsure about 'equestrian' statues. I suppose the horse and rider could symbolise war? But I still like the poem a lot. <br />
<br />
A few years ago I wrote a poem entitled 'Your Heart' which was published on a poster for a Hospital project:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BSwH6qESM8okHF80Z0NPVVk4LnBUPJNRupqZ7_CJSBXzMoOaog0KU5KcMKvsLyH19WMwxNiTnjl3RJzz-nwAo5XJCEIUjNjFMl-i6I1EJNDjS71fIoCKB2Cnc1rLS3V8-GAn4KDzTj7z/s1600/Poster-Your+Heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BSwH6qESM8okHF80Z0NPVVk4LnBUPJNRupqZ7_CJSBXzMoOaog0KU5KcMKvsLyH19WMwxNiTnjl3RJzz-nwAo5XJCEIUjNjFMl-i6I1EJNDjS71fIoCKB2Cnc1rLS3V8-GAn4KDzTj7z/s640/Poster-Your+Heart.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>Write a poem about the mind or the heart. Use metaphor rather than direct explanation to suggest what the mind or heart is, or does.<br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L<br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-53684575787147162352011-03-06T15:38:00.003+01:002011-03-06T23:10:21.150+01:00Your age... contented, accepting, resentful, indifferent, curious?There's a saying... if you want to feel young, mix with younger people. If you want to look young, mix with with older people. Here on the Cote d'Azur, particularly outside of the holiday season, there are a lot of elderly people, and for the most part all pretty sprightly for their eighties, so at 52 I'm a bit of a teenager! <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3isa-s1ETdOzatUFFoz9AbWVboc2mRECv6p26i2fp03gE0okoH-lX1_ft1zngplkdUpiVtXYmfbxQetW1VESxL7ql7tr8KwcR6G_H10Hq3Y7R9IjeNv2rfzdF8s1e_RH1MbXZLujiNAP0/s1600/3+year+old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3isa-s1ETdOzatUFFoz9AbWVboc2mRECv6p26i2fp03gE0okoH-lX1_ft1zngplkdUpiVtXYmfbxQetW1VESxL7ql7tr8KwcR6G_H10Hq3Y7R9IjeNv2rfzdF8s1e_RH1MbXZLujiNAP0/s200/3+year+old.jpg" width="125" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1960</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh52Jl_nlJ6K0oyVnDq001okfEI4humps2cvPq63ghnaV5F858dFRB5ybzjwRxieHtQL8LgXGeu1Pzv0Ur18qaITPo_QzfiXfQiFOugj8H03bW6YoTx2IzJm0VwMtqcxYxRBjewi4X20zOS/s1600/Lynne+Rees.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh52Jl_nlJ6K0oyVnDq001okfEI4humps2cvPq63ghnaV5F858dFRB5ybzjwRxieHtQL8LgXGeu1Pzv0Ur18qaITPo_QzfiXfQiFOugj8H03bW6YoTx2IzJm0VwMtqcxYxRBjewi4X20zOS/s200/Lynne+Rees.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Apart from being alternately accepting and resentful of the usual signs and effects of age - aches, wrinkles, long-sightedness, unable to drink more than a half bottle of wine without getting a hangover - I really do like being in my fifties and wouldn't want to go back to a previous age or time. <br />
<br />
How about you? And do you ever wonder what you'll be like in 20 or 30 years time? It's difficult enough to feel any real connection to the child, girl or young woman who stares out at me from old photos so to imagine what and who I might be in the future feels like an impossible task. Perhaps I should have a go at one of those 'ageing' apps you see on Facebook and on people's mobile phones! <br />
<br />
The danger of writing poems about getting older is that they might sound sentimental, even self-indulgent if we write about ourselves. How do we explore the personal and particular but make it universal, make it something that matters to other people? Philip Schultz talks about age in this poem: <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>76</strong><br />
<br />
My bones aren't what they used to be; my eyes ache,<br />
as if I've been reading an ancient text by candlelight.<br />
My back and knees creak. I'm happy if the car starts<br />
and I can walk the dogs along the ocean which looks<br />
a little less robust. It replenishes itself with stretching<br />
and long cleansing breaths. The sun is another story.<br />
It's beginning to show its age. Perhaps we've enjoyed <br />
enough springs and everything is getting a little redundant.<br />
<br />
<strong><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Schultz">Philip Schultz</a></strong><br />
from <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Living-Past-Poems-Philip-Schultz/dp/0151008728/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1299422264&sr=1-1"><em>Living in the Past -</em> Available via Amazon</a><br />
Harcourt, Inc., 2004<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQc4fLhsrpUOjQrleRPycwy0KEDuXb_FCZD0lsTyme1IozgKIRkB67IupkFiSfdnCi5TPicRStNLO9HWTW0UFkKrm7B85mOqmNmpPTh4Bll64Z5oljax1q3Zh6e_cPLKmnJYFT1WSSHbVA/s1600/philip+schultz+failure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQc4fLhsrpUOjQrleRPycwy0KEDuXb_FCZD0lsTyme1IozgKIRkB67IupkFiSfdnCi5TPicRStNLO9HWTW0UFkKrm7B85mOqmNmpPTh4Bll64Z5oljax1q3Zh6e_cPLKmnJYFT1WSSHbVA/s200/philip+schultz+failure.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Co-winner of the 2008<br />
<a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/book/9780156031288/Failure">Pulitzer Prize</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I like how he links ageing to the planet - what he notices about the sea, the sun. Do you think the last sentence is a little defeatist, or is it philosophical? Why should we expect our planet to last forever? And this is one of the thoughts I leave the poem with rather than just thinking about the narrator's own experience.<br />
<br />
There's one phrase in the poem that makes me smile: <em>I'm happy if the car starts/ </em>Me too! Do we expect less as we get older? Or do we learn gratitude? Again, I'm prompted to reflect on particular ideas that are implicit in the poem but take me outside of it too. <br />
<br />
Write your own age poem, using the above poem as a model, or stretching out in your own direction. But be careful, you don't want to put your back out : )<br />
<br />
Write well<br />
L<br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-29489441914261078572011-02-14T16:20:00.001+01:002011-02-14T16:20:50.506+01:00Consider this... a very un-Valentine writing prompt<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYidbGWL5lIPu01RIwpJ8Neg8U_FFN0ZjXghCojyMIJm-ZFd28VE5ESUHuuuH2OwH_fSj3ywj2mDKWfBUvHO_kBA7VdTcd9eC6H1WAV9viMITw-4OWOnLgoLQ2WDvm0_ZrcqIp3odpd_k7/s1600/consider+this+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYidbGWL5lIPu01RIwpJ8Neg8U_FFN0ZjXghCojyMIJm-ZFd28VE5ESUHuuuH2OwH_fSj3ywj2mDKWfBUvHO_kBA7VdTcd9eC6H1WAV9viMITw-4OWOnLgoLQ2WDvm0_ZrcqIp3odpd_k7/s200/consider+this+book.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbara Ann Kipfer<br />
Random House 2007</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I bought this book while on holiday in the US a couple of years ago. It's not the kind of book you read from cover to cover. You pick it up and glance through the 8 or 10 questions it has on each double page spread, and the occasional large print single pager, and see if one catches your eye. I've noticed that sometimes one does arrest me but I move on because I feel it's asking too much of me at that moment. Cowardly? Lazy? Probably a little of both. But I don't find it easy to think deeply spontaneously. It's is if I have to be shoe-horned into it, and for that reason dinner with good friends often has the right elements - comfortable companionship, good food and wine - to ease me slowly into a stage of, I hope, intelligent reflection. Of course a discussion of beliefs and opinions can become very energetic, even over-heated, particularly when there's a decent quantity of wine around, but if there are enough of you one person is generally able to lower the temperature and pull everyone back to a level of consideration. That's not always possible with family though... at least in my experience. Maybe yours is different?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My poetry prompt for today, and a very un-Valentine one it is too but I'm going on the assumption that there's plenty of Valentine stuff already out there, is to write a poem in response to the following question:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>(p. 63) What will happen to the world when you die?<br />
<br />
Here's my spontaneous response, raw and unedited but something to work on:<br />
<br />
<strong>What happens to the world when I die</strong><br />
<br />
In the movie<br />
of my life<br />
there’s a moment <br />
of stillness: <br />
a street empty<br />
of traffic;<br />
a cashier’s hand<br />
hovers over <br />
the buttons on a till;<br />
someone looks up <br />
through the bare branches <br />
of a Plane tree,<br />
<br />
and then it’s over,<br />
a car-horn blares,<br />
a customer asks<br />
if avocados <br />
are on special,<br />
a sudden gust <br />
forces someone <br />
to clap their hands<br />
against the cold<br />
then fast-dial home<br />
to say they won’t<br />
be long.<br />
<br />
How carefully<br />
I read the credits<br />
looking<br />
for myself. <br />
<br />
<strong>Lynne Rees</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
I look forward to reading your poems.<br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L <br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-66981747548973711912011-01-30T17:13:00.000+01:002011-01-30T17:13:11.052+01:00The Stories of BedsHow do you feel about your bed? Have you ever thought of painting it, like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Rauschenberg">Robert Rauschenberg</a>,<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQQ-K2ejqFwQlb7vtnBsBKi7dpo_5hxx1wEWsHOdAJ_0KAheERduHe_4C-LOKP_mPEhN7xM8QAKov-MEjOiaK6yD44qd53KPrNyFaShckR6wQxJeyz5NBHvZv9wzEhfzn5SmABnFUA2MC/s1600/r+rauschenberg+bed+1955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQQ-K2ejqFwQlb7vtnBsBKi7dpo_5hxx1wEWsHOdAJ_0KAheERduHe_4C-LOKP_mPEhN7xM8QAKov-MEjOiaK6yD44qd53KPrNyFaShckR6wQxJeyz5NBHvZv9wzEhfzn5SmABnFUA2MC/s320/r+rauschenberg+bed+1955.jpg" width="140" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rauschenberg, 1955</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">or displaying it as a work of art as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tracy_Emin">Tracy Emin</a> chose to do.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPax_yLXEE_ooSRIbOGDcqRmY5EnuTIdMYZDnbYWRutNeYwKdwmLvf3VEsZlud_I3ZVZhDMyryYkcWcXel0xiYSFGvvjrmLHT-RV77KeCX4esKuNo6awKneTbgRXfi6t0jHlheb4Z710BG/s1600/Tracey+Emin+My+Bed+1998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPax_yLXEE_ooSRIbOGDcqRmY5EnuTIdMYZDnbYWRutNeYwKdwmLvf3VEsZlud_I3ZVZhDMyryYkcWcXel0xiYSFGvvjrmLHT-RV77KeCX4esKuNo6awKneTbgRXfi6t0jHlheb4Z710BG/s320/Tracey+Emin+My+Bed+1998.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emin, My Bed 1998</td></tr>
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nykxZ34s7eGto38FpQn2FaCdBkVfR6sZ9QCr3K5AR5dG4O3CzvTt4pBsBrAvsIPHLTrplMCoRR3_VBuV2dXNT9SYIvFgZgRzDjrK5UVapN1J8XAobTAmB75ML80V2xD8E5f9YpNbSt33/s1600/PowersBibleQuilt+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="219" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nykxZ34s7eGto38FpQn2FaCdBkVfR6sZ9QCr3K5AR5dG4O3CzvTt4pBsBrAvsIPHLTrplMCoRR3_VBuV2dXNT9SYIvFgZgRzDjrK5UVapN1J8XAobTAmB75ML80V2xD8E5f9YpNbSt33/s320/PowersBibleQuilt+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Powers, Pictorial Quilt 1898<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div> <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>The quilt, left, was made in the 19th century by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_Powers">Harriet Powers</a>, an African American slave and artist. <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">What story would you sow into a quilt? Who would be the main characters? Would there be a happy ending?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">What do you keep at the side of your bed? If your bed could speak what would it say? About you, about the dreams you share with it?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">Think about the beds you have slept it, from childhood to now. In houses, in tents, between trees, on boats...</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">Write a poem about one, or about many.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">Write well.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">L</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">x</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-74797499410783483392011-01-18T14:53:00.000+01:002011-01-18T14:53:45.146+01:00I resolve not to...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wv3zys1M_r4ce-_1syfMMsIiFOxNwbDSc7qL-RnZbz34PxUbCcLFEpFfjj9VZ1iYYNvtYMhB8I4bUiZy-HFSa_wOfgT02VoB82q6l-pmiO91OztE-tItsmR9aJUSC2SwRVVTsa_nVnVf/s1600/new-year-resolutions1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wv3zys1M_r4ce-_1syfMMsIiFOxNwbDSc7qL-RnZbz34PxUbCcLFEpFfjj9VZ1iYYNvtYMhB8I4bUiZy-HFSa_wOfgT02VoB82q6l-pmiO91OztE-tItsmR9aJUSC2SwRVVTsa_nVnVf/s200/new-year-resolutions1.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>New year, new page, new leaf, new look... we can't help but associate the beginning of the year with starting new projects, or resolving to change things, or give up things.<br />
<br />
I'd like us to think about the things we resolve NOT to do:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I resolve not to make fun of my sister's dog</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I resolve not to open the 2nd bottle of wine</span><br />
<br />
But let's not be limited by reality or practicality:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I resolve not to invade Iraq</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I resolve never to die without informing you of place, date and time</span><br />
<br />
Have fun with free-listing over the next week. Then look back and see how parts of those lists could be shaped into a poem. <br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L<br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-10389789144850289022011-01-11T22:25:00.000+01:002011-01-11T22:25:26.002+01:00Blog Visit: a hungry writing prompt<div style="text-align: justify;">Hello everyone. I'll be back to AppleHouse properly this weekend, once I'm home again in France. In the meantime there are delayed flights and missed connections to negotiate out of Miami and London. The joys of travel : )</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqgQqLwy-YQziDqGLLkun8D5ld-s1dSNTOLxFJXgYUl_G4f-isFVZe1BOJ9nBV4vZgan0t2c80j2u6IPf2AqGc0vq6m9GcGjFdaX5-QNisnvxU_w3FKkFuy4uU7NhtGD_zenqZcFyDIct/s1600/sky+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="121" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqgQqLwy-YQziDqGLLkun8D5ld-s1dSNTOLxFJXgYUl_G4f-isFVZe1BOJ9nBV4vZgan0t2c80j2u6IPf2AqGc0vq6m9GcGjFdaX5-QNisnvxU_w3FKkFuy4uU7NhtGD_zenqZcFyDIct/s400/sky+3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">If you'd like a writing prompt you could visit <a href="http://www.lynnerees.com/2011/01/lessons-mams-vegetable-soup.html">The Hungry Writer</a> blog and respond to the prompt at the end of my post, either in prose or poetry. There'll be more prompts as this project continues so please feel free to follow it too. It would be lovely to see you there.</div><br />
Write well.<br />
L<br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-58002497776862563792011-01-04T14:19:00.000+01:002011-01-04T14:19:23.792+01:00Welcome to 2011I'm on holiday in Florida until the middle of January so it will be a little while until I get back properly to AppleHouse but in the meantime here's a poem by a poet whose words always speak to me very loudly:<br />
<br />
<strong>Green-Striped Melons</strong><br />
<br />
They lie <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">under stars in a field. </div>They lie under rain in a field. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Under sun. </div><br />
Some people <br />
are like this as well— <br />
like a painting <br />
hidden beneath another painting. <br />
<br />
An unexpected weight <br />
the sign of their ripeness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/jane-hirshfield">Jane Hirshfield </a></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Perhaps her words will inspire you to write about something hidden, something that doesn't reveal itself easily but which rewards us when we do notice it.<br />
<br />
Write well<br />
L<br />
xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-52546306456060540052010-12-24T13:30:00.000+01:002010-12-24T13:30:21.039+01:00Wonder and joy <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCICG_2X8x7WRgwvXOqbEvPy2emdss4QzU4dNjvMjBIB8rQJRJMf7Ud9M7vj1Q71NkdzN3fO_hrN_2qLoaMGX8C8G64ixPFGuNG0JK96jEJHE602SrZ-M30CG7NAYUDAtTJ9zMBkMk0mB/s1600/ffion+the+croc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; height: 352px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 194px;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCICG_2X8x7WRgwvXOqbEvPy2emdss4QzU4dNjvMjBIB8rQJRJMf7Ud9M7vj1Q71NkdzN3fO_hrN_2qLoaMGX8C8G64ixPFGuNG0JK96jEJHE602SrZ-M30CG7NAYUDAtTJ9zMBkMk0mB/s320/ffion+the+croc.jpg" width="193" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ffion Richards <br />
in her prize-winning costume:<br />
The Enormous Crocodile<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Thank you everyone, poets and writers, readers and passers-by who have inspired me to keep blogging along.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">To close the year I have a poem by my great-niece that is full, appropriately, of wonder and joy: </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">wen the snow is drop in,</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">it is lite,</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">the snow it is litlee</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">drop in drop in</div>it is like the sky is cumin undun,<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">frowin snowballs,</div>making a snowman today.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
<strong><em>Ffion Richards, age 5</em></strong> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I wish you all a lovely holiday and a happy and healthy 2011 full of wonder and joy.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">L</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">x</div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-61189960624174025762010-12-21T10:41:00.000+01:002010-12-21T10:41:10.162+01:00A River of Stones: National Small Stone Month January 2011<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg88Z8uw8Z9Ayh3kfB5FuPNPT9bB-AlCl5az6qFCBYHSHGhT6FPFFdpLifnKAOZ-DHJbjokO2V9_qyY4nTavxCk3boRfXHTzflNJm3UFS6LZfIh6NuJbUISoIDZ0ZNzmDojOUOivCwoNtL8/s1600/fiona+robyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg88Z8uw8Z9Ayh3kfB5FuPNPT9bB-AlCl5az6qFCBYHSHGhT6FPFFdpLifnKAOZ-DHJbjokO2V9_qyY4nTavxCk3boRfXHTzflNJm3UFS6LZfIh6NuJbUISoIDZ0ZNzmDojOUOivCwoNtL8/s1600/fiona+robyn.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fiona Robyn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The dynamic Fiona Robyn, creator of <a href="http://asmallstone.com/">a small stone</a> and <a href="http://www.ahandfulofstones.com/">a handful of stones</a> is dircting this fabulous project, NaSmaStoMo, to encourage as many people as possible to write a small stone every day during January. What's a small stone? This is what she says:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><strong>What is a small stone?</strong> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A small stone is a polished moment of paying proper attention. You can see many fine examples at our sister blogzine, <a href="http://www.ahandfulofstones.com/">a handful of stones</a>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><strong>Why would you want to join in?</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because choosing something to write about every day will help you to connect with yourselves, with others, and with the world. It will help you to love everything you see - the light and the dark, the happy and the sad, the beautiful and the ugly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You don't have to be a 'writer' to get involved. The PROCESS of paying attention is what's important. I'd especially like 'writers' and 'non-writers' to get involved. If you'd rather not publish your small stones on a blog, you can write them in a note-book. It could change your entire year...</span><br />
<br />
For more information about joining the project, and getting a badge for your blog or website, visit <a href="http://www.ariverofstones.blogspot.com/">a river of stones.</a> I can't think of a better way to start the year so I'll be taking part and posting my own small stones on my haiku and haibun blog <a href="http://anopenfield.blogspot.com/">an open field.</a>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-35204694173163669812010-12-19T18:29:00.000+01:002010-12-19T18:29:32.480+01:00I believe...I believe that the best poetry looks at the world from a slant point of view. If, as poets, we approach a subject straight on, talk directly about our ideas and feelings, we can risk being overly sentimental or didactic. And no one really enjoys reading things that either make us feel like a voyeur or someone on the receiving end of a finger wagging lesson.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson">Emily Dickinson</a> sums up this idea up:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivo_I0mXshz8f7aOnTqt4aq9qdVepXKqs8GfZdpzAxk1lEe2fhPjq2FDr5n0IuE1hFsIZ2zfRtCpofOAi14pZVFTbsih-jeZ6PCoU4wAeh1zCmRfCIw0BustqZwDBtSBbHZtnI59tQc_4T/s1600/emily+dickinson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivo_I0mXshz8f7aOnTqt4aq9qdVepXKqs8GfZdpzAxk1lEe2fhPjq2FDr5n0IuE1hFsIZ2zfRtCpofOAi14pZVFTbsih-jeZ6PCoU4wAeh1zCmRfCIw0BustqZwDBtSBbHZtnI59tQc_4T/s200/emily+dickinson.jpg" width="153" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emily Dickinson</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—<br />
<br />
Success in Circuit lies<br />
Too bright for our infirm Delight<br />
The Truth's superb surprise<br />
<br />
As Lightning to the Children eased<br />
With explanation kind<br />
The Truth must dazzle gradually<br />
Or every man be blind—<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I like that line: <em>The Truth must dazzle gradually.</em> <br />
<br />
And that's exactly how I feel about the following poem by <a href="http://www.michael-blumenthal.com/">Michael Blumenthal</a>:<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>What I Believe</strong><br />
<br />
I believe there is no justice,<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsKq7MUDkJb59Nk0d0g_-TjZsHvMdUpSYDG5WIwRsF0ImQ98KFxnAWpDjlwSoDFhW8WHLsIMQkzxEzM1nWCD9n90wl46ZGfcGbsaz2qc0snKl3BVlXZNCP724ddtn8bqLA4GuJNM_eM-j/s1600/Blumenthal+collection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsKq7MUDkJb59Nk0d0g_-TjZsHvMdUpSYDG5WIwRsF0ImQ98KFxnAWpDjlwSoDFhW8WHLsIMQkzxEzM1nWCD9n90wl46ZGfcGbsaz2qc0snKl3BVlXZNCP724ddtn8bqLA4GuJNM_eM-j/s200/Blumenthal+collection.jpg" width="185" /></a></div>but that cottongrass and bunchberry<br />
grow on the mountain.<br />
<br />
I believe that a scorpion's sting<br />
will kill a man, <br />
but that his wife will remarry.<br />
<br />
I believe that, the older we get,<br />
the weaker the body,<br />
but the stronger the soul.<br />
<br />
I believe that if you roll over at night<br />
in an empty bed,<br />
the air consoles you.<br />
<br />
I believe that no one is spared<br />
the darkness,<br />
and no one gets all of it.<br />
<br />
I believe we all drown eventually <br />
in a sea of our making,<br />
but that the land belongs to someone else.<br />
<br />
I believe in destiny.<br />
And I believe in free will.<br />
<br />
I believe that, when all<br />
the clocks break,<br />
time goes on without them.<br />
<br />
And I believe that whatever <br />
pulls us under,<br />
will do so gently<br />
<br />
so as not to disturb anyone,<br />
so as not to interfere<br />
with what we believe in. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael Blumenthal</strong><br />
from <em><a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/book/9781929355242/Days-We-Would-Rather-Know?selectCurrency=GBP">Days We Would Rather Know</a></em><br />
Pleasure Boat Studio, 2005<br />
<br />
Can you write a 'credo' poem, a list things you, or someone else, believes in, but make that poem speak to other people too? I think part of this poem's success is how it shifts between points of view, from I to you to we. What matters to the narrator becomes something that matters to the reader (the personal you), to the world in general (the universal you), and to all of us (we). <br />
<br />
I like how concrete images are set against abstract ideas: justice/cottongrass and bunchberry, clocks break/time goes on. I like the swings between opposites: weaker/stronger, sea/land. And I like how the rhythm of the poem changes with the enjambement (the read on lines) between the last two stanzas, how it gently extends our reading, and thus our understanding.<br />
<br />
There's a quiet voice behind the poem, but it has authority too. The use of the first person, the I, often has that effect.<br />
<br />
I suggest a poem of no more than 40 lines that draws on some of the craft choices in this poem: juxtaposition of image and idea, shifts between opposites, and a deliberate choice of point/s of view. <br />
<br />
Write well.<br />
L xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-87651385270392209942010-12-09T19:02:00.000+01:002010-12-09T19:02:33.474+01:00Above us, Below us, Behind us, Ahead of usI recently read this poem by <a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/1269">Ted Kooser:</a><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><strong>Flying at Night</strong><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.<br />
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,</div>some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,<br />
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn<br />
back into the little system of his care.<br />
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">I'm astonished at his comparison of a dying galaxy with a snowflake falling on water. That juxtaposition of something so huge with something so small wouldn't have occurred to me, but it works so well, doesn't it? And the image acts as a vehicle for so many ideas too: how small we are, how everything is connected, how even 'death' can be beautiful. I'm sure there are more.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">My poetry prompt is to write a poem, not using the 'Above/Below' structure that Kooser uses, but 'Behind/Ahead' instead. So, you can talk about the past/future, or something more concrete like the sea and the mountains, or something closer to you like the kitchen and the bedroom. It's up to you. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">BUT your poem can only be 8 lines long, the same length as Kooser's, and it should compare, or juxtapose, two things that we might not expect to see connected. </div><br />
Write well.<br />
L <br />
<div style="text-align: left;">x</div>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-67988664683847656172010-11-20T13:56:00.000+01:002010-11-20T13:56:31.123+01:00Poetry Prompt: Treasures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYqewrdbtfVe2OmPdUuyhsnqfqiF9OdxJJ8RJasOCc6-6R5DIP0wl9Iny6TgCX_zheNnlUvT1ineHz1NTHvGbJSbuyzOp2ZKnJqAbB6LRpn9rO6NZ9n7m2nZ1YVhr3cxREO-cohFw46IGo/s1600/treasure+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYqewrdbtfVe2OmPdUuyhsnqfqiF9OdxJJ8RJasOCc6-6R5DIP0wl9Iny6TgCX_zheNnlUvT1ineHz1NTHvGbJSbuyzOp2ZKnJqAbB6LRpn9rO6NZ9n7m2nZ1YVhr3cxREO-cohFw46IGo/s200/treasure+map.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not the pirate and island kind we usually associate with the word. But the things you would grab from your 'hypothetically' burning home before you ran out of the door. They can only be what you can carry in two hands, or in your pockets; things that won't slow you down or hinder your escape. Things that will comfort you when you realise you have lost everything else. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's not include people or pets; let's take it as a given that everyone you love is safe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, you have less that two minutes before you have to be out of that door. What calls to you?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They can be real things, or they can be invented or imaginary. They can be concrete or abstract. What matters is not factual accuracy but emotional truth. We must make our readers FEEL that it IS true.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Write well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">L x</div>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-80022588401574579982010-11-07T17:29:00.003+01:002010-11-07T17:37:26.641+01:00The Hungry WriterI've started a new writing project based around food - you can take a look at the most recent blog posts <a href="http://www.lynnerees.com/"><strong>here</strong></a><strong>.</strong> Although, as <strong><a href="http://www.orangette.blogspot.com/">Molly Wizenberg</a> </strong>says<strong>, </strong><em>Food is never just food. It's also a way of getting at something else: who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be.</em> If you'd like to keep in touch with my weekly memoirs, you can become a <a href="http://www.lynnerees.com/"><strong>Hungry Reader</strong></a> and follow the blog. <br />
<br />
So, I wondered if you'd like to join me for a bite to eat, or something to drink, for this prompt? <br />
<br />
Free write around the idea of food. Think of the food of your childhood, your likes and dislikes now, about the first ever restaurant meal you ate. What are the colours of food that attract you? Do you remember the first time you got drunk? Have you ever been in a situation where someone has fed you, or provided you with food because you were unable to do it for yourself? Have you ever grown your own food? Can you describe the first sip of cold beer, or champagne, or hot tea? Let your mind have a free rein - allow it to take you wherever it wants to go. <br />
<br />
I never expected to write the following poem. I don't know where it came from... I definitely don't know a man like this! But the images arose during a free writing session. It's good to surprise ourselves sometimes. <br />
<br />
<strong>Fat</strong><br />
<br />
Skinny women order his fish<br />
fried in low-cholesterol oil,<br />
batter as crisp and sheer as glass.<br />
He teases them about goose-fat,<br />
the slip of it, how it dimples<br />
under fingertips, at the right point<br />
of tenderness how it gives<br />
to the tip of a tongue.<br />
<br />
He dreams of women<br />
whose flesh parts for him<br />
like lard – their overlap, the spill<br />
and pleat of them, his hands skating<br />
over their suety gleam, their excess<br />
rejoicing under his palms.<br />
<br />
from <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Learning-How-Fall-Lynne-Rees/dp/1902638603/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1288894129&sr=1-1"><strong><em>Learning How to Fall</em></strong></a><br />
<br />
Write well. <br />
L xLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com12