For years, I have kept notebooks beside my bed, not for my own writing, but to jot down the things I read which strike me as timelessly profound. For example, I recorded these words from John Irving's novel, Last Night in Twisted River, in February 2010.
We don't always have a choice how we get to know one another. Sometimes, people fall into our lives cleanly - as if out of the sky, or as if there were a direct flight from Heaven to Earth - the same sudden way we lose people, who once seemed they would always be part of our lives.
|Notebook at the bedroom window.|
When I began to write poetry a few years ago, I just turned to the back of my notebook and scribbled my attempts there.
Once I began to blog, and read poetry on-line, I became much more comfortable writing directly into a word document. If I need to jot something down, I grab a piece of paper from the printer and fold it in half.
This is where it all goes down. The firefly jar has replaced my notebooks, as a more convenient repository for those momentous quotes I like to capture. I added these lines recently from one of Shay's poems, called Sacrifice:
If, the next time, mine is the sacrifice,
At least I can scream my joy and my pain in my own language.
The Mini-Challenge on Real Toads today is Poetry for the Firefly Jar, and here are my scraps, two written in the Koan Style, and the last just free styling an idea.
|Today's poems in rough|
The promise of season’s change has been broken:
Old leaves lie like burning footprints in the frost.
It has been months since I last thought your name,
Why, then, does your ghostly face wake me cold?
~ ~ ~
I asked the holy man: “What becomes of the dead?”
He replied: “The long white bones are carved into flutes.”
~ ~ ~
We sit atop our junkyard ruin
and weed out dandelions
with silver forks,
while the children collect seeds
in broken teacups.