Jan's Poetry Class--TRIOLET

[GShuler]

I got out of a chair today and three bones creaked louder than the chair, so.........

Can someone tell me when I grew so old?
The carriage ride of life went oh, so fast.
My youthful hopes, my dreams have grown cold...
can someone tell me when I grew so old?
With pen in hand the stories must be told
before the carriage robs me of my past.
Can someone tell me when I grew so old?
The carriage ride of life went oh, so fast.

[glorybee]

Oh Gerald, we can all relate to this!

Superbly crafted, too--I love it!

[yvonne]

Here's my triolet (btw- is that TRI-O-LET or TRE-O-LET ?)

Ev’ning shadows, soft the light,
Rocking, cuddling, sleepy baby
Fav’rite blanket, clutching tight.
Ev’ning shadow, soft the light.
Humming softly “Through the Night”
Cooing, drooping, dreaming maybe.
Ev’ning shadows, soft the light,
Rocking, cuddling, sleeping baby.


Grandbabies are so adorable, you have to write poems about them!

[glorybee]

Vonnie, I have two different sites that show pronunciation for the word--one gives it the French pronunciation (tree-uh-LAY), and the other gives the American (tree-uh-LET) Take your pick!

Oh, a baby poem! Love, love the baby poems. So very, very sweet.

[yvonne]

Since I'm a French teacher, I'll choose to pronounce it TREE-O-LAY. In fact, I was saying it that way in my head when I read it.

[pheeweed]

I think I'm starting to understand the process of writing a poem. First I found an image, then I looked for a deeper meaning. Then I wrote the first two lines and scanned them. Then I looked for rhymes. Then I tried to get the message into a phrase that ended with the right rhyme. Then I played with words until I was satisfied I had the meter, rhymes and message. Wow. I admire all of you real poets who do it so well.

Digging treasure in back yards
What will little pirates find?
Precious trinkets no one guards
Digging treasure in back yards
Next a pearl no one discards
Buried deep, in Word confined
Digging treasure in back yards
What will little pirates find?

I deliberately didn't punctuate so Next could be part of the previous line or the beginning of a new sentence. Is that okay?

Phee

[yvonne]

Phee, think of writing a poem as building a rock wall or doing a mosaic. You have all these pieces (words), you sort through them to find just the right shape and color. You rearrange them until they are just the way you like them.

BTW - great poem! I could see the kids digging in the dirt.

[Symphonic]

This is another poetic form I'd never heard of, though I can think of other poems that use that sort of repetition. It seems to me that this form lends itself to reflective/melancholy poetry... though others (most notably Steve!!) have already proven that isn't always the case.

Maybe I'm just in melancholy mode at the moment, since I was quite sick last week and missed a concert I was really looking forward to singing. So with that in mind...

The music goes on when we are not there
And others take our places on the stage.
The faces change beneath the stage-lights’ glare;
The music goes on when we are not there.

Ghost voices do not linger on the air
When we are banished by our choice, or age;
The music goes on when we are not there
And others take our places on the stage.


Carol S.

[glorybee]

Phee, I loved the way that you transitioned from the object (the treasure in the dirt) to the lesson (the pearls in the Word). Very nice, subtle and well done!

We may make a poet of you yet!

[glorybee]

This is another poetic form I'd never heard of, though I can think of other poems that use that sort of repetition. It seems to me that this form lends itself to reflective/melancholy poetry... though others (most notably Steve!!) have already proven that isn't always the case.

Maybe I'm just in melancholy mode at the moment, since I was quite sick last week and missed a concert I was really looking forward to singing. So with that in mind...

The music goes on when we are not there
And others take our places on the stage.
The faces change beneath the stage-lights’ glare;
The music goes on when we are not there.

Ghost voices do not linger on the air
When we are banished by our choice, or age;
The music goes on when we are not there
And others take our places on the stage.


Carol S.

Aw Carol, I'm sorry you missed your concert, and that you were sick! I hope you're much better now. Your writing skills don't seem to have suffered any; this is sad and tender and wistful--beautifully written!

[pheeweed]

Phee, think of writing a poem as building a rock wall or doing a mosaic. You have all these pieces (words), you sort through them to find just the right shape and color. You rearrange them until they are just the way you like them.

Thanks, Vonnie. I'm starting to see that. My problem is that I don't think I have very many pieces to work with. I just can't think of the right words. I'm growing, though.

Phee

[swfdoc1]

Steve! It's so deep, so meaningful, so profound!

I'm not sure I've even come close to grasping all the spiritual and emotional remifications. I'll have to mull it over for a while.

Okay, done mulling.

It seems to me that this form lends itself to reflective/melancholy poetry... though others (most notably Steve!!) have already proven that isn't always the case.

OK, OK!

A Mother’s Streamside Musing

A leaf floating, stuck upon an eddy,
Turning, spinning, willing to break away.
Is it? Can it? Am I like it or it me?
A leaf floating, stuck upon an eddy
Represents my life. Where can I find me?
Kids to school, games, friends, practice, ev’ry day.
A leaf floating, stuck upon an eddy.
Turning. Spinning. Willing to break away?


2 things: 1. Not about my mother or my wife. 2. Who controls the meaning, the writer or the reader? He, he, he, here we go again! Did you take “willing” to mean “agreeable” or “exerting the will” or one of each?

[glorybee]

One of each, I think.

And as to your bigger question--I'd love to have a discussion on that. I think poetry (and anything we write, really) belongs to the reader, as soon as we put it out there to be read. I can't tell you how many times people have commented on the meaning they found in something I wrote--that I never intended to put there. But if someone found it there--who am I to say that it's NOT there?

[swfdoc1]

Did you take “willing” to mean “agreeable” or “exerting the will” or one of each?

One of each, I think.

Any other takers before I reveal the answer?

And as to your bigger question--I'd love to have a discussion on that. I think poetry (and anything we write, really) belongs to the reader, as soon as we put it out there to be read. I can't tell you how many times people have commented on the meaning they found in something I wrote--that I never intended to put there. But if someone found it there--who am I to say that it's NOT there?

Don't you mean have a discussion on that AGAIN? Have we forgotten so quickly?

No James Whitcomb Riley on my reading list this week. Just some Ackerson. I am working on an essay on her classic piece, Sniggles. I read an interview with the author once in which she said that 75% of it was based on actual experiences that she had working as the secretary for a dyslexic pastor, that this was just a light-hearted piece. But we need not be blind to the obvious anti-ecclesiastical message. The pastor, representing the Church itself, is bumbling, disorganized. The Church gets things backwards and confused. Yet it cannot resist meddling in the lives of people. The secretary, of course, represents those countless millions of fools who waste their lives in service to the bumbling Church. And what a brilliant parting shot at the end. The thinly veiled allusion to a soon-coming sexual tryst between Susie Fields and Jim Bradford, a tryst that, to use that horrid ecclesiastical term, would be viewed as “sin” by the Church. BUT, what a stroke of genesis to name him Bradford, in an obvious call-back to the Puritan William Bradford. Here we clearly see an attack on the hypocrisy of the Puritans’, and hence all of Christendom’s, sexual mores. Nor has it escaped us that Bradford is a TWIN. Here Ackerson is at her exquisite best. Yes, yes, the Church is guilty of twin crimes. One is clearly the hypocrisy just noted. But what is the other crime? Ackerson doesn’t tell us. She doesn’t WANT to tell us. For me, it could be its materialism. For you, it could be its self-absorption. For the next reader, it could its suffocating regulations of its members’ lives. Brilliant! We know the Church is criminal, yet Ackerson feels no need to compel us to concentrate on just one of its innumerable flaws. No, we are free to loathe the Church as we will. What a master!

[yvonne]

I can't tell you how many times people have commented on the meaning they found in something I wrote--that I never intended to put there. But if someone found it there--who am I to say that it's NOT there?

I think a lot of our subconscious thoughts come through in our writing. I think even the objects and images we use are often symbolic of our attitudes, whether we realize it or not. I've gone back and read something that I thought was trivial when I wrote it, and I've seen the emotions I was dealing with at that time.