Today is the first day of the spring semester. As I prepare, I've started thinking a lot about firsts--first day of school, first kiss, first time on a plane, first time jumping out of one, etc. I've had a lot of firsts in my life, so this seems like a fine time to write about them. What first do you remember fondly? Or with great horror? Let's write about firsts.
Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
It is my plan to write a first poem this week. Great idea!
ReplyDeleteHow about first time participating in a poetry stretch? ;^)
ReplyDeleteNames
ReplyDeleteMy first kiss was a revelation,
not because it was deep, soulful,
full of tongue,
but rather hesitant
or perhaps respectful,
hard to know at the moment
of such new, sweet heat
or even years later, trying to recall.
A quick peck on the lips,
a butterfly not a wasp,
and yet I was stung
there under the Vermont trees.
That boy, I think his name was Paul.
The trees, I think they might have been birches.
The place, by the main house at summer camp.
I remember that name at least:
Indianbrook.
or Indian Brook,
now Farm & Wilderness,
because Quakers are wary of misnomers.
But names fall away fifty-five years later
and only that first young kiss,
remains.
Whether Paul or the birches do as well,
well, it little matters
when the matter is not reality
but memory.
©2010 Jane Yolen All Rights Reserved
I've adopted the fake it till you make it attitude for 2010 and that's why I'm participating in a few blogs. This is some industry humor as well as a nod to Jane.
ReplyDeleteMy First Poem this Week
by Ken Slesarik
Can you fix this poem?
For Jane Yolen I am not.
It’s not a sonnet or an ode
with a complicated plot.
It’s closer to a limerick,
a basic, simple jaunt.
The best parts of my poem
are the paper and the font.
The meter it is woeful.
The cadence clearly weak.
My grammar needs some work
so go on and take a peek.
Please do your best to fix this.
I’m certain you won’t fail.
And if you know a publisher
this poem, it’s for sale.
c2010 by K. Thomas Slesarik
Not sure I have been in a poem since my college boyfriend wrote a poem for me and my husband before he died wrote me a love haiku and a birthday apology poem.
ReplyDeleteThanks TKS!
Jane
Okay, I've tried to post this twice and the formatting got all screwed up. If it doesn't work right this time, so be it! Here goes...
ReplyDeleteCome to think of it
I'm now sixty and I
have yet to roast a turkey,
or even to cook a roast
beef. I've got endless
"firsts" possibilities--
making the aforementioned
roasts, knitting--anything,
writing a sonnet, welcoming
a grandchild, traveling
west of Pennsylvania,
getting a pedicure, taking
tap dance lessons, going
up in a hot air balloon,
seeing a Broadway musical--
on Broadway, winning a Newbury
(actually any award would do),
growing clematis, wearing
high heels (nah, I'll never
do that), running a mile,
eating a hot fudge sundae
with three scoops of ice
cream, nuts, a cherry, and
real whipped cream without
feeling guilty. Hey, I'm
sixty--that doesn't make
me old--only I can do that.
That's great, I left off the title:
ReplyDeleteFirst Time Roasting a Turkey
(You're not going to believe this, but the verification word required for me to post this is "sucko"--I kid you not.)
WHEN I FIRST KNEW
ReplyDeletefor Lesley
February night, stuck inside
a stuffy, dim-lit dorm room,
people talking nonsense.
I say to no one, anyone,
"I'm going for a walk,"
hoping it won't draw a crowd.
I've got your attention.
You ask, "Can I come too?"
We grab our warm coats
slip out the door to the hall.
Multiple musics surround us:
Frankie Valli's "Oh, What a Night"
mixes with Pearl Jam's "Black."
The corridor reeks of popcorn.
Outside, cold air blows
swirls of snow on the road
that goes from Cedar Hall
up toward the frog pond
by the auditorium.
It's well below freezing --
maybe fifteen degrees --
but I don't notice.
In fact, I'm flushed in the face.
We're both eighteen.
The heat between us
is palpable,
like a delicate shape
of glass in soul-space.
I start to speak, stop,
awake to something new
in your sidelong smile,
a kiss of dark, dark eyes,
an inner shift I cannot name
and know how loved
I am in love, how we'll never
be separate, or the same.
A modified tanka:
ReplyDeleteCreek gurgles, out there.
Trout sizzles, in here.
My first time to crunch down whole,
Head-first, a bony small fry,
While outside, fish rise to feed.
The End
ReplyDeleteFirst Child
How I waited
Prayed and yearned
For you
To be
To see
The you
Of you
Alone – with a small part of me
And he – the one I love the most
(He waited
Wanted too)
But you
Of all we thought should be
You
Alone
Will never be
No part of him
No part of me
No dream
No hope
No faith not dark
No first born
One
Beloved one…
No
First
A First
ReplyDeleteHands shake.
Knees quake.
Smile too wide.
Tongue? Tied.
Teeth brushed.
Breathe rushed.
Mirror glance.
First dance.
(Greg Pincus, 2010)
First Sentence
ReplyDeleteIt was a dark and—
no. She ran, shrieking—
no. The breath of dawn,
the pink breath of dawn?
No. No. I couldn't believe—
If an octopus would only—
maybe. Tilly had flown
just once. Not bad. But if—
okay. His fangs dripped—
no. Absolutely NO vampires!
The hydrocephalic earwig—
yuck. Or maybe...
I wanted to tell a story.
But nothing worked.
That works.
--Kate Coombs, 2010
I wonder if anyone had a first love like mine?
ReplyDeleteit was his lack of
respect for
capitals
titles
spacing
punctuation
that I fell for
his (parentheses)
flitting
out of nowhere
his words
swaggering down
the lines
flirting
luring me in
with mouth
watering
pulsations
my blossoming body
could only dream of
ee(first love)
© Carol Weis
FIRST BREATH
ReplyDeleteScrunched
a month or more
in chysalis,
limbs sore
and stiff at this
moment of awakening.
Emerging,
surging wings
oustretch,
antennae strings
pop, unflex.
A butterfly’s first breath.
--Barbara Turner
These first love, first kiss poems are wonderful! --Kate
ReplyDeleteOh boy, these are all lovely. This prompt certainly inspired a lot of emotion this week.
ReplyDeleteHere's mine.
ReplyDeleteFIRST KISS
Not my first kiss
not my first boyfriend
but a first kiss from
that friend
who knew me better than anyone
that friend
who happened to be a boy
that friend
who rode his bike
miles and miles
to my grandmother's house
to stand like a shy soldier
on the yellow front porch,
the dirty screen door the only thing
that separated us,
until he finally asked me
to come outside.
I let the screen door slam behind me
but for once
Nana didn't yell
or issue warnings
of what we should or shouldn't do
(that would come later.)
He didn't speak
that boy
that friend
so I tucked my words beneath my tongue
and followed him
watched
while he leaned against Nana's blue Oldsmobile
until the door handle jabbed him in the back
and he didn't move,
he just watched me,
watching him
His hair,
red like strawberries,
tempted me
and I wanted to touch it
to feel its heat
to connect the dots of freckles on his face
to hear his voice
that voice I talked to on the phone
every day
every night
say something
anything
but the silence continued to simmer
and melted my anticipation
until I felt lost
like we were playing musical chairs
and the music had stopped
and I had nowhere to go.
I moved to the shade of the orange tree
inhaled the citrus perfume
let the sturdy trunk support me
and waited.
Overhead bees buzzed
dancing from flower to flower flower
mission accomplished
again and again.
He spoke
at long last
that boy
that friend
about going home
about his paper route
about not being late
headed for his bike
to ride those miles and miles
home again
but before he left
he joined me under the orange tree
and kissed me
for the very first time.
©2010 Susan Taylor Brown
All Rights Reserved
Taking the Years Away
ReplyDeletei gave you a piece of my mind
and you took it away; kept it with
my heart (which i gave you the day we met)
in an old Liquorice Allsorts tin
you bought at an antiques fair.
i lost my mind when you left
but you stayed in touch
and over the years came to love me
like a well-remembered aunt
and you gave me back that first piece,
dried and withered as it was.
i remembered our youth
and the old quarry where we fell in love
over a fossilised snail shell.
Here are mine:
ReplyDeletewinter’s first snowflakes
dance the twirl-a-whirl at dawn
hummingbirds tremble
seek refuge from cold
hidden in branches
++++++++++++++++++++
first trembling kiss
mountains and valleys the paths
a twenty year journey