Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Tuesday Poetry Stretch - NOT About WHO You Love, But WHAT You Love

I was given a book of love poems (Shelley) when I was a teen. My response then was ... YUCK! Thirty+ years later, my opinion hasn't changed much. I'm not a big fan of love poetry, but I am a big fan of odes. I enjoy reading about the things people obsess over. I could read poems about birds, a favorite pencil, dad's chair, and lots of other things you can name, over and over. So, while I'm not about the mushy, heartfelt, loving another human being desperately, kind of poem, I do appreciate other kinds of love.

This week let's write an ode to your favorite pair of slippers, an old t-shirt, that ticket stub collection, or anything else that floats your boat. What thing do you love? I can't wait to read your poems.


  1. Short Love Poem To My Granddaughter’s Amazing Grades

    Her grade from me is A+
    and has been from the beginning,
    so your acknowledgement of her brains,
    like her mirror’s nod to her beauty,
    is only a ditto mark, a brava
    after the theater has been cleared.
    Gild meet lily.

    ©2012 Jane Yolen All Rights Reserved

  2. Love the poem, Jane!

    There's a state reservation in Sutton, Massachusetts, where my wife and I have hiked in the summer and fall. I've never been there in winter, but I imagine it would be a dolorous place, morosely beautiful.

    Purgatory Chasm
    By Steven Withrow

    Climb an elm limb,
    Slow now, on a bowed bough,
    Out over a jagged crag.

    This granite gorge
    Gouged ages past by a blast
    Of glacial meltwater,

    Not so soul-cleansing
    As claims its expiating name,
    Remains ravine rock

    Riven in a dim bend
    Of limbo, ice-dammed cataracts
    Called Corn Crib,

    Coffin, Devil’s Pulpit,
    Charley’s Loop, Lovers’ Leap,
    Fat Man’s Misery,

    Such malformations
    Of stone and petrified sand.
    Move hand over hand

    To the branch-break
    And, reaching there, breathe in
    Winter’s indifferent air.

    ©2012 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved

  3. Good stuff, Jane and Steven!

    Word Love

    says a man on TV.
    The word bumbles,
    arms full of m's and b's,
    falling over footstools.

    My son's new favorite
    Last month's crush
    was PLETHORA. Will he?
    Nil he. Silly billy.

    Open the dictionary:
    Latin roots mumble
    like monks, French ones
    slip their arms around
    your neck. Anglo Saxon roots
    run at you berserk,
    battle axes raised.

    Only one unrooted
    new word in a century:
    COPACETIC, glad dancing
    brainchild of Mr. Bojangles.

    Today my tongue
    likes the taste of DAWN,
    and EPIPHANY.
    But my favorite word

    --Kate Coombs 2012,
    all rights reserved

  4. Here's a revision of a poem I may have subbed before...

    Ode to Feet

    on the floor
    are two sweet
    that I adore.
    they run me
    they run me
    they run me almost

    a curly pink
    bouquet of toes,
    they please
    my eyes but
    not my nose—
    so though
    they’re mostly
    ’neath my chair,
    I thank you, feet,
    for being there.

    (c) 2012 julie krantz, all rights reserved

  5. Old, Brown Scarf

    Who would guess
    You’re my prize
    Possession, the one
    I refuse to lose. Dear,
    Old, brown scarf,
    Ugly and rough, only
    I know your secret
    Appeal. It’s my neck
    You defend, keeping
    Frigid winds from
    Breathing down my
    Collar. When I wrap
    Myself in you I wrap
    Myself in the man
    Who wants me safe
    In his absence.

    (c) Liz Steinglass, all rights reserved

    Well, I started with a WHAT, but as you can see the WHO snuck in at the end, as he often does. Kate, I've been thinking about a favorite word poem too. Funny how that happens. Enjoyed the others as well. Liz

  6. So far I love EVERY poem. And Liz--I have a WHO who slips into a many of my poems, too. Sigh.


  7. Girl Scout Cookies

    Just when I think
    I've conquered
    the Christmas calories,
    tamed the sweet beast
    hiding in my belly,
    you arrive in the February frost
    like the darkest purple crocus
    begging me to crouch low and smell
    the chocolate smeared on your sleeve,
    waving your thin sin
    beneath my nose.
    I weigh the consequences,
    obey your siren call.

  8. "Thin sin". . .oh yes.



    Tattered, discolored,
    Laminated memory ...
    First baseball ticket.

    (c) Charles Waters 2012 all rights reserved.