POEMS OF THE WEEK ~ POEMS ON POETRY, WITH THOTPURGE, DE JACKSON, MATTHEW HENNINGSEN AND MAMA ZEN

I love it when poets write poems about poetry itself - how to write it, how to read it, how it makes us feel. This week we offer four such poems for your delectation, by Rajani,  who writes at Thotpurge: Incomplete Thots , De Jackson, at Whimzygizmo's Blog, Matthew Henningsen at The Literary Doc, and Mama Zen, of another damn poetry blog. I am sure you will enjoy these wonderful offerings.

Rajani recently wrote a poem about poetry that knocked my socks off. Let's dive in with both feet and immerse ourselves in her amazing imagery.

How to read a Poem

you read,
head inclined,
closed lips moving as softly as 
new born butterfly wings, 
light and air rearranging themselves 
into a radiant stage for your thoughts,
does that poem, that tongue-tied page,
don a damask gown and ballerina shoes,
declaiming slowly, animated and free,

or do you imagine yourself reading aloud,
covered in the russet tears of weeping chinars,
one outstretched limb at an incongruous angle
to the listening sky,
perhaps there are characters,
like you, like me,
strange faces with familiar eyes,
whose lips do you see,
whose voice do you hear,
laughing, despairing, in love,
is that Faiz walking out through the mist,
or Hafiz, the beloved’s wine still purple wet on his lips,
or the unparalleled Noor Jahan
wooing Jahangir in her Sheesh Mahal,
her hennaed hands the colour
of Agra’s sandstone fort;

you hold your breath,
between the lines, beside the words,
like a raindrop that pauses midstream
to adore the ground that will
break his heart,
like the shore that listens alone
for a single wave,
that never returns,
that never departs,

you hear,
you see,
and everything i ever felt,
everything we ever were,
free-falling through speechless time,
converges at the tip of your forefinger,
motionless,
waiting for the rain to stop, for the waves to end,
for the music to die, for the curtains to fall,
for the sound, the colours, the henna to fade,
before you turn the page.

-Thotpurge, 2016

Sherry: Rajani, you said a mouthful here. I love the listing of the beloved mystic poets' names, like a litany. I held my breath during your closing lines, just waiting for your perfect closing words.

Rajani: I feel very honoured to be a part of this feature. Thanks so much for picking this poem, Sherry.

I think the poem came to me as I was going through the comments section of another poem that I had posted online. What struck me was that the reactions were vastly different and people were indeed interpreting the poem in different ways, sometimes in a completely new or even contrary direction to my own thoughts. I suppose much of a poem’s impact lies in the reader’s own state of mind when he or she is engaging with the poem. Maybe even the time of day, the device or the location matters. Am not sure. Sometimes I have to look up a bird or a flower or a town and come back to a poem so that I can connect with the description and then the poem immediately takes on a different hue. What the feedback definitely does though is open up new ideas and thinking and perhaps even lead the way to a brand new poem! Quite a delightful process!

Sherry: It is indeed. You make me realize that the reading of the poem is part of the process too, not a passive occupation. 

Around the same time, De wrote a poem that really resonated with me. Let's take a peek.

This poem might never have been written

by whimsygizmo

, were it not for a message
from a distant friend:
Hey! Thought of you! Check it out!
(insert link to poetry challenge here.)

Sure, she’d dabbled. Had inky fingers
all her life. Seasons of indigo flow.
Teenaged angst, divorced diatribes,
the occasional decent trial and error
of keys. But no practice. Now,

she dons it like a habit,
a black
(clacked) on white
robe, a weeping
willow shade, a
s t r e t c h i n g
of fingers as important
as that of lungs. She’s familiar

with flutter, the utter
nonsense of speaking in tongues
that requires no sound,
only voice
and the choice to bruise
and bash and batter herself
against the ebony thrones
of sometimes unlockable keys.

And sometimes,
in the scars
in the stars
in the surface of the moon
in the silence:
a small and quiet knowing,
and the whisper of wings.

-De Jackson,  2016

Sherry: That is it, exactly: "a small and quiet knowing, and the whisper of wings." Sigh. Just beautiful, De. Tell us about this poem.

De: I write. I have always written. I have never not written. But the breathing of poetry, the holding it in hungry hands as part of who I am, that came some time later. I am thankful for that little tiny-branch moment in time, and the roots it has grown…and the friendships it has bloomed.

Sherry: And we are grateful for you, kiddo! I love the description of holding poetry "in hungry hands". Our lives would feel so much less, without poetry.

Matthew penned a sweet little poem recently, which made me feel quite tender about the poems we send out into the world.  

To A Poem, Lost Once

Fare well, frail, little poem
Of mine. Be gone and try to
Find your place in this
Beautiful, cruel world. I

Can do nothing else for
You. You must go on and find
Those spaces where time is
Infinite, and the broken page
Can no longer hurt. It

Is gone, just as we are suddenly
Gone and like the dust you pick
Up and blow out of your hand. Gone
Like the wind that blows around a corner
We cannot quite see. So

Go my little poem, leave
Me to new thoughts and new
Ways of finding old things.

-Matthew Henningsen, 2016

Sherry: I had never thought about poems in this way before.  Tell us about it, won't you?

Matthew: This was a poem I really enjoyed writing, and is one I am very proud of. The type of poem that makes me smile after I've read it. The poem itself I wrote with the idea that a poem is a lot like a child, in a way, and that there's something so inherently sad about the poetic act. We create this thing, we labor over it, and then we wish it well, and send it off, not ever really being sure where it will go, and who it might touch (or not). You just say goodbye, and then it's gone, forever. 

And, I do really love this idea of creation as being all tied up with some form of sadness. Like you know it will never be like it was upon first creation. That it will be distorted and broken somehow from its first moment of being made. It's a perpetual letting go… and this, I think, is bittersweet and melancholic. A moment in your life that's just gone, never to come back. But, at the same time, isn't that why you write poetry in the first place? 

Sherry: I love this perspective, letting our poem go off and make its way. We write because we must release the words, and then, you're right, we let it go to land wherever it will. This makes me think of poems in a whole new way.

As I was preparing this feature, Kelli Simpson, whom we know as Mama Zen, had a poem published that I knew would be perfect for winding up this discussion. It was published in the June issue of  Sugar Mule. Enjoy!

How to Write a Poem or Bust Ice

lessons from a farm pond in winter

Grab a sledge hammer.
Toe the edge.
Use a full overhead swing.
Expect to get wet.

The Poem Introduces Itself

The poem introduces itself, ringing
the buddha bells by my back porch swing,
and I attend

on aching knees
to the stanza and whisper
of the cut grass breeze

and sip from a cup
filled for me
with belonging.

Rough Draft

After I'm dead this rough draft
scribbled fast on a dried up
wet wipe scrounged from the backseat
floorboard of my truck
is gonna be fucking priceless, man.

Better pony up.

Kelli Simpson, 2016


Sherry: I love the buddha bells, you kneeling in attendance. This is brilliant writing, Kelli.

Kelli: This poem is about one of those rare moments of peace when everything is just right. Right with the world. Right with myself. It was in a moment like that that the poem offered itself whole and complete as a gift.

I received notice that "The Poem Introduces Itself" had been accepted by Sugar Mule at a moment when I was definitely NOT feeling right with the world. As a rhyming poet, I often feel out of step with what is trendy in poetry today. I know that it shouldn't matter to me, but sometimes it does, and I feel as if I'm banging my head against a wall. The acceptance from Sugar Mule gave me a nice little lift. It was just the encouragment I needed to keep doing what I do and let the rest of the world take care of itself.

Sherry: We look forward to enjoying you "doing what you do" for a long time to come! Thank you for allowing this poem to complete our discussion to perfection!

It is always enjoyable reading poems by poets about poetry, isn't it, fellow poets?  We hope you enjoyed these as much as we did. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you! (Here is a hint:  it is a chat with one of our staff members, and you will not want to miss it!)