I've been writing poetry ever since I can remember. Over the years, I graduated from relatively sappy verse to free verse poetry wherein I strive to utilize every day objects and situations to express the intangible. I had the unique privilege of studying the craft of poem conjuring with poet Len Roberts of Northampton Community College. He was a wonderful professor and individual. Though he has since passed from this world, I still treasure all I learned from him.
For his class, he had us use a textbook called, simply, "Writing Poetry" by Barbara Drake. It is really a nice book that has many suggestions and exercises to encourage poem ideas. Taking a cue from this book, I'd like to offer my own exercise for anyone up for the challenge.
Years back, I had collected a half-billion of those little paint chip sample card thingies from Home Depot. I really thought the names for the different colors were inventive and inspiring in of themselves. I set myself down with my collected chips and composed a poem. It was a lot of fun actually and conjured up a scene in my mind that I would probably not have visited otherwise.
If you don't feel like going the "collect handfuls of those little paper thingies" approach, I found a groovy app online from Benjamin Moore called a "Virtual Fan Deck" that is pretty much the same thing as my huge collection.
This exercise for me really helps me grasp just how color can help to create realism and emotion. Now, these aren't exactly "winning" snippets of poetry; they are more free verse musings or perhaps a peek into a wider scene beyond the words. Here are a few examples off the paint chip principle:
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Dark walnut hair
cascades down her back
as she sips from her bottle of Bordeaux.
Sweat forms
on her coral bronze skin,
the droplets staining crimson
on the Tuscon red
of her satin dress.
Feigning indifference, she ambles
through his garden of tropical roses.
Her wild heart beats
higher and faster
with each step.
"Marry me,"
he had said,
eyes all-a-blaze,
throwing her minstrel heart
into the fantastic bliss
of a pink fantasy
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Sipping on Pernod
he leans back into the haystack
and looks up at his little angel.
"Dalila," he whispers, breathless
as he runs calloused fingers
through her Viking yellow hair.
She smiles, weakly, and kisses him
before fading off into the shaft of morning light.
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I slip out of my New York state of mind
and Chicago blues. Today's my lazy Sunday.
Walking out onto my balcony,
I look out out at the San Francisco Bay
and listen to the music from the blue bayou.
Beneath the palatial skies,
I breathe in the Mediterranean breeze
and sigh.
I'm home.
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