What does 'prose poem' mean to you?

Heard Michael Dennis Browne today, reading and commenting on the poetry of D.H. Lawrence...that's right!
He was a great poet, much of life and death and looking at life through the perspective of creatures often
couched in spiritual terms.  In fact the program was at Plymouth Congregational Church, part of their "Literary Witness" series.  Worth the trip into town.  I hope they have more poets...

This week, prose poetry...and what is it that makes it so?  The "vibration" that MDBrown says a poem needs? A developing image or metaphor that 'stays with you'? It doesn't necessarily have the rhyme or rhythm or line structure of a more traditional poem...although I think there is definitely movement, almost breathless, and/or a grand extolling, hm?  TSmith says it's often about place...I think I hadn't heard that before writing this one in class.  What do you think makes prose poetry??

Here's a draft I wrote in class last week: 

Missing the Old Guthrie

a prose poem

by Shirley Smith Franklin

Why abandon that charming building of candy bright light, light and the various concentrated attentions of the elite, the effete, and the earnest hardworking and student come seeking salve and salvation for tired souls, excitement for energetic minds, exposed under glass to entice or distance the man or woman on the street, the messenger and the driver passing under the grasshopper bridge, the man under the freeway holding a crudely lettered cardboard sign.  Why not, retaliates the stark new building across town, hurling the names of its plays like flames against the sky; why not stage a warren of dim corridors even more complicated, dark and diverse, why not stadium seating outside a proper bar in an architectural interlude more like a giant beak, brooding over flowing dark waters.

A 'prompt-in-a-box' this week was "A List."

In My Study:  A List                                                                        October 19 and 30, 2011

The bookshelves in my study are lined with books.  Too many books.  Books I intended to read when I retire, books gathering dust while I ply the library for more, order them online, haunt used book sales. A long, low row of journals.  But, on high shelves at eye level around the room are momentos, snatches of times, ancient and modern, trinkets and toys, snippets of nature, travel echoes, family photos, well wishes from friends.

 A wooden jig toy, which fascinated me, but the working of which I never mastered, its essential, wooden ‘stage’ long lost.  Two tiny shells.  Few cells of a hive.  Small paintings by two artist friends, marble doggie from a writer friend.  Subtle hint of floral pastel, water-colored by a dear heart, faraway.

Here’s a well wish for retirement from a career that took half my life away from family and the sequestered nooks and serenity of books prettily depicted on the front of the Mary Engelbreit card. Inside, a valediction from my daughter. A golden oval beside a small, heart-shaped, red-lacquered box frames her mischievous, Mona Lisa smile in her high school photo.

Come to think of it, every shelf bears photos of my daughter: in chortling infancy, self-conscious teenage, college camaraderie, exulting in soccer, basking with her fiancée, falling back on friends. In one photo, she holds her little brother, in another they hold small flags on the day they took citizenship.  In yet another, she embraces me and my mother; this picture next to one of a more fortunate friend studying her own mother who lived, joyfully alert, til one hundred.   Here’s an earlier photo of my own mother, recently widowed, smiling ruefully before a window reflecting Lake Minnewaska on which our house stood.  In a silver frame, my Finnish grandparents; grandfather,  straiaght and tall in his worsted suit, hat in hand, stands beside my beaming grandmother, who wears a brooch at the collar of her best black dress.  The photo was taken on the occasion of their first grandson’s baptism.

Here, a framed magazine photo, one of the ingenious ways my mother brought art into my childhood home.  A postcard of the big blue marble, A snap with our son in front of the Louvre, capturing his boyish delight in Paris;  his childish handiwork:  a stick-and-yarn eye-of-God.  A pale blue music box that still plays ‘The Washerwomen of Venice,” harking back to my other grandmother, “Gramma-on-the-farm.”

A red-dyed, wooden, Swedish, no-nonsense nutcracker.  Cross-stitched red and green, tasseled gew-gaw of Hmong handiwork, teal-dyed box of Polish handiwork, brimming with beads for a grand-daughter’s dress-up-and-play.  The granddaughter’s first kindergarten painting:  modernist sunshine bursting with life (she tells me it’s ‘just a design.’), waiting to be framed.  A tiny turquoise dancing doll from India.

And a worn but still workable, wind-up Cinderella, the clockwork hidden under her ballroom skirt still able to propel her along predetermined lines and circles.  The prince who was once attached has broken off, leaving her scarred hands spread wide as though extending an invitation.  Each of these memories is an invitation.  The memories invite me to write them down, let the pen or the keyboard dance, in the study.       

Hello Haiku

Whew, I'm finally back to the blog, trying to limit it to my themes of India and/or the writing life.  Taking a poetry class with Thomas R. Smith.  Great fun.  Reviewing a form a week, authors of the same, examples of their work and signs of their times; practicing writing, sharing our own.  Last week:  Haiku.  Three lines, of 5-7-5 syllables, respectively.  Or less.  Here are a couple of my own:

Two or Three Haiku
by Shirley Smith Franklin

Haiku
Habit forming.                    (p.s., It really is! Like eating popcorn...it's hard to stop!)

         ~
Dusk in the forest.
Out of gathering silence
An owl calls my name.

         ~
Why all these
Miss-understandings?                       (spelling, sic)
Why not Mister?
          ~  

Favorites

"I see you're a fan of Robert Frost," he said, as I concluded reading a sheaf
of my poems for our writers' group.

Actually, I'm not.  Neither is my favorite writing role poet, memoirist, playwright,
or novelist, though these are all genre in which I write.

The 'favorites' question has perplexed me since childhood.  The question
implies a demand for an unambiguous answer.  Decisions are hard for me.
Today I may wear turquoise, red,  or gray.  It all depends, upon what will go
together with what I wore yesterday into the next load of laundry, whether
the sun is shining or not, and/or the available options of clothing appropriate
for the company and situations in which the day's activities will take place.
So what is the point of stating a preference, anyway, when, in lieu of reasons
to the contrary, that preference is open to change and any number of
influences. 

Oh, I have preferences of type.  I will read memoirs and period or culture-
specific writings, both sacred and secular, as opposed to murder mysteries
and science fiction.  But that's just me.  I may indeed read any or all of these,
given a fondness for the author, historical basis, experiential affinity, or highly
recommended quality of writing.

I like deep male voices, sunny days, happy colors, little children, new
friends, learning new things.  I like sound sleep, good writing, smooth or
grand music, talking with a friend.  I like the feel of a book in hand, the
softness of a rose petal, and butter, potatoes.  (Oh, you've caught me there,
potato is far and away my favorite vegetable.)

Every inventory in view of the favorites question brings me to the same
conclusion. While I don't have much to say about favorite anything, I do
tend to pay attention to the ordinary.  In that way, I think like Robert Frost.
But I am not a fan.

Decadence

It's a fine evening following a string of stormy, interspersed with extremely hot,
weather, the latter finally starting to cool, as I pull up to the curb in front of
Mary's house for the July book club meeting.  Today is the annual bring-
an-item-for-salad supper and share-a-book-or-idea-about-gardening meeting.
My two avocado and jar of sunflower seeds are secured in a burlap basmati
rice bag.  Kind of funky, I think, but the focus is not on the bag.
I hear voices in the back of the house, so circumvent the house to a wrought-
iron-latched door in a high wooden fence.  Oh pooh (but not the same as
Winnie-the-), this door doesn't open from outside the fence.  I glimpse my
friend Terry through a crack.  Thinking I can slip in unobtrusively, I
ask her to open the door from inside.  But, bummer, she has to walk through
the whole group, step down to the ground, and circle the deck, to get
the the door, all of which she does with her usual elan.
My initial embarrassment at creating such a blatant interruption with my late
entrance is quickly gladdened by the opportunity to skirt and savor a
small rockery, where running water cascades pleasantly down among subtle
groupings of green plants.  And there are nothing but smiles and cheerful
hellos from the half dozen gals already enjoying cool drinks and the easy,
catching-up-with-each-other conversation of old friends.
Terry had told me for years that this is a group I would enjoy, but I could
never muster the energy for going out on a week night, during a thirty year
career in teaching.  Even after a few forays, post-retirement, I have fallen
into an approach-avoidance relationship with the book group.  (As many
years as it has been in existence, the gathering's name has remained the same:
simply, the book group.)  Many of the members have been employees of
Minneapolis Public Schools; the others have worked in other professions -
counselling and law.
Though there are definite affinities, my longstanding demurment has left me
groping for background information while they've shared stories of the
growing pains of their careers and family, while, aside from Terry, they
are largely ignorant of mine. But I've gotten somewhat more acquainted
with four of the women who frequent the same exercise pool that I attend,
Mary's thoughts and anecdotes fascinate me, Ruth has an elegance of
demeanor and perspective worth emulating and thinking about, Denise's
unique comments frequently challenge me to  broaden my thinking, while
Terry remains  one of my all-time-best friends.  I have gradually learned
that the book of the month is only a starting point for an evening of
gnoshing and sharing.  I am welcome whether I've read the book agreed
upon for any given month or not, and the discussions range far from and
beyond the book.  And so I find myself drawn back again and again, until
I'm finally able to 'let' myself settle comfortably in, tonight.
Terry and I busy ourselves, setting out our contributions among the
delicacies already in place on the buffet, while Mary offers us wine or soft
drinks and adds finishing touches to the display.  As I cut and chatter with
these gals, the results of my attempts to arrange the avocado artfully end up
childish and smudgy. There are half a dozen greens...spring mix,rich arugula,
practical but delicate spinach, tangy Italian parsley, robust basil and spice-like
oregano , (the first time I've seen the last one green.)   My sunflower seeds
have disported themselves over the bottom of my carry-bag, but I notice
that there is another bowl of the seeds already on the full-to-bursting
buffet. there are tomato and gorgonzola salad, sliced mushrooms, a variety of
cheeses, light and dark artisan rolls, pepperoni, butter, roasted almonds,
slivered chicken, cherry tomatoes, dried cranberries and more--all artfully
arranged.
Mary and Terry arrange a second table on the deck while the others
and I talk and relax deeper into the balmy evening atmosphere.  Now Mary
asks whether anyone's hungry.  Weak attempts to deny our desire dissipate
in the ensuing shuffle of chairs and glasses. Our unspoken"Yes" is unanimous;
we know it's going to be good.
Close quarters around the wide-angled island in Mary's cozy kitchen
deter no-one. Culinary affirmations and information are exchanged as we
eye the food we are layering onto our plates; there's  no break in the flow
of comfortable conversation, no fumbling as we  find our way back to our
tables, where our gourmet salads soon disappear, one carefully considered
forkful at a time. Anyone for seconds?  Though some of us would like to,
we are satisfied,and going back for more would put us over the top.
But 'the top' is yet to come.
Mary points out that there is room for all, so four of us seated to one side
move our chairs to join the quartet at a round table under an umbrella.
No sooner are we seated than Mary begins bringing out our dessert--
large goblets of fresh fruit  topped with freshly made sauvignon sauce.
Slowing our already leisurely pace to savor this rich and satisfying
preparation, we are  surprised when Mary serves a second dessert--
individual dishes of something called 'Angel Pie.'  The word 'savor'
does not do justice to our examination and consumption of this confection,
a baroque sandwich of flavorful custard between two discs of
burnt-sugar-flavored meringue, the whole being drizzled with dark chocolate.
We protested that we have no room for more, but curiosity sirens us to try, and
we fall under the spell of an oxymoronic light-rich taste experience like no
other. Restricted to a celiac disease diet, Mary has often introduced us to
glorious treats still possible on a gluten-free diet. Tonight's is no exception.
We delve gingerly into this latest 'concoction.'  Then, for several minutes,
there is only an attentive silence, gently punctuated with the 'Unnnhh!'
'Oh....' and 'Mmmmm' of one passionate woman after another. I suppress
a merry giggle at the thought of how an unsuspecting neighbor might perceive
these sounds emanating from this group of women, all of us on the cusp
of matronhood.
Oh, for sure, 'a good time was had by all.' But, aside from a brief flurry
of suggestions and the flourishing of datebooks as the group agrees on reading
selections for the next two months, our reading, garden anecdotes and books
get nary a mention.

This looks "do-able."

From npr's link on Facebook, something which all of us writers, or anyone
who has ever had an anecdote to share, can do.  Let us hear it on the radio,
who knows what may come of it?!
Try your hand, and let us know whether it has been accepted and, if you can,
when we can hear it on the radio!

Three-Minute Fiction, weekends on NPR's All Things Considered

Excuse the absence - the 3MF staff has gone delirious in the DC heat.

3 hours ago · 6 · ·

Painting with Flowers

And the  answer is yes, things and places, as well as people,can and do play significant roles in our lives.

      Flowers are playing an increasingly important role in my life, these halcyon summer days.
      I am a writer, but writing times and ideas often slip away as I bemoan a longstanding lack of discipline. Even during diligent spurts, I am as likely to take snack breaks, do my laundry, dabble in art projects or tend to the plants.  Each summer, pots on the deck, a narrow bed running along our front porch, and circles near and around trees in the front of the house become home to new and old varieties of plants, mostly annuals, varying according to my husband's and my annual whims and preferences.
      This year I've claimed the narrow bed in front, as well as a garden in back deck pots, as "my" turf.  Eying my neighbor Sue's ever-blooming profusion of varieties, faux-fenced at a corner of her sidewalk, I strive for a rich palate of colors, leaves or blooms, in the 3 X 15 foot bed along our narrow, shady front porch.  An overhanging roof not only lends shade, but prevents most rain from watering these flowers. So I treat them to water from the hose, or, along with Miracle-gro, from a watering can, at least every other day.  With the hose, water is easily brought to the circles (there are six of them, planted and tended by others), as well. 
     But my intentions and attention are focused on the long bed next to the front porch.  I'm  really 'getting into it' this year  Every time I pass, I stop to see how things are doing:  Any dry leaves to remove? Are the geraniums, on their puny root systems, strong enough to stand?  Do I have enough deep-throated flowers to attract humming birds?  What's the name of that maroon-green one that looks like Coleus, though it's not?  Fortunately I'd stuck the greenhouse tag nearby:  it's Hypoester, red.  Too bad it's so short, but it's shade-loving, and I had to plant it behind older, taller ones.  Do I cut only the dried-up Iris blooms or the whole flower stem?  This scalloped trailing plant is pretty, but it's a weed which winds around the roots of pedigreed plants; can I train a single sprig to line the shady back of the bed?  Is it too late to stop gracefully drooping Iris leaves from careening into the newer, more delicate, varieties?  Though intentionally apparently random, are the colors balanced?  
     At the end of the bed, where an overabundance of sunshine dries the soil quickly, and where a young Nasturtium as quickly died, I planted fragrant Lavender and sturdy, golden Cosmos.  The Impatiens were all supposed to be vermillion, but they turn out to be several hues of lavendars and pinks. Overall, there don't seem to be enough yellows to relieve these and the opulent reds of the scarlet Geranium majority.  Hmmm.
     Back to the early summer greenhouse tent in the parking lot of the supermarket, where all remaining plants are now priced at fifty percent off.  Bring home new varieties. Dig, scrape, carry, fill, pat, water. Ah, finally  we have them, among the red, pink, lavendar, and front row greens: happy yellows of Pansy, Golddust and Superbells, the latter two, thank goodness, short, catchy names for hybrid Mecardonia and Calibrachoa.  It's almost like I am painting with the flowers, arranging colors in a defined space.
      I've even dug up and moved a couple plants around...  they still won't always 'behave' the way I'd like, because nature tends to have its own way.  And that's a good lesson for me.  I strive to adjust, but at the same time, it's fun to try and second-guess nature's plan.   Yesterday I finally articulated a growing realization that, along with successful gardening and its requisite regular attention and care: voila, I am practicing discipline!  And so it is with renewed interest, as though with a lexicon or palette, I study painting my garden. I meditate, observe, learn, and grow. With flowers!