Capturing

[hmmnmm]

I don't mind the heat so much these days, but out here it's forest fire season, the summers begin in detailed clarity, and hope the smoke holds off. The smoke and ashes began to fill the valley a couple days ago. Can't see the mountains, or the sky, you can feel it in your eyes, nostrils, on your hands. It's hard to sleep, maybe a few hours between five and nine.

Laid down for a nap but didn't really sleep. It was that place between. You know? You don't sleep, you don't dream, but your thoughts wander and combine the oddest ideas and memories and possibilities. Human forms morph into intangibles, disconnections make perfect sense.

I wish I could somehow capture a fleeting image of that place, just long enough to set it free into words, just a few words.

 

[Angeline]

I don't mind the heat so much these days, but out here it's forest fire season, the summers begin in detailed clarity, and hope the smoke holds off. The smoke and ashes began to fill the valley a couple days ago. Can't see the mountains, or the sky, you can feel it in your eyes, nostrils, on your hands. It's hard to sleep, maybe a few hours between five and nine.

Laid down for a nap but didn't really sleep. It was that place between. You know? You don't sleep, you don't dream, but your thoughts wander and combine the oddest ideas and memories and possibilities. Human forms morph into intangibles, disconnections make perfect sense.

I wish I could somehow capture a fleeting image of that place, just long enough to set it free into words, just a few words.

Okay then you could try this. Make a list of five adjectives that describe what it feels like in that place, five images of what it looks like, five metaphors for what it looks like. Write a short phrase that corresponds to each sense related to that place. "I see...," "I hear...," "I touch...."

Those are all ways to get started on a poem.

 

[WickedEve]

Okay then you could try this. Make a list of five adjectives that describe what it feels like in that place, five images of what it looks like, five metaphors for what it looks like. Write a short phrase that corresponds to each sense related to that place. "I see...," "I hear...," "I touch...."

Those are all ways to get started on a poem.

Ange, your post should be inserted into all threads written by novice (or not so novice) poets who are looking for advice on writing poetry.

 

[Angeline]

Ange, your post should be inserted into all threads written by novice (or not so novice) poets who are looking for advice on writing poetry.

Why thank you. And to think I just said it off the top of my head lol.

 

[sophieloves]

I don't mind the heat so much these days, but out here it's forest fire season, the summers begin in detailed clarity, and hope the smoke holds off. The smoke and ashes began to fill the valley a couple days ago. Can't see the mountains, or the sky, you can feel it in your eyes, nostrils, on your hands. It's hard to sleep, maybe a few hours between five and nine.

Laid down for a nap but didn't really sleep. It was that place between. You know? You don't sleep, you don't dream, but your thoughts wander and combine the oddest ideas and memories and possibilities. Human forms morph into intangibles, disconnections make perfect sense.

I wish I could somehow capture a fleeting image of that place, just long enough to set it free into words, just a few words.

now i'm not a poet or even a writer, well - not ever thought of me as being one but it seems to me that what you could do is just close your eyes and feel what you feel when you're like that. then just write it. worry about it afterwards. don't clutter your head with which words to use. feel it and maybe the right words will just be there.

 

[hmmnmm]

Why thank you. And to think I just said it off the top of my head lol.

Take it from the top!

Those feelings and such are easy enough while in that state, and the part of you that is yet awake sees these thoughts, thinking they must mean something, but when I come back fully awake, almost like a real dream, those feelings and images that seemed so vivid, are gone. I know I saw something, but what was it?

 

[Angeline]

Take it from the top!

Those feelings and such are easy enough while in that state, and the part of you that is yet awake sees these thoughts, thinking they must mean something, but when I come back fully awake, almost like a real dream, those feelings and images that seemed so vivid, are gone. I know I saw something, but what was it?

That's why I think it's easier to come up with a word or two that describes it than to actually try to write a poem. Sometimes, an idea or vision that seems really daunting to try to put in words is easier if you break it down into digestible pieces. I know I feel that way sometimes. I know what I want to say, themewise, but to get from point A to point B seems impossible. So I just do a little bit at a time, then bring the pieces together.

And I like what Sophie says, too. Just close your eyes and daydream about it. That's how my poems usually start--from daydreams.

 

[hmmnmm]

Now they begin to resurface.
the window was open, and the air is so still outside that even the one little breeze that washed in was significant. But it wasn't a cool refreshing breeze. It was a hot breeze, but I was glad for even that.
The other: I heard a truck outside, come down the street... or some heavy vehicle. I do remember the distinct sound of the tires over the gravel, like it veered off to the side... and I remember seeing a woman, kind of heavyset, from a long time ago, she wasn't dressed for these times.

So... hot breeze, crunchy... see, that's begging for a descriptive... and a ghost of a middle aged woman.

Must be some kind of poetic potential?

 

[Angeline]

Now they begin to resurface.
the window was open, and the air is so still outside that even the one little breeze that washed in was significant. But it wasn't a cool refreshing breeze. It was a hot breeze, but I was glad for even that.
The other: I heard a truck outside, come down the street... or some heavy vehicle. I do remember the distinct sound of the tires over the gravel, like it veered off to the side... and I remember seeing a woman, kind of heavyset, from a long time ago, she wasn't dressed for these times.

So... hot breeze, crunchy... see, that's begging for a descriptive... and a ghost of a middle aged woman.

Must be some kind of poetic potential?

Your poem is hiding in those bolded statements. At least the beginning of it is. Even if you just say "Still air, hot breeze, the crunch of tires on gravel filters through the window" or something like that, you have images that you can feel and hear.

 

[hmmnmm]

"Hot" is one of those words that seems almost too simple and obvious at first. But it's really effective. I suppose it's fear of overusing the obvious so it almost never gets used?

And I remember another (must've come from the same truck, that rolled to a slow stop over the gravel) - the smell of gasoline that came through the window. Looks like this wouldn't be a flowery poem... Something gritty and tense and terse.

Thanks for revealing the possibilities.

Filters through the window
That's good. Filter, filters... thank you! Then the gasoline splashes?

 

[Angeline]

"Hot" is one of those words that seems almost too simple and obvious at first. But it's really effective. I suppose it's fear of overusing the obvious so it almost never gets used?

And I remember another (must've come from the same truck, that rolled to a slow stop over the gravel) - the smell of gasoline that came through the window. Looks like this wouldn't be a flowery poem... Something gritty and tense and terse.

Thanks for revealing the possibilities.

Filters through the window
That's good. Filter, filters... thank you! Then the gasoline splashes?

My advice is to just write. Don't fuss over whether it's good or not yet, whether you use cliches or whatever. You can always edit, but first you need to just get some words on paper.

 

[hmmnmm]

She walked through the still haze
carried something over ancient shoulders
Her feet crunched on the hot gravel,
each tiny stone familiar, greeted, applauded
Her sweat splashed through
the window screen, sweet gasoline
bathed my stilted step-dream

The smoke filled the vale bucket couple days ago.
the bold and alive, the chorals, now droop, wilt
flight silent.

everyone
everything
equal

Waiting for a premonition of autumn
or anything green, soft.