Poetry Train Monday - 169 - Drawing You In

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment last month, just after my sister's second wedding shower, hosted by her new family-in-law.
















Drawing You In


Your in-two-weeks sister-in-law
Had tears sparkling in her eyes
As you held up the
Handmade
Cooking apron

All the women
In your new family
Have a handmade apron

With her thread
She draws you in
With her stitches
She binds you to her
And to all of them
Even before you say

"I do"

© Julia Smith, Aug. 30, 2010














My sister with her husband and his brothers and sisters. The sister who made the apron is second from left.

There will be lots of wedding pix for Thursday Thirteen - never fear!

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 168 - Son of Whispers

Well - I did it.

Starting on the night of July 31st/Aug. 1st until the night of Aug. 31st/Sept. 1st, I wrote a total of 31 poems for the 3:15 Experiment.

"Founded in 1993 by poets Danika Dinsmore and Bernadette Mayer, the 3:15 Experiment is an annual 'collective consciousness' writing experiment.

Each year a menagerie of poets scattered across the globe wake EVERY August morning at 3:15 am and write. An epic conversation, this exercise explores hypnogogic and hypnopompic states (between sleeping and waking), challenges writers and provides insight into the collective sleeping/dreaming mind."

- Gwendolyn Lawrence Alley / Danika Dinsmore / Tod McCoy

Technically, the idea is to set your alarm for 3:15, wake up and write a poem, but I had already decided that the alarm thing wouldn't be necessary, as I generally get up at least once a night. The poets who run this event also insisted that the exact time wasn't important, as many people who would participate in this event are naturally awake at 3:15 am.

The important part was to write in that sleepy, half-awake state. And to be honest, I feel that I've never written poetry so easily or so vividly.

I've definitely been learning over the years to ignore my inner editor and just write. It's never been easy for me. But I've kept at it. In fact, writing this blog has been an instrumental part of learning to let go and just post it, already.

For the month of August I posted five of my 3:15 poems - in their raw state, as scribbled in the hazy dream state:

At Least

I Love Your Desire

Expecting Someone Altogether Different

You Reached Out

Defining Moment #3

I'll be posting all of my 2010 3:15 poems on the Poetry Train, as they appeared in my bedside notebook. If I work on any of them in the future, I'll state the transformation status.

This is a backstory poem for the adult Scorpius, whose childhood I'm exploring for my serialized Saturday fiction. I did a series of poems exploring this period in Scorpius' life, and it brought on an actual nightmare for me - an unusual and jarring experience.

















Son of Whispers


Dragged to the room of torment
He expected to see
The man whose unlimited creativity
Drew the sounds he most despised
From the darkest parts of himself
He expected to see
One lord or another
Who stood in the gloom
To question him
He did not expect to see
The fellow captive

This man
Was definitely
Of the blood
Though just as pale
Just as frightened

Yet it wasn't the noble prisoner
Who howled
When the lord
Would not answer their questions
Dragged to this room whenever
Their captors needed privileged information
He watched the
Tears collect and fall
In the eyes of the nobles
Who fought to keep their secrets
At his expense

Over time
There were things he
Expected to see
But when his fellow captives
Were freed by ransom
He did not expect
To hear the voices raised
Beyond his cell door
The negotiating
The keys jingling
The door creaking open
Yet no guards to drag him
To the rendezvous with agony

He did not expect
To see the face of the noble
Pale
Haunted
Resolute
He did not expect
To see the lord's hand
Reach out to beckon
To coax him forward
Who could expect
That their freedom
Would demand his own?
The shock stole the strength
From his legs
Which refused to work
His head swam
His heart beat too fast
But freedom would not be
His undoing

He dug past the point
Deep inside himself
The point which always
Slammed hard into resolve
The point his jailers knew
So many routes to uncover
He grabbed fast to that part of himself
He made his legs move forward
He ignored the tipping
Of the walls and ceiling
He crossed the threshold
Into the corridor
Not dragged

He knelt before the noble
Who had wept at his torment
Who'd never given up his secrets
Who'd come for him now
When his own freedom
Would have made it easy
To leave the son of whispers
To perish on the damp stone floor

© Julia Smith, Aug. 11, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 167 - Defining Moment #3

Danika Dinsmore inspired this poem when I read her post about creating defining moments to develop your characters.



This 3:15 poem takes a look at Richolf, the falconer from my serialized fiction which appears on Saturdays.













Defining Moment #3

the sound of the slap
the wildness unleashed behind her mask
the lips he wouldn't kiss for some time yet

Like every man
He'd heard the tales
Of beholding a maid
And feeling thunderstruck

When he heard the crack
Of her hand upon the boy's face
His head snapped to follow the sound

He crept through the trees
Silent hunter's feet
Keeping his secret

There she was
Tall and broad as a dragon
In her fury

The youth curled low
Hands protecting his head
As her blows pelted like coals

He waited
Till her hand ceased the striking
And latched onto the boy's collar instead

He waited
Till the blade-edge bite of her voice
Finally reduced the boy to tears

He watched
As the fire never dimmed from her eyes
Merely spread from her gaze, from her hand

Till she wrapped the crying youth
In her arms
Till his sweat and tears stained her breast

He never stirred
From that tangle of branches
Which shielded and held him

She never knew
Till much later
So many days and nights it took

But he'd fallen for her
The moment he'd heard that slap
In the echoing wood

She never knew that he would gladly
Have taken the blows
Just to feel her hand upon him

That the sight of her parted lips
As she spoke the words
That drew the tears

Had robbed his legs of strength
He could have fallen to his knees
Before her wrath

He was glad he waited
A hunter has patience, after all
Her lips were so much sweeter

When they finally parted
For his sighs
And all her heat was for him

The boy had not known
What to do with such a storm
So why provoke it?

But he could ride this hurricane
He loved how it felt
To have limbs snap off, rooftops torn off

© Julia Smith, Aug. 26, 2010

How to participate in the 3:15 Experiment

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

Visit the originators of the project for more information:

Danika Dinsmore

Gwendolyn Alley

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Detail from Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses by John William Waterhouse

Poetry Train Monday - 166 - You Reached Out

Les McKeown Week wraps up here at A Piece of My Mind with this poem written a week ago for the 3:15 Experiment.


How to participate in the 3:15 Experiment

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

Visit the originators of the project for more information:

Danika Dinsmore

Gwendolyn Alley

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!



















You Reached Out


When I first read about
Your ordeal
I felt as though
My girlhood joy
Had contributed to your
Thirty years of torment

At first
When I gazed once again
Upon your face
From those old photos
When I realized
What had happened
I looked down
I saw blood on my hands

I wish all of those
Girlish hearts
Had been enough to shield you
But I'm grateful
That one woman's heart
Was your haven
That your son
Helped you to see
That boys should be cherished

You spoke against your attacker
But no one would listen
How could a boy
Ward off a predator
Who'd built such a web of terror
Who carved misery
Into so many psyches

You grabbed your own life back
From the chasm's edge
I know that's why
My girlish heart
Thrilled to you
When you gazed into the camera
And reached out

Reached out

Somewhere inside me
I knew that pain lurked
Somewhere inside you
But I also recognized
The courage
You have shown
Have always shown
In the face of it all

© Julia Smith, Aug. 15, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 165 - Expecting Someone Altogether Different

Last week I mentioned my husband's suggestion that I write a sexy poem. And several of you wondered if I'd written one.

Here it is - it may actually be more romantic than sexy, but who's quibbling?



















Expecting Someone Altogether Different


On my day off from work
I threw on my shapeless
Comfy black pants
My slightly-too-big
Cotton top
My grass-stained garden clogs

I shuffled into the car
To pick you up from work
And because the timing
Had been so close
With Mom not knowing
If she'd be back from the store
If you'd have to call a cab
I parked the car
I went in the store

With my day-off-from-work
Unwashed hair
Stained clogs
Shapeless clothing

How many women
I thought to myself
Would enter their
Husband's workplace
Looking like this?

When you saw me
Your eyes lit up
Your smile was not
For the customer before you
And she could tell
She turned to look
I'm sure she was expecting
To see someone
Altogether different
Attached to the smile
To the look
You gave me

© Julia Smith / Aug. 14, 2010

How to participate in the 3:15 Experiment

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

Visit the originators of the project for more information:

Danika Dinsmore

Gwendolyn Alley

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 164 - I Love Your Desire

So far, so good with The 3:15 Experiment.

The 3:15 Experiment? What's that, again?

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

I haven't set my alarm at all for this event. I seem to wake up naturally at about that time anyway. Likely the originators of the event realized that people's sleep cycles do these things and set the wake-up time to coincide with it.

For today's Poetry Train, here is my eighth middle-of-the-night poem, in its raw stage, as written at 3:00 this morning.














I Love Your Desire


"What time is it?"
I ask
Returning from the bathroom
"Quarter to three"
My husband answers
Kissing me
"Time to write
A sexy poem"

- Julia Smith, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

For more information on The 3:15 Experiment, visit Danika Dinsmore and Gwendolyn Alley and they'll fill you in on all the details.

Poetry Train Monday - 163 - At Least

I'm taking part in The 3:15 Experiment for the first time ever.

It began back in 1993. I signed up to do it last year when I first heard about it, but I was only a few months into my acupuncture treatment, and at this point last year I was still struggling through my days with chronic pain issues.

I enjoyed reading the poems that emerged from this poetry event over at Art Predator's blog, however, and this year when it rolled around again, I made sure I was ready for it.

For more information on The 3:15 Experiment, visit Danika Dinsmore and Gwendolyn Alley and they'll fill you in on all the details.

The Coles Notes version:

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

For today's Poetry Train, here is my first-ever middle-of-the-night poem, in its raw stage, as written at 3:30 this morning.













At Least


Tried to get home
But it had snowed
Tried to return
But the snowfall was epic
Tried to get inside
But the front of the house was plastered
Tried to clear the way
But there was no shovel
Dug in with my two hands
My two mittened hands
Snow shot up inside my sleeves
Tried to get in
Long hours ahead
Two mittened shovels

At least
The porch light was on

- Julia Smith, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Photo by Steve Gallagher