by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 1, 2023
I am a fool for April,
Cruel or not. All sunshowers,
Pear blossoms,
And peek-a-boo rainbows.
Lacy gauntlets thrown
From branch
to branch -
swaying
April hints of hope,
Flirts promises
Unfulfilled
and
yet...
I am a fool for April.
— Holly Jahangiri (4/1/2023)
April is National Poetry Month. This year marks its 27th year. NaPoWriMo - 30 days of writing poems - is poets' answer to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).
This coincides with the A to Z Blogging Challenge, now celebrating its 13th anniversary. Some participants choose a theme; others wing it. Doesn't matter! The real challenge is to build a practice of writing daily. I think I stuck with it...once.
This month, I'd like to attempt to do the following things:
- Write a poem a day and share it - uncurated - here;
- Highlight some poets you may be unfamiliar with and encourage you to click the links to read about them and their work. I plan to choose a diverse array of classical and contemporary poets - indigenous poets, Black poets, women poets, LGBTQ poets - that challenge us to see the world differently while also tapping into universal themes and emotions.
Today's Poets
NOTE: I won't be commenting on anyone's personal failures and flaws. The work stands for itself, and poetry is nothing if not a reflection of the humanity in us all - with all its failures and flaws.
Sherman Alexie - A Spokane/Coeur d’Alene tribal member, Alexie grew up on the Spokane Indian Reservation in Wellpinit, Washington. Read more here.
Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World by Sherman Alexie - Poems | Academy of American Poets
I chose this poem, remembering how, for about a year after my mother died, I would pick up the phone to call her - only to remember, halfway through dialing, that the reason I needed to talk to my mom was because my mom had died and I was sad. Turns out, I'm not the only one who's done this out of habit and denial.
The Powwow at the End of the World by Sherman… | Poetry Foundation
Anyone who has struggled to forgive, or who has been admonished by the well-meaning, Hell-road pavers to forgive before they are ready to do so, can relate to this poem. There is deep anger here, but also optimism. It's not quite "when Hell freezes over."
Elizabeth Alexander - the poet who composed and delivered the inaugural poem for President Barack Obama in 2009. Read more here.
Equinox by Elizabeth Alexander - Poems | Academy of American Poets
I chose this poem because we are all sandwiched between two generations. We look back, often with feelings of wistfulness or envy, rarely remembering how eager we were to flash forward in time. We look forward, often with a sense of dread - but always a sense of inevitability. Life is a joyful dance, until it is a frenzied scrambling at the cliff's edge at the end of time. Or until the joy of it leaves us before we fly free of our own bodies.
Watch:
Elizabeth Alexander on African American Poetry | Big Think - YouTube
by Holly Jahangiri | Jan 8, 2023
A challenge, a dare — a call to dedicated writing and commitment
You can call yourself anything you like, of course. I daresay you’d take some exception to my calling myself a brain surgeon, but so long as I don’t open your skull — only suggest, slyly, that I might — who’s to stop me playing pretend?
Any craft requires dedication: effort, practice, a willingness to learn from one’s mistakes (God save us, each and all, from dilettantish brain surgeons!) Humility, if you will. It is a long way from, “I have an interest in neuroscience and anatomy,” to “Do you trust me to use a saw to open your skull, and probe your gray matter with a knife?”
Dabblers
You may laugh and think me mean to suggest that one or two seventeen-syllable verses does not a “poet” make, but rather, a dabbler in poetry. There is nothing wrong with dabbling in poetry, or writing, or art, or photography, or music, or dance! There would be no poets, no writers, no great masters of the arts, and no ballet without there first being dabblers. Don’t look to knock me off my pedestal — I am a dabbler, too.
Not when it comes to some forms of writing. When you have spent the better part of forty years practicing and being paid well to do a thing, perhaps then you can be forgiven for claiming, “I am a writer.” Because by then, it really is a core part of your identity, and it has kept a roof over your head and played some part in providing food for your family’s table. But there is no shame in being “an engineer and mother who dabbles in writing,” or a “retired schoolteacher and grandmother who dabbles in poetry.” There is no shame in that at all.
But there is a question: Do you want to be a poet? By that, I mean, do you want to put “Poet” after your name? Do you dream of overhearing someone say, “Oh, the poet?” when your name is mentioned in conversation? Could you see it written on your tombstone? If the answer is “yes,” then you must also cry out, “YES!” when asked, “Are you enthusiastically willing to do the work?”
If not, then look elsewhere for your vocations - I crochet, as a hobby, but I don’t have this kind of dedication to fiber arts. I don’t even have an Etsy shop. I have barely made one sweater than kinda-sorta fits. Don’t puff out your chest and proclaim, “I am a poet!” merely because you are able to count out seventeen syllables to write Haiku.
Poets who are truly dedicated to Haiku will not take offense; there is an art to Haiku, and some have devoted lifetimes to mastering this single form of poetry. When people lay wreathes on your grave, more than 200 years after you are gone, because your poetry is as enduring as that of Yosa Buson, you will have “made it” as a poet and a writer of Haiku.
Are you bothered by what I’m saying? Or are you energized — challenged — eager to learn, practice, and maybe move from dabbler to poet? Are you undaunted?
Good. Because this challenge is for you, the nascent poet — the dabbler, the enthusiast, the playful poetential poet. Let the others spend their effort and energy on writing me hate mail — you come and take my challenge:
Become A Poet
Learn About Forms & Terms of Art
Go learn more about the various forms and terms of art that poets use. You will find the most common, useful, and important ones here, at Poetry Foundation, and bookmark this page — you’ll be returning to it many times:
Glossary of Poetic Terms | Poetry Foundation
Develop an Ear for Rhyme, Rhythm, and Language
Listen to Poetry Read Aloud
Whether you aspire to be a poet or just enjoy reading and listening to poetry, go listen to A. Z. Foreman read poetry, old and new, in its original languages, dialects, and accents.
Shakespeare's Sonnets, Table of Contents | A.Z. Foreman on Patreon
Follow A. Z. Foreman (@azforeman) on counter.social and subscribe to A. Z. Foreman on his YouTube channel.
Rhyming Verse: In or Out?
Rhyming verse seems to be losing popularity, if you judge by the submissions guidelines of many contemporary journals. For decades, it has been derided as doggerel or greeting-card verse. But is it? I ran an informal poll on several sites, about a year ago, and among readers who bothered to respond, it was the resounding favorite. If you enjoy rhyme, then by all means write rhyming verse!
That said, I’d avoid sing-songy, simplistic rhyming verse unless writing specifically for children. But there are many traditional types of formal verse that require rhyme - explore them. Try them on for fit. Sometimes, the restrictions of form, meter, and rhyme force your brain to work harder as you strive to think creatively within a strict framework.
Buy or bookmark a rhyming dictionary or two. This is a special sort of dictionary that categorizes words by the sound of their endings, and the number of syllables in the word. A few examples:
If you prefer print, I highly recommend The Complete Rhyming Dictionary: Including The Poet’s Craft Book, by Clement Wood. I have a very old and tattered edition — this one is updated and expanded.
Another thing to avoid is “slant rhymes” — words that don’t quite rhyme — especially when it’s obvious that you’ve given up and resorted to forcing the words to fit a particular rhyme scheme. Now and then, you can make a close-but-not-quite rhyme work, but more often than not, it’s the hallmark of an amateur who isn’t trying hard enough. It feels like cheating. Consider different word choices, but if you must reach for the rhyme, see if you can do it without it being jarring to the reader’s ear. Read:
Rhythm or Meter
Some people are blessed with an innate sense of rhythm. Some of us had to endure hours of remedial rhythm training and still struggle to clap on the downbeat at rock concerts.
When I was very little, my parents enrolled me in ballet lessons. I imagine they hoped it would make me more graceful; I hoped it would lead to pointe shoes and sequined tutus and the ability to fly. Neither of these things happened. Instead, we discovered that I had no natural rhythm. For this crime, I was sentenced to hours of listening to “Baby, Take a Bow,” and instructed to look into a mirror while clapping on the downbeat. It did not cure me.
Meter in poetry is nothing more than the natural rhythms of language - the pattern of stressed (accented) and unstressed (unaccented) syllables in the words we choose. Any good dictionary can confirm for you the proper pronunciation of a word and on which syllable the downbeat, or accent, is placed.
But beware of rigid adherence to “rules.” Conversation does not strictly follow any particular “beat.” It is said that Shakespeare wrote much of his work, including sonnets and plays, in iambic pentameter because it closely mimics the patterns of English speech. And that’s true, but had he doggedly stuck to iambic pentameter, without any variation, his work would quickly lull us to sleep.
But there is an art to dancing with words. And, now and then, there’s an art to knowing when to do it with your two left feet tied together. Linguistics and Music Theory can only take you so far; at some point, you also have to trust your intuition. Just remember that when weaving a dream, you want to avoid putting the dreamer into a dreamless sleep or startling the dreamer awake.
Read:
Poetry is a Thing You DO
For the real challenge, now: Go back to the link in the #1, and beginning from A — Abecedarian — and devote one day to each term. Write a poem that demonstrates it and your understanding of it. Work at it until it “clicks.” Some will be much easier than others. Cover two in a day, if you like. Keep a journal or a blog, and keep notes on what you learned, how difficult it was, and what insights you gained from the exercise. Not all of the terms listed here are forms — on the days when you run across a term like “rhyme” or “meter,” simply write a poem that relies on rhyme, or meter, and discuss that in your journal entry. There are 275 terms listed at Poetry Foundation. This means you can take most weekends off, if you like, and still finish in a year. Or take your time. There is absolutely no rush at all.
Bonus challenge: Commit to submitting your poem to a poetry journal or other publication within the month, or to gathering enough of your own poems to publish a chapbook within the year. If you don’t know where to start, sign up for an account at Submittable, go to the Discover tab, and search for calls for poetry.
If you take on this challenge, no one dare raise an eyebrow if you call yourself “Poet.” I cannot guarantee that a year’s daily practice will make you a “great poet.” It probably won’t. It certainly hasn’t made me one - yet. But you can puff out your chest and proudly declare that you are a “poet,” and I will nod and say, “Yes, absolutely — now, keep at it, because the day we stop learning and growing, we can call ourselves dead poets.”
Amazon links (amzn.to, when you hover over them), added for your convenience, are affiliate links. If you buy using them, I may earn a few pennies and it will not cost you extra. But as always, you have choices, and if you choose not to use my links, I’d urge you to support your local brick and mortar, independent bookstores.
Holly Jahangiri is VP and Program Chair at Poets Northwest, which meets in Houston, TX. Her poetry appears online and in print. Holly is the author of Trockle; A Puppy, Not a Guppy; and A New Leaf for Lyle. She draws inspiration from her family, from her own childhood adventures (some of which only happened in her overactive imagination), and from readers both young and young at heart.
by Holly Jahangiri | Aug 28, 2022
“We want to level the playing field,” said George Scootch, CEO, at the inaugural meeting of the Committee for Mandatory Fun. The executives present nodded agreement as George broke out the libations and snacks. He wasn’t much of a stickler for his own zero-tolerance policy on alcohol, but having one he could break and enforce against anyone who dared to challenge him gave him pleasure.
“Mm. Level playing field. What does that look like, George?” asked Lynn, his Chief of Staff and long-suffering agelast, always tasked with secretarial or note-taking duties. Lighten up, Lynn. It’s because you have the best hand-writing, of course. Not because you’re a woman. Every time George said that, he winked at her. She was beginning to wonder if he had a nervous twitch.
George pondered the problem. Not everyone at AltparaCorp had courtside seats to the NBA basketball games. A few of his pet managers had attended respectable schools on athletic scholarships; Joey had even been a point-guard, if memory served. But that was decades ago. On the upper end of middle age, most couldn’t find the hoop without a seeing-eye parrot to light the way in neon-colored plumage. And if one twisted a knee, pivoting too fast on the hardwood, AltparaCorp couldn’t afford the hit to its self-funded insurance program.
That said, pride would not let George accept anything that might allow the junior execs to show up the senior leadership. They would have to invent a new game, with new rules: one that stacked the odds in their favor.
“How about rugby?” suggested Neil. Neil was decidedly on the low-end of middle-age. George raised an eyebrow, contemplating his self-appointed “Czar of Marketing.” He was fairly sure Neil wouldn’t know rugby from a nice, civilized game of soccer, and was tempted to watch this idea play out. Maybe on the parking lot. Then again, the corporate games were co-ed. Maybe Neil understood the physicality of the sport, after all.
“Young people are bored with rugby,” muttered Liz, rolling her eyes. “How about golf?”
“Always with the sarcasm, Liz?” said Neil, pounding a fist on the table. “Isn’t golf a bit too violent for you?” He narrowed his eyes, his lips curling in a slow gotcha-grin as he savored the memory of Liz somehow managing to lose her grip on the driver at the sixteenth hole, four years ago. It had flipped into the air, slow-motion falling back to earth as stunned and horrified onlookers cringed. The driver struck Liz in the head, leaving her with a permanent, bald ridge where a titanium plate fashioned from the murderous club now held together pieces of her cranium.
“How about the traditional game of beer pong?” offered Lynn.
“Are you serious?” After the initial shock and outrage, the other members of the committee warmed to the idea. It had some merit. Most could drink their juniors under the table without slurring a word.
“With one small twist, of course,” said Lynn, leaning back in her reclining conference chair with her fingers interlaced over her chest, “After a couple of rounds of beer pong, you hit the tennis court out back and see who can tell the most daring tales of derring-do while dribbling a ping pong ball around the clay. First to sweat a meldrop loses.”
The men looked at Lynn with newfound respect. “Vicious, man,” murmured Neil, nodding. And just like that, Lynn was one of the boys.
George poured Lynn two fingers of 30-year-old McCallan. One corner of Lynn’s lips curled upward, slyly, as she tossed back Scootch’s ‘spensive sippin’ Scotch like it was swamp water. “Welcome to the team,” he said.
His newfound admiration would turn to terror, soon enough. Lynn knew that the pot-valiant Scootch and his cronies would brag about their illicit boardroom exploits, regaling the entire company and AltparaCorp’s visiting shareholders with tales that were sure to hold up on, and in, court.
Lynn’s game of choice was Chess.
Today’s story brought to you by Creative Copy Challenge #676 | Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge (wordpress.com) and the words Athletic, Basketball, Courtside, Meldrop, Dribble, Agelast, Pot-valor, Hardwood, Hoop, and Point-guard.
by Holly Jahangiri | Aug 14, 2022
Bram deftly spread the picnic blanket, allowing it to unfurl like a silk sail in a gentle breeze before settling over the soft sand. He placed poles around the large blanket and draped mosquito netting and a brightly colored canvas shade over the poles. His toil earned a smile from his beloved, Diana.
Bram lit charcoal briquettes in the portable grill as the sun dipped towards the sea. He’d been marinating catfish in buttermilk for hours; now, he dredged them in cornmeal, salt, pepper, and other spices – Diana’s favorite – and laid them over the coals. Their glow now matched the darkening sky, tinged orange behind blue-black clouds far away on the horizon, dusted softly in brilliant white.
Diana thought back to the day she and Bram first met. It was the oddest thing: like a bird without wings, something large had whirled, round and round, plummeting with a heavy splash into the ocean. A man, cocooned in cables and silk, dressed in puffy, sponge-like overalls. Something was attached to his feet – each of them strapped to a piece of smooth, shaped wood of equal size, unlike the driftwood Diana was used to seeing in the ocean. It had shattered on impact, bits of it floating away in the waves. Diana pulled off the man’s sodden outer clothing before it could weigh them both down and drown him. She dragged the man through the surf, to the shore, where Bram sprinted towards them from the cliffs.
Diana felt shy under the stranger’s gaze and pulled a clump of seaweed around the lower half of her body. He didn’t seem to notice as he dropped to the sand and felt for a pulse. Faint, but regular. Bram felt the man’s skull, neck, ribs, arms, hips, and legs for fractures. Nothing broken, he murmured. That’s when he noticed the strange, broken footwear. “Snow skis? What the Hell?” How did a snow skier end up in the ocean? Bram wondered. He looked towards Diana, who shrugged. What could she say?
The fallen man moved. He was breathing on his own, at least. The handsome stranger stopped pumping his chest. “I called 911. They should be here any minute.” The woman smiled. A quiet one. “I’m Bram. Bramley. My friends just call me Bram.” And I’m rambling, he thought. “I should go up, make sure they find us down here. You’ll stay with him?” Diana nodded. She didn’t want to – didn’t dare – but she didn’t have the heart not to.
When Bram returned with paramedics, Diana slipped quickly into the dark waves and vanished. It wouldn’t be long, though, before they met again. Bram came to this little crescent of beach every week or so. He had just wiped out after surfing a choppy wave. As he surfaced to gasp for breath, there she was, elbows resting on his board, laughing eyes twinkling with sun and seawater. “Well, there you are.” Bram floated on the other side of his surfboard. “You disappeared, last time. I hoped I’d see you again.” Bram smiled. “Do you have a name?”
“I’m Diana,” she said.
Well. She had a voice, after all, thought Bram. And a name. “Nice to meet you, Diana.”
“How’s the man we rescued?” she asked.
“He’ll live. But it’s the damnedest thing. Sounds like he was supposed to be dropped over that mountain slope–” Bram pointed to a snow-covered peak about 10 miles inland. “Some sort of parachute-to-ski adventure. A combination of nerves, a premature jump, and unexpected tradewinds blew the poor guy way off course. He’s lucky, I guess, to land in water where you could get to him. Could’ve been worse.”
Diana nodded. People did such brave, stupid things, sometimes. Well, what are you doing, right now? Diana wondered, annoyed at her own recklessness.
Bram and Diana had an unusual relationship; in some ways, they were more like an old married couple than a couple of furtive lovers. They had a son together; their boy, Dylan, would be heading off to university in the fall. But they had only met here, at this spot, once a month, for the past twenty years. Sometimes, just the two, sometimes the three of them.
The tent provided peace, shade, and privacy. Together, Bram and Diana ducked inside. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” whispered Bram, brushing a strand of hair away from Diana’s cheek, tucking it behind her ear.
“You always say that,” she said, cupping his face in her slender hands. She leaned in to kiss him and he pulled her close.
“That doesn’t make the reality of it any easier, Di.”
She touched his forehead with her lips. “No. You’ll tell Dylan come to visit me, won’t you?” Dylan lived with Bram most of the year, but he was a young adult who could come and go as he pleased. Dylan knew that he was loved. And he knew he had the best of both their worlds.
“As long as you promise to keep him safe, and send him back to me.” Bram grinned. Diana nodded. It broke her heart to bits, each time. If she were in charge of all things, the three of them would never have to part. Dylan and Bram, her reasons for being. Neither would ever make Dylan choose one over the other, nor would he.
“Let me go check on our dinner.” He hitched the curtains to the side poles to let in the breathtaking sunset. The last rays were golden flashes on the water. Above the sun, the sky was streaked in Mai Tai hues of red, orange, and yellow, painted on blue-gray silk. Bram dished up the catfish and served it with a sesame and Thai pepper seaweed salad. They ate in silence, there on the shore. Diana found the spicy pepper delightful on her tongue. It made all the flavors of an otherwise bountiful life before Bram seem bland.
They made love on the soft, blanket covered dune. Diana rested her head in the crook of Bram’s arm, as she had on so many moonlit nights before this one, humming an ancient sea song. He never meant to fall asleep, afterwards, but he always did. Diana saw to that with a voice that could lull a whole ship full of sailors far off course. She listened to Bram’s deep, easy, breathing, willing him to dream of her till morning. As darkness ate away at the large, bright disc of the moon, Diana slipped into the waves on legs that felt shaky and weak, like a newborn foal’s. As they resumed their natural amphibious form and strength, Diana dove to the bottom of the sea, and wept.
This story brought to you through the inspriation of Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge (wordpress.com) and the words Net, Bounty, Toil, Sand, Blanket, Shore, Wave, Skier, Charcoal, Briquettes. The words, themselves, first brought to mind a twist on one of my favorite old “urban legends”: Dead Scuba Diver in Tree | Snopes.com I wanted to try twisting it in reverse. I hope you enjoyed it!
by Holly Jahangiri | Aug 10, 2022
“I do not have writer’s block.”
“Then why are you sitting there, struggling, looking like you’re trying to bleed on paper through the pores in your forehead?”
“Use your imagination,” I snarled, nearly knocking the chair over as I pushed away from the desk to refill my coffee mug. “Maybe I’m just singularly lacking in creativity.” I sighed, deflating my lungs to match my spirit.
“I think you need an adventure. Come on, change your clothes and let’s go for a nature walk.”
A little voice in my head whined, “Don’t wanna. You can’t make me.” Instead of giving it a voice, I downed the coffee – it was lukewarm, anyway, as the coffeemaker had shut off automatically an hour earlier. “Fine.” I put the mug on the counter and went to pull on some clean clothes.
“Don’t forget water. It’s hot out there.”
Hot enough to cook my brain. I filled the CamelBak with ice and water and slung the straps over my shoulders. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
As I trudged the well-worn path into the woods, the only sounds were birdsong and the sound of tiny twigs snapping under my hiking boots. I didn’t think. I’d been thinking all morning. Might as well give my dysfunctional brain a rest instead of trying to beat it into submission. My legs and back muscles cried, “Freedom!”
A mile in, a sense of contentment washed over me. I was curious: did I have the resourcefulness to survive in the quiet wilderness, alone? I daydreamed about a rustic log cabin, nestled into a clearing in the woods. Would Amazon drop firewood and food in the front yard? I wondered. Maybe Amazon drone deliveries would prove useful, after all.
My restless energy, given an outlet, finally, gave way to myriad story ideas. As the sunlight’s rays grew golden and faint, I walked back home, contented. Calm. Ready to write. I could hear the sound of laughter from my annoyingly persistent Muse.
“Hush, you,” I whispered to the wind.
This story brought to you with inspiration from Creative Copy Challenge #674 | Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge (wordpress.com) and the words Struggle, Adventure, Nature, Curiosity, Creativity, Freedom, Resourcefulness, Imagination, Outlet, Contentment.
