Found Poems

Once a month, I lead a writing group at the public library. There is mostly constant turnover every month, which I've come to see as a kind of blessing in disguise: those who are old hands bring their familiarity, their continuity. Those who are new always have something to add that wasn't there before. This month, a new member of the group brought us this idea: Found Poems. The way she explained it--and the way I understood it--is that Found Poems are poems created from writing that already exists on the page. Take a book. A magazine. A newspaper. Circle words. Find poetry in the stuff that's before you. Piece the words together as a stream, or use them to birth your own new thoughts.

This girl was fantastic; she read us her work, and we were all floored. Amazed and eager to try our hand at this kind of creation. And we did, and it was wonderful.

I left the writing group feeling so buoyed by the amount of creativity that exists in the world; often, it comes before us when we're not even looking, and when it does, it takes us by the nape of the neck and tugs us into wakening. I've got to pay better attention.

I didn't study poetry in school, but on the timeline of my writing life, poetry came early (albeit the angst ridden, dramatic stuff of teenagers) and sometimes when I sit down to write, I realize that what I really feel like writing is a poem. But, I tell myself, that's not what you went to school for. That wasn't your 'focus'. So what? So I don't know how to do it? Bull.

Julia Cameron tells us that at bottom, we're all writers. We're all aiming to communicate; we're all constantly practicing the art of the word; we're all essentially seeking the best vessel for our story. The vessel is going to change depending on what we're needing to say, and that's okay. Pay attention. Let the story be carried the way it wants to be carried.

So for this Sunday in early May, the vessel of the Found Poem:

Bones

If the prophet came to my house, I'd show him the exposed pipes
in my basement.
'Bones,' he'd say, and we'd be in agreement,
the single understanding of structure a uniting force
for which I am grateful.

I'll abandon the prophet after one month, 

and rake up a new journey,

my own chorus a silent but pregnant calling of blessings

thanksgivings

anointing the page with predawn feedings of the war that still

is asking to be fought. 

Mine are battlefields of flowering weeds,

careful where you tread.

There are hidden mines

trick wires

snares as thin and sturdy

as fishing line

ready to catch you up.

Sparrow

The perfect farewell would not be a farewell at all. 

I am meant to protect, take care, of what I know, and what I know

is you.

How to protect what is no longer around me? 

We two, are victims of previous floods; a lot of our old trees are down, 

and we mourn the sparrows that lived among them.

Once I told you this story.

On a Sunday, in the California summer, the cat caught a bird,

delivered her into the house

alive.

I spent an hour wondering at the fluttering,

the threshing, desperate, muffled

sound that filled the room

until I saw her, wing mangled,

behind the drape of curtain on the floor.

Gather her up with bare hands

and take her to the lilac bush, blooming. 

Place her between the roots, a heady blossom

hanging low to shade her.

Then walk away. Do not stay. 

Not our business how wild things die. 

Theirs is an alter too big for us.

Thanks for reading. 

Beth