Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

Cinquain....because Prompts haven't been moving me as much SOOO!

I have learned a lot about the poetic form of Cinquain this month and this knowledge even lead to a discussion in my Summer Writing Intensive Camp which is taking place this week and a week in August.

(By the way, if this intrigues you, check it out here.)

We were talking about rhythm, meter, cadence and voice primarily in prose when I used these two cinquains - a British and an American - as examples.

Before I share the poems themselves,

The cinquain I wrote today has an inverted rhyme scheme and now that I know there are so many versions of the same form I am keeping it anyway.

SO! I wanted to introduce this alternate Cinquain since it fascinates me and fits my love for haiku:

The American Cinquain was created by poet Adelaide Crapsey. Here are her form parameters:

An American  Cinquain is a short, five lined poem with the following syllable count: 2, 4, 6, 8, 2.

The most popular form is as follows:

Line 1: Noun

Line 2: Description of Noun

Line 3: Action

Line 4: Feeling or Effect

Line 5: Synonym of the initial noun.

An ENGLISH Cinquain, which is a five-lined poem with a rhyme scheme that goes like this A,B,B,A,A:

Here is a British and an American Cinquain covering the same topics.

Matchmaking fool who adores sound
Even chocolate doesn’t taste this sweet
Nor wind in the palms or chickadees tweet
Cloth-bound, read aloud this holy ground
Words, well chosen, in meter – astound

Now some impromptu Americanization of this same poem

Words Woo
Catch vowel sounds
Cloth bound, mouth reads aloud
Not even chocolate touches
Romance

So - there you have it - The Cinquain.

July 16 (Again)

Tonight I am tired of being worked over with words, but this prompting came from ReadWritePoem:

Usually such grumpiness about words means I did a respectable job. Not sure about that, still too cranky.

= = = = = =

JULY 16 (Again)

An eight-year-old girl with braids
and orange goggles swam into me as I reclined,
Floating on the top of refreshing water

I was caught between the thought of
"This must be what the womb sounds like
from deep inside" and "or perhaps...

"The cradle of death is more..."
and kerplunk, her hand hit the slump
in my belly and I lost my flaming thought

Heart laced apologies and my mumbled
"It's ok, It's Ok" landed someplace
close to where the lost boys cackle

My dog, Sandy died five years ago
I recalled her blonde fur as I floated
My friend, Tom, married his wife, my friend

Mel, twenty one years ago. Died, six years ago.
I don't need a seance to know he is here
My shoulder's slump the visual acuity

of a dead man's pulse
pierces my skin so that
I am no longer able to stay 

atop
the
water

Along the Delaware River, I remember Tree Frogs

I have been experimenting with Cinquain in July. Here, I wrote two versions of the same memory, in a modified American Cinquain and a British Cinquain. I hadn't thought of this memory in years and then I was doing some exercises with Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way.

Like many people, perhaps you, The Artist's Way is an old friend which I have read and re-read and done the exercises, yet I am friends with a new group of people who are working through it so I leaped in today. Perhaps it was in the leaping that this tree-frog memory was ignited?

No matter what the source - another tale from my life of Love and Loss...

The Summer of the Tree Frogs

I remember
Tree frog catching
Holding watching loving
(My intent didn't match with theirs)
I cried

In my memory and in my heart
Live to different versions of what went down
Salty tears meet my throat, not face, I drown
I can now see both the end and the start
I still feel my eight-year-old self come apart

= = = = = =

Poems like this are published in Daily Passion Activator, Julie's long running ezine which is delivered directly into your email box - Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

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Fibonacci Elegy (without form) and the Return of the Fib

Fibonacci Elegy,

(Without an Elegy Form)

 

 

I forget how

Exactly to write

A Fibonacci

So for that

I am sad

And pray my

Pen returns

 

= = =

 

I

Think

Forget

I step back

Into the movement

Fibonacci returns to me

 

= = =

Elegy - Bakersfield in July

A preface to today's elegy, which leapt from my fingers, joyful at the attention.

You see, I am one who abhors endless talk of the weather, no matter the season but especially in Bakersfield in the heat. Get over it, we live in Bakersfield. We all know its hot.

Just like I refuse to discuss Sarah Palin or the death of celebrities or whatever makes people's tongues to wag and their Twittering Tweets to 140 characters to bliss, I won't do it.

Something about waking up warm, once again, made me my words burst forth. I giggled my way through this poem and thought, "OK, moratorium on weather ranting set aside on this Independence Day!"

 

I bring to you, today:

Elegy: Bakersfield in July

If I have to bear another sweaty night
I think I will shoot away bug-eyed fright
The ring of sweat around my tired neck
Has left my being without the smallest speck
Of patience - no optimism in my feet or my crown
Permanent wrinkles show the power in my frown
I know this is supposed to end in an upbeat note
It will: when Bakersfield heat lets go of my throat

Little Miss Nicey Nice

Another delectable prompt from "ReadWritePoem" helped birth this poem-rant.

Specifically, it was Prompt 82 -

Meet Little Miss Nicey Nice 

Little Miss Nicey Nice
Always says The Right Thing
Wears The Right Clothes
and Never, Ever Makes Anyone Mad

She doesn't double book
She doesn't forget appointments
She doesn't exacerbate
her children, ever

I watch her in action

And I remember the time

When trying to be her

nearly
killed
me

That was the day
The me who I am
rose up out of my coffin

And bonked her over
the head with a poem
and a truth-filled-prayer

She gracefull sputtered
and fell but her demise

was only temporary

she still clackety clacks
her perfect-in-season
heels around my mind

(Sometimes causing more
damage than I care to admit)

Unless I can find the humor
in her presence and know
most of all...

Little Miss Nicey Nice
is boring

July 1 Cinquain - Bu - Bye, June 2009

Warm amber sky drips
Beauty from its painted face
Soapy water skims my lips
Hair ruffled with finger tips
Last June moments of Mommy grace

 

Growing Up (An Elegy)

I have chosen to experiment with Elegy and Cinquain in July.

I hope you will wish me well.

This is my first attempt at elegy,  a poem in honor of my daughter, Katherine.

She trades what “we always do”
For time with her friend, Peggy Sue
When will the jet steam bleeding stop?
I squeeze thick redness from the mop
Which follows my heart from place to place
I sit before her bedroom sanctuary space
My baby? She’s no longer here
I smile, trace the happy-sad tear.