If you're like me, you probably have way too much on your plate. Kids, school, work, the dreaded pile of laundry gathering in the corner. How do you make time for your writing when you're so busy? One way to stay creative when you're too busy to write a book is to write a poem instead.
Not enough time to write a book? Write a poem instead. Photo by Caitlin Regan (creative commons)
Wouldn't it be nice to be able to set aside as much time as you wanted to write? Think of how much fun it would be to sit down and work on your book uninterrupted, no distractions, just you and the blank page.
Unfortunately, you probably rarely get to spend that kind focused time on your writing. And that can make writing something as ambitious as a book very challenging, because books need long, uninterrupted periods of focus.
This is what makes writing poetry such a great alternative for busy writers. With poetry, you can take advantage of the nooks and crannies of the day for your creative outlet. Writing poems is the perfect creative habit for busy writers because the form is short enough and liberating enough to allow you to have a few moments of precious creativity without taking all day (or all year!) to write, like a book often does.
3 Steps to Write a Poem for Busy People
How do you actually write a poem? What makes poetry distinct from other types of writing? Well that's a complicated question.
Poems sometimes rhyme, but not always (for example, very few modern poems use rhyme). Poems usually have lines that break, but not always (ever heard of a prose poem). Poems usually focus on an image or a moment rather than tell a story, but not always (after all The Odyssey is just a giant, Epic poem).
In fact, it's nearly impossible to define what a poem actually is. That's one reason poems can be so perfect for busy people. Poems give you creative freedom, can be as long or as short as you want, and in the end allow you enjoy the process of creating art without requiring all day to do it.
1. First, Choose a Poetry Form
Personally, I'm all for coloring outside of the lines, for creatively breaking all the rules. However, if you want to color outside the lines, you need to have lines in the first place.
Before you start writing, choose what kind of poem you want to write. Here are a few options:
- Haiku. Three lines of 5-7-5 syllables each respectively.
- Free Verse. Unrhymed lines of iambic pentameter (Shakespeare's main form).
- Sonnet. Fourteen lines of rhymed iambic pentameter, popular amongst poets like Dante, Spencer, and Shakespeare. There are several different kinds of sonnet forms to choose from. Sonnets are usually about love.
- Blank Verse. No specific rhyme or rhythm. Basically, you choose the rules. (Most contemporary poetry is in blank verse.)
2. Next, Choose a Focus for Your Poem
What is your poem going to be about? A moment where you felt particularly alive? Perhaps it will be an ode to your soulmate? Could you choose to write about the true nature of reality? Or tell a story where you felt vulnerable?
Then, just write your poem. Let it flow from you simply and easily. Don't worry too much about making it perfect, but instead try to write the truth as well as you know it.
3. Focus Your Poem Further
Poetry is often written in many many drafts. Some poets revise and rewrite their poems for decades. This is possible because editing poetry is often a very fast process. It's easy to edit a poem because they're often quite short, and this allows you to edit your poetry until you've focused your poems completely on a single image, moment, idea, or feeling.
Here's the process. After you write your poem, read it aloud. See if you can make each word serve the deeper meaning of the poem. Is every word absolutely necessary? Cut any words that don't serve the central theme.
And if you're too busy, just set your poem aside and come back to it when you have a few minutes. One of the nice parts about writing and revising poems is that you might write twenty drafts, but each draft doesn't have to take very long.
Writing Poetry Will Help You Become a Better Writer
Since you often only have a small space to convey a lot of meaning, writing poetry forces you to focus closely on each word. You have to make each word count, and that attention to detail can help you become a much better writer. I don't consider myself a very good poet, but writing poetry has been incredibly helpful for my writing.
Besides, most of us need more poetry in our lives. When our lives are crammed full with busyness, we need something to keep us grounded in the moment, something that reminds us that we're alive, that this moment is right here and it can be wonderful… if only we pay attention.
Do you write poetry when you're busy? Why or why not?
PRACTICE
Today, write a poem!
Set your timer for fifteen minutes (even the busiest of us can do that), choose a poetry form mentioned above, and write a poem.
When you're finished, post your poem in the comments section. And if you post a poem, please comment and give feedback on a few poems by other writers.
Have fun!
He held my hand and made me smile
I thought of zir all through the night
She kissed my lips and changed my life
What’s a person to do?
Why make me choose?
I really like this one. Well done!
Zir. Interesting name. To me it lends a mystery to the rest of the poem.
Zir is a gender neutral pronoun, i.e. someone who does not identify as male or female
http://genderneutralpronoun.wordpress.com/tag/ze-and-zir/
My poems reveal themselves whenever I experience extreme emotions – sadness, pain, rejection, anger or joy. The reservoir runs dry the rest of the time.
A writing client makes me go ballistic –
Dare to be naive
nothing to lose
dreams and pay
for the fools
Dare to be naive
set up the fake trial
breadcrumbs not
beads of sweat and tear
Dare to be naive
not a sacrifice
an attitude
ringing in doom
That’s interesting – I’m only able to write poetry when I’m not feeling extreme emotion. I find the extreme emotions are much easier to describe in calm retrospect. I think I’m the odd one out on this though
I don’t think you’re the only one! Poet William Wordsworth once said that poetry is “emotion recollected in tranquility.”
I agree with the others about emotion best left to cool. I like the dripping vitriol in this poem, though. You have to work a bit to get a handle on it, which is not a bad thing. I’d maybe remove the first line and use it as the title. Nothing wrong with the title holding a clue.
Fantastic repetition, Rekha. I liked the first line (and can relate!) but I can’t quite make out the connection to the lines below it. I love the phrase “Dare to be naive,” though.
Silence is loudest sound to hear
In its realm
Our fragile hearts
Tremble with the fear
The noise not near
The truth so clear
We run
We hide and disappear
When we should hold the silence dear
The stillness ever here
I don’t usually like rhyme, especially with lines as short as this, but I actually liked this, Joy. It has a nice rhythm to it.
Thank you, Joe. I’m not very experienced with poetry, but it’s something that I’d like to become better acquainted with. Thanks for encouraging the practice! 🙂
.Red Oak Leaf
Barren hope of new beginnings,
The growing of not knowing,
Red kernel of life, emerging from death.
Resurrected by coldness giving way to light.
Green banner unfurled, living.
Warmth grew, sweetness emerged, color bloomed out of the gray.
Buzzing and colors protruding and splashing and hoping.
Stretching, showing, giving a full breadth of life,
Green and dark, light shining through to show bright.
Shade from sweat, ragged edge, singed brown, oppressive heat.
Canopy of relief, hope of shorter, cooler, quieter.
Red heat reflected, finally now, a visual harvest.
Vibrant hues and tones and views of beauty. Light turning crimson light.
Holding warmth, grace, passion, glowing spirit,
Colors lingering, grip loosening,
Letting go,
Giving, dying, hoping, blowing.
I am happy, I am happy, I loved my life.
That’s beautiful. Thanks for sharing. 🙂
Some beautiful lines and imagery. The last few lines suggest a link between the oak’s natural process and a human life lived. You could make the last line sound like the wind, suggesting rather than telling, maybe? Lovely poem
Thanks for the feedback Heather! And thanks Joy!
I especially like the last phrase, Kent. “I loved my life.” It surprised me, especially because of the repetition before it.
Thanks Joe – that line is actually reported to be the final words of poet Gerard Manley Hopkins – I am so happy, I am so happy, I loved my life. I borrowed it from him. 🙂
Joe – any suggestions on poetry punctuation? My daughter suggested E.E. Cummings, but I have not pursued that further. Thanks!
No suggestions at all. Every poet uses punctuation differently. You’ve got to find what works for you!
Canada Day
I remember the parades of July,
on both sides of the border, one
one the first, the next on the fourth,
my childhood marked out in seasons
of Minnesota, where first came the French,
naming places: International Falls,
Rainy River, Rainy Lake. I later learn
Pierre LaVerandere used more words:
“The place where the mists meet” was the name
he gave that forsaken northern land,
that the English also wanted
only because the French got there first.
Nice! Canada Day has a special place in my heart, as the last time I flew out to see relatives there, was on Canada Day. Such wonderful memories of a beautiful country.
Wonderful and timely Shirley! Loved it.
Love this Shirley. Such a great line, “that the english wanted only because the French got there first.”
I’m currently on holiday in Austria, where I’m thinking of writing a series of ‘postcard’ haikus. I may post here, or on Virtual haiku, or Twitter. Watch this space 🙂
Oops! I did something Joe warned about — didn’t proof read carefully enough and had a typo. In lines 2 and 3, you will see ‘one’ back to back. The second one was intended to be on, which was not such a great idea since ‘on’ had already been used on the previous line. I think it’s good to try to vary words, although sometimes — what the heck — break a rule.
Katie, Postcard haiku sounds like a great idea, or tanka, if you can write them.
one million white soldiers cover the hills
and they all fall down
and it’s silent.
tis the season for families
and smiling, hugging, wishing
and while we carve out our feasts
the losers are faraway and forgotten.
Powerful. Thanks for sharing.
Moving Sandra – you say a lot here.
Very good, Sandra.
My first postcard, a tanka about arriving in Holland:
Early morn’, sun rising –
Land ahoy – Hook of Holland.
Drifting on calm waves
between grey shadows of homes,
windmills wave me in.
“Windmills wave me in.” LOVE that!
Beautiful imagery, and to me reads with the to and fro gentle rhythm of calm waves. Thanks for sharing.
Dawn
Sandra, what an visually enticing line: one million white soldiers cover the hills
I was responding to Katie’s tanka and got cut short. I was afraid it would show up here in it’s truncated form. The visual images were lovely in the tanka. I usually think of bright color, of tulips and those Delft blue skies in Dutch art. The gray shadows are there, too, in the canals, the shadows mentioned, and the heavy, laden skies before a rain. I love the Dutch painters. Rembrandt comes to mind first. Van Gogh might be my favorite. A few years ago, I found someone not as famous, van Goyen. He does the most wonderful landscapes: dunes and houses and figures on beaches.
I’m remembering in Katie’s poem how the windmills lure the watcher in. Very nice.
CUING the RAIN
walking dogs this morning between a hedgerow and an open field
the grasses a study in green, quaking in the constantly moving air
crows cawing, small birds chirping, trilling, darting for cover
a lone woman walks on the main road, she is talking to herself loudly & gesturing
my dogs pause but they are used to this behavior, being that they live with me.
we look up at the sky hung with steely grey clouds, bleeding color, wet on wet
cold mist on my face
I sniff,
the dogs sniff;
cuing the rain.
I really enjoyed reading this Serenity. I especially liked the length of the lines (they were comforting somehow) and the clear, vivid imagery.
Beautiful. I especially like how you incorporated the senses into the poem (particularly the ending when they smell the oncoming rain).
It’s always nice to have all your senses engaged in a poem
Loved the last line, “cuing the rain.”
Great poem. Is the “lone woman” you, or someone like you? Either way I like it.
Thanks, Kip. The lone woman was another person, but I felt a kinship. My dogs know very well that I talk to myself, gesture, sing, dance, do bad accents; all with no other humans in sight. The woman seemed kind of crazy until I saw my dogs’ impassive reaction to her and realized we weren’t all that different!
it has all the feelings… the loneliness of the woman, the sweetness of petting a dog and he freshness of the morning!
All this time
I’ve imagined how it would be…
Imagined you into being
a casual introduction, playing it cool
in the hot humming air
sucked into a vortex
through your level gaze
drawn toward you on a thread
through time and space
the walls imploding
a joke to lighten the air
a warmth between the blades
as I turn to talk to a friend
who has ceased to exist
the dropped glances
rolling across the floor
that yawns between us
until we are alone
talking into the night
caressing with words
the throbbing tension
of wanting to touch
while speaking of nothing
and everything, playing it cool
And all this time
It was you who imagined me
Beautiful, Heather.
Thanks, Joe. I know it could use editing, but I need some daily practise, so thanks for the task
Really like this. I’d just cut out various unnecessary instances of “the” on lines 5, 10, 15, and 21
Love it!
Thanks Dawn
It is as if I’m speaking.. how our thoughts match Heather! I just can’t tell you… anyway.. it is thrilling, it is intense, it is lovable! <3 <3
A love story…nice. “dropped glances rolling across the floor”…you do have a way with words. Don’t stop weaving poems
Thanks, Kent. I’m glad you liked it. I wonder how it would be if I should decide to work on it. Just a thought. Maybe it is what it is. Your last name is French, yes? I read your question about punctuation. That is so subjective. If you decide to punctuate, then it needs to be done throughout the poem. One of my friends recently decided to quit punctuation. She changed her mind again and went back to commas and periods. It’s somehow easier to read when a piece is punctuated. It’s like having a map and being given directions.
Aren’t words supposed to be a writer’s best friend
Ready at their beck and call
Walking with each other
hand in hand …
But then why do words suddenly abandon me
hiding behind , running free
I coax them to come back
To sit with me and help me write …
To make themselves available
“You are my tools” I tell them
No, Scratch that .. You are my love
You help me create whats beautiful and ugly
Sometimes a poem, sometimes a story
You help me create people …
you, my dear words, are the life in my people
But hardly do they listen …
We sit all day … the blank page and I
staring away
After sometime, when the emptiness starts winning …
I force myself … to force my words
But,they still peek and run around me
teasing like children
enjoying this little game
and I, like a tired mother,
finally sit down, apologizing to the page
promising the next time my words will behave
just then I feel a tug
a small word stands
giving me a shy little smile
slowly bringing along its other friends
I sit back and let them play
let them form their night and day
let them do their work through my fingers
I let my words create my world
I really liked this. Words are such powerful things. I love them too. 🙂
I liked this.
this one is beautiful Varsha!
Very nice, Serenity. What I enjoyed most is how the senses are engaged. I loved how you used the verb “quaking”. So much movement is going on. I almost feel like I’m there in scene with the dogs, sniffing the summer air.
Kent,
“Canopy of relief” is such a fresh image. And, oh, that last line really gets me. it makes me feel happy, makes me love my life, too.
Ooh, yeay, finally a place to release all them gremmer rules. 🙂 Tonight I have time neither for a book or a poem but here’s something I wrote in a flash one day years ago:
Young Boy in Viet Nam
.. for molly ..
the morning rose tall and crisp
when the boat broke the waves
i stood on the prow and i
i saw his eyes for the first time
his was just a glance
but one that sank deep into me
like sand melting into glass
we landed and i
i landed on the sand
a group of boys chasing a ball around
he was right there with them
kicking the ball with the side of his foot
everyone else had shoes
the ball skipped my way and i
i kicked it back
the boys laughed and ran after it
his the biggest smile of them all
i stayed on the island that night
and seven thereafter
i couldn’t leave
i didn’t leave
i chased the ball around with the boys
and he
he was the only one without shoes
he lived on a boat just offshore
his father a fisherman
he helped cast the nets just before dawn and then
he’d come in every morning
to play with his friends
and he was the only one
the only one without shoes
i played all week on that beach
chasing the ball with the local boys
and me the only girl
the tallest of them all and my
curly blonde hair all dusty with sand
we all laughed and chased the ball
and on the last day
that morning i took him out
took him to the market
he said not a word and he came with me
his small hand held in mine
he walked with me and then he pointed
shy and looking up at me with his great brown eyes
in pure silent innocence
he pointed to the pair he thought would be nice
and there it was
he was no longer the only one
the only one without shoes
http://www.birgitterasine.com/works/poems/young-boy-viet-nam
Love this little poetic/ prose story.
By telling little it shows much.
Perhaps I am so stirred by it as it reminds me of a similar story in my life with a young boy, with whom I connected, in Nepal many years ago. We too went to the market – to buy books so he could go to school.
Thanks for sharing.
Dawn
Dawn, thank you—and thank you for sharing your own similar story. I feel I could have written the same poem for you… in fact this poem about the boy in Viet Nam was inspired by my friend Molly from Australia who was traveling in Viet Nam. This is her story.
(two seconds pass)
Now you’re inspired me. if you email me more details about your story I’ll write a poem for you! We’ll call it “Young Boy in Nepal”. xoxo
Beautiful sweet poem, Birgitte!
Thanks Joe!
Oh! I really liked this! 😀
Thank you Joy!
you’re story telling is gripping!
Thank you so much! xoxo
you’re always welcome xoxo
I love poems that tell stories. Well done. No, brilliant!
Thank you Patricia! I’m amazed people are still commenting on this little poem… but it’s not all me. It’s a true story.
Well Birgitte, it’s because it’s good and well written and touches peoples emotions. Vivid and colorful. Actually telling a story in a poem is wonderful. I think that was what Joe meant.
In all directions this skin
Barks her knowing
Boughs extend and
Shed her forgiveness.
Leaves, her tears,
Whisper away her fears
Upon winds of change.
And
They dance with grace
Land softly, wither away
Into sweet decay.
Forest compost,
Soft
with her blessings,
Holds seeds for
A new day.
Blessed be
The ancient tree.
Very nice Dawn – love the image of the ancient tree and forest. Thanks!
Thanks Kent.
this is simply fabulous!!
Awwwhh. Thanks. 🙂
welcome dear
Ok … Totally throwing all writing rationale into the wind. It’s winter in the Southern Hemisphere and right now it’s howling outside.
Winter
Cold, dark, wet. Snarling, whipping, fierce. Deep, dank, distant. Weeping, wise, wild. Howling, hollow, hungry. Gulping, growling, gripping. Consuming me. Swallowing me. Eating me. Chewing me. Biting me. In.
Outer skin – growing thin. Heart light – hibernating. Winter seeping – sinking me deeper. In.
Wow! Definitely the total opposite of what I see outside my window right now. Thanks for sharing. 🙂
I write both! I just recently wrote a poem during Memorial Day, and sent it in to a magazine (hoping it’ll be published!) I also write songs, And I’m writing a novel too. I think mixing it up is a great way to not have to keep your mind in the same place 24/7. It gives you constant breaks from one thing that, to me, would otherwise be boring. By the way, I’m a REALLY busy person!
“In all you do, do for the glory of God”
a rain drop fell aboard a leaf,
sliding down it’s green center vain,
following the blade’s guidance,
it found rest at it’s bow,
poising in quiver.
I imagine what would become of it:
A whip of wind could launch it to earth,
or the sun could add it to the clouds.
I lean close to inspect,
inside that shiny little crystal ball,
I wasn’t surprised,
I found my eyes.
a rain drop fell aboard a leaf,
sliding down it’s green center vain,
following the blade’s guidance,
it found rest at it’s bow,
poising in quiver.
I imagine what would become of it:
A whip of wind could launch it to earth,
or the sun could add it to the clouds.
I lean close to inspect,
inside that shiny little crystal ball,
I wasn’t surprised,
I found my eyes.
The Lost Key
By Rebekah L. Perkins
There are things that I hold within my heart,
Things I want to say, but don’t know where to start,
Things that are important, things you should know,
But things that I can’t easily to you show.
There are things I want to know, things that you hold,
Things that I probably really should be told,
But you are hindered by the same that hinders me,
So we’re trapped in this dungeon with no known key.
Neither of us say it, though both of us know,
Both of us know it, but neither can show,
These things which need spoken are filed away in our hearts,
Neither able to venture a guess with what number the combination starts.
Every single day, in every possible way
To me my heart says,
You shouldn’t be alive
Happen whatever may…
And then I respond —
Is it natural? Or am I insane?
He then speaks no more
Answers no more
So, I resolve —
Yes, I really am Insane…
To the dancing of the shadows
Trees sing songs
To the sea waves in motion
Sun gifts its rays.
But to the dangerous yearnings of a heart
Nobody listens
Nobody answers
Nobody shows
Where to look for a gift of the moment.
It then breaks all shackles
Towards:
A way to follow
A wall to put the murals on
A night to look for stars again.
All goes vain. All vain. All vain.
What the universe resonates
Is sometimes nothing else at all:
Just one word:
Insane!
Poesy Child
Hi Joe, yes it’s fun writing poems. It’s like playing with Lego blocks, only you play with words. Here’s mine.
Words Say What my Heart Conceal
i lost track of myself
sun filled sky
warm blue water
white sails
truly lost all trace of me
he fleetingly owned my heart
caught in a dream
delicious fragile transparent unreal
the girl i’ve been
became a woman
the one i searched for
created
destiny shuffled the cards
grey suffocating sky
cold pewter sea
empty foot prints
lost lonely
images of the past
came in dreams
never left
my voice begged to be heard
slowly
as my skin absorbed sunshine
the yearning
for something i couldn’t yet name
unfurled
became real and
guided by the stars
the exhilarating ripple
of your voice
a wild tonic in the rain
your presence smiled
around me
all my life i’ve waited
for a moment
perfect enough
to confess it to you