Photo by Delphine Devos
Bath time is Daddy time.
I cherish those private moments where I get to play and chat with each of my kids.
My three-year-old daughter and I have teatime during her bath. Her tea is the best in the world, by the way. Her secret? She adds bubbles to her exotic oolong.
After her bath, I wrap her in her robe. Slather her in lotion. And begin the process of brushing the tangles out of her long, black hair as she bounces randomly from one request or question or thing within arm’s reach to the next.
Let’s grab that image of me brushing her hair and hold onto it for a moment.
A lot of people say they don’t get poetry.
But what’s to get?
Poetry is an experience to enjoy in the same way music is an experience to enjoy.
It is not a puzzle to solve.
When some encounter a poem, it’s as if they believe their job is to wrestle it to a chair, bind it and torture a confession out of it. (That’s certainly what some well-meaning teachers do.)
Again, let’s hold onto that image of someone beating a poem into confession.
When we say something is poetic, we typically think it is poetic because it offers layers of meaning.
However, this is misleading.
At its root, the poetic is about a specific everyday experience that happens to connect in some way with the universal experiences of humanity and nature.
That’s why, like music, poetry is something to be experienced, not solved. The only “meaning” that exists is whether or not your experience of the poem was meaningful to you.
I’m currently crafting a poem that hinges on me brushing tangles from my daughter’s hair (remember that image?). Through the medium of poetry, the act of brushing becomes a father’s futile attempts to remove the tangles out of his daughter’s life as she squirms and struggles for independence.
In poetry, a single word or phrase, deftly employed, is the door that transports us from the literal to the figurative. From the everyday to the universal or mythic. From the transactional to the transcendent.
So what actionable takeaways does poetry offer poets and non-poets alike?
The first is collecting. The second is connecting.
Start collecting everyday experiences.
Like a father brushing his daughter’s hair.
Collect images. Like that weathered “See Rock City” birdhouse you remember in your grandmother’s backyard. Or that old barn you used to play in.
Collect sounds. Like that CSX diesel horn you hear in the distance as you lie in your bed at night. Or the crickets and cicadas. Or the distant hum of the highway.
Collect smells. Like how your favorite coffee shop surrounds you as you walk through its doors.
Collect feelings. Like how it feels to flip your pillow over to the cool side on a hot summer night.
When you sit down to begin crafting your prose or verse, peruse those collected fragments and begin the process of connecting them to the mythic, the universal and the transcendent.
I primarily use Evernote to capture images throughout my day, using tags like “poem lead,” “poem image” or “poem theme”. When I go old school, though, I use index cards.
As I begin drafting early stage poems, I pull out those images and begin making connections. Typically these begin as similes: “Looking at the Great Wall from a watch tower at Badaling was like looking at an ancient Chinese scroll painting where the Wall keeps going beyond the edges of scroll.”
After this exercise, I begin crafting the literal layer of the poem using lyric or narrative verse. And, finally, I hone and tune the poem to allow for figurative leaps.
Most of my early image sketches turn out to be dead ends. But they allow for those serendipitous moments that bring transcendence and birth a poem.
Oh yeah! Remember that image of someone tying up a poem and beating a confession out of it?
It happens to be an image used in a poem by Billy Collins, one of America’s most popular living poets. He served two terms as U.S. Poet Laureate. You can read that short and powerful little poem here: “Introduction to Poetry”.
And if you “don’t get” poetry or like poetry, it’s not your fault. Honestly, like music, there is a lot of crappy poetry out there. All it means is you haven’t found a poet you like yet.
In addition to Billy Collins, give the poem “Dorie Off To Atlanta” by Mark Halliday at try.
How do you collect and connect images in your craft?
PRACTICE
Collect images throughout the day today. Write down things you see, hear, taste, feel and smell. Don’t judge it. Just write it down if it’s interesting to you.
If you would, please share two to three images in the comments. And let’s work together to find some interesting connections.
For example, if you write “a sole chocolate chip muffin behind the counter” as one of your images, I (or another reader) might write: “That muffin is like a kid at the high school homecoming dance.”
Let’s work through this and see what happens! You may get a promising lead for a poem or story.
Keith Jennings is a writer and poet in Atlanta, Georgia. His blog, Keitharsis, explores creativity, roots and what he refers to as the “portfolio life”. In addition to literature, his passions are his family, backpacking, reading and music.
Joe,
I look forward to our friendship and ongoing collaboration!
Thank you so much for reaching out and inviting me to be part of this great community of writers.
– The smell of her hair whenever I kiss the top of her head.
– The hands of the clock as you wait for them to make their move.
– The pink colored sky as the sun sinks down the horizon.
Hi JB! These are good!
The hands of the clock are like…a mother’s piercing stare that hangs in the room?
What have you come up with? Who else has a lead?
The hands of the clock are like…the diver balanced on the end of the diving board
The hands of the clock are like…the cat about to pounce
The hands of the clock are like…the arthritic fingers of an old man. They move slow, painfully slow.
The hands of the clock are like sneaky little thieves.
The hands of the clock are like…waiting to see if anyone comments on your blog post.
So. Very . True!!! It’s excruciating isn’t it?
Excruciatingly painful! Ha ha!
I like ” the smell of her hair whenever I kiss the top of her head.” I think about my adult daughter, and how when I kiss her, or hug her I want to smell the little girl that she was years ago, under all the shampoo and cologne and lotions that she uses now. I can still talk to the little girl sometimes; Ican hear her, but I can’t see or smell her anymore.
That’s very beautiful Marianne.
“I can still talk to the little girl sometimes; I can hear her, but I can’t see or smell her anymore.”
It’s beautiful but it’s sad as well. i don’t know if that makes sense but yeah, that’s how I felt.
Thanks JB. It is kind of sad but I love her and Thank God she’s here in any form.
Marianne – that’s a very powerful, very moving comment.
I don’t know if you’re a poetry reader or not, but one critical element that separates serious, literary poetry from the rest is that the grave lurks beneath the surface of the poem. Even really funny poems like the Mark Halliday one I linked to in the post has a sadness, a loss within it.
Your comment is so beautiful and tragic it holds the seed of great literature. I encourage you to pursue this in your creative writing. You are really onto something here!
And thanks to JB for setting that up with such a gripping image. You have some strong crafting chops, JB!
Marianne, you choked me up with that comment. Makes me think of my ‘big’ boy, who turned 30 this year, and how agonizing it is that he must get older as well as me….
I would say that some music has an inner meaning that can be found, but other than that, you delivered your point.
Ah, but meaning is individual and personal, right? A person must assign meaning.
I really love your concept of collecting everyday experiences in all five senses. This is something I have done lately but not as purposefully as you outline here. I think this might revolutionize how I take things away from the world and apply them to my writing.
Attached are three images that I collected because they encapsulated a moment in a way I didn’t want to forget.
The first was the afternoon after a party at my brother-in-laws house. It was a bright, beautiful day but we all felt a little under the weather. When we went outside, right next door this is what we saw. This scene seemed to instantly change the mood – cheering us up by its very nature and providing a stark contrast that made us realize how good we actually felt.
The second was the first time my wife and I bought toothbrushes together. There seemed to a symbolism at having these cute little toothbrushes, such an everyday item, next to each other – it was like they were one, with a united purpose.
The third was from a vacation we took to a bed and breakfast. We went to an outdoor shopping area and this miniature tree of a weed was posing under a bench. There seemed to be a peace and beauty about it that really captured what our time together on that vacation was like.
-the feeling after that first snooze button hit, when you wrap yourself tighter in your warm blankets.
Nice! This reminds me of an image I’ve always loved: on a hot summer night, flipping the pillow to the cool side.
The morning blanket is like…our childhood home: comfort that can’t last.
What did you come up with?
The morning blanket is like… embracing a lover for the last time; if only time would stand still.
hand touching ivory, discordant soprano struggling
wrong number, wrong queue, wrong road, wrong way
Suzie!!! Hello!
A discordant soprano struggling is like…a human prayer.
What popped in your mind?
I was trying to sing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and the high notes just kept missing
I missed a lot today, hence the second line: I went the wrong way – this is Ireland there is only one road!!! Totally distracted
Hello Keith
What a wonderful blog! I got out a pile of index cards to start writing down images, sounds, smells, and feelings. Will add taste, too, soon as my sandwich is ready.
Great Karen!
Sandwich pieces on the counter are like…???
…the unfinished plans of life? Hmm…
Incredible Christopher! Great comment!
A weed posing under a bench is like…a child’s heart? a poem? a widow’s faith?
By the way, I’ve written a poem built on the image of a tree growing through a crack in the sidewalk!
The weed under the bench was like the monster under her childhood bed, trying to scare her, to frighten away her happy mood. When she ventured to sit on the bench, she placed herself on the seat away from the weed, making sure to face it so she could keep her eyes on it, lest if try to grab her and pull her under.
I smell a children’s book right there!
a lovely gift of goodies brought by a friend, while I convalesce
mismatched pieces from two different pajama sets
time passes while avoiding the necessary
mismatched pieces from two different pajama sets
an old window and widower sitting together.
I’m with Marianne. My brain locked in on the mismatched pajamas. That’s a strong image and great lead for a poem or story right there! Do something with it. Hurry!
The smell of fried Anaheim peppers in olive oil.
Einaudi’s piano.
Cold feet, nearly frozen.
As I understand this prompt, I’m supposed to use someone’s image for a figure of speech or like in an analogous way. So Casely, knowing you are a good sport here goes,
“Cold Feet Nearly Frozen”
An old Story almost forgotten (on an old computer.)
Could probably leave on an old computer out. The idea of something useful being almost ruined being the link. Am I doing this right?
I think we are supposed to associate the image, so I think you’ve got it right.
I’ve got two blocks of ice right now, and they aren’t melting.
I’m glad you asked Marianne! I guess the poet’s way of looking at the world is a little different to what I’m used to, although I’ve attempted poetry for years. I find myself reading these observations, then sitting here head down — willing my brain to make connections — and so far, coming up with nothing!
Makes me realize how valuable this is!!
Some part of me must be creatively atrophied….
I know what you mean about the feeling that your brain is atrophying Yvette Carol. I think yours seems to be in pretty good shape though.
You’re a good sort Marianne. A little encouragement goes a long way! 🙂
Hi Casey! Looks like Marianne and Yvette did a good job with the cold feet. I really like the Anaheim peppers. This image could actually be crafted into a haiku:
fried Anahieim peppers
in olive oil,
a mother’s hug
What I love about smells is they linger in the air and on clothes, so they hint at something past, something gone, something lost.
Well done!
the smell of fresh cut grass in the morning
an old man eating dinner by himself in a fine restaurant
the sad eyes of any child
An old man eating dinner by himself is like…grasping a cup of tea that’s gone cold.
the sad eyes of any child are like night skies without any stars.
beautiful!
Thanks Marianne 😀
What Marianne said!!! Incredible, JB!
Thanks Keith!
These are great! Well done!
I mentioned the poet Billy Collins in my post. He wrote a fantastic poem about an old man eating alone in a restaurant! I kid you not! Google, “Billy Collins Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant” and enjoy!
Thanks for the reference! I will be sure to look this up!
the smell of fresh cut grass in the morning is like a Peter Pan promise of unending childhood.
An old man alone is like a forgotten parent by the children he painfully brought up…
Exactly..This site, is a site that can almost bring me to instant tears for some reason. I’m not sure why. I took good care of both my parents until their deaths but this site makes my heart hurt.
I’m sorry for making you feel that way. 🙁 But that image just popped into my mind.
Relpying now to the blog in general as I didn’t say how tremendously I enjoyed this. Being, or trying to be a poet, this really was especially meaningful and valuable to me. The image of you getting the tangles out of your daughters hair was inspiring and the blog photo beautiful. Truly enjoyed.
I really appreciate your feedback! And I loved your images!
Do you typically juxtapose hope and loss in your writing? I ask that because all three of your images hold hope and loss in tension in striking ways. I hope you see that nuance!
Yes, most all my poems are about hope in the face of loss of some kind or some situation in lacking in fulfillment. Compassion for those needing compassion so to speak.
Awesome! Keith is pretty amazing and glad I’ve gotten to know him too! I read his blog all the time…haha. As a poet, for me I prefer metaphors over similes. The use of like or as sometimes steal away from the umph that the connection can bring when you craft it as a metaphor (or at least what was beaten into me in class haha).
AJ! As you know, both metaphor and simile work in poetry. But metaphor tends to offer more depth and power.
For the purposes of this post (and many times when getting a poem started), similes get the creative brain working faster. Once some strong similes surface (i.e. the juxtaposition offers surprising, non-obvious leaps), I cut the visual string and abstract the connection.
In the restaurant where I ate lunch there was a picture of the owner and his wife with a child of about ten sitting between them. In the child’s lap was what at first looked like a very interesting cat. I looked closer and the cat was a white tiger cub. – I think of the task of raising children, how parenthood can be so sweet but so dangerous, how a child can be beautiful and playful but full of the potential to cause pain.
I saw tzatziki sauce beside roasted red peppers.
I saw hyacinths that are so old that they only have a few little bells left on them .
I saw new ink for my ink pen waiting on the table when I got up
I saw new ink for my ink pen waiting on the table when I got up…
and I see oceans filled with ink.
New ink for my ink pen waiting on the table when I got up…they’re words waiting to be spilled on the white surface of the paper.
Beautiful!
Marianne, I love your precision and “eye”. I would love to read anything you’ve written. Would you be willing to point me to any books, essays, articles, poems, etc. you’ve written?
Thank you Keith. I have been having a week of writing stuff that is pretty bad so your complement is encouraging. I don’t have anything published though. I don’t even have a blog. This is the only public forum that I’ve ever participated in except for some online workshops.
Wow! Well you seem to have the chops!
What type(s) of writing do you do: fiction, narrative nonfiction, how-to articles, essays, poetry, etc.?
And what are your goals as a writer?
If you prefer to have this conversation offline, email me at keitharsis at gmail.
I saw the hyacinths like aging dancers, in faded tutus waiting for their last waltz
I loved the “Introduction to Poetry”. I felt the same way about what they did to Shakespeare in high school.
A late winter day, the sun shining off the snow, so bright it’s painful, but holding the promise of warm spring days to come.
it’s a shame that so much good stuff to read is ruined for us in school, and then of course if you like poetry the other kids make fun of you.
If you liked that, you’ll love pretty much all of Billy Collins’ poems.
Taking your image of the sun and the change of season, it might be interesting to take a nonlinear approach. The linear takes us from winter to spring. But what if winter lurked in spring somehow?
I have no clue what to offer! But your image got me thinking.
I love these images. I especially like the toothbrushes. I think lots of people could relate to that. It’s nice to be part of a pair (usually).
Yeah me too Christopher. I walked into the bathroom one morning this week, to find the boys’ toothbrushes had been set up so that the heads entwined at the top making an X. For some reason it struck me as beautiful….
Keith,
As a fellow poet (however aspiring) I really relate to this post. What simple, yet deep advice for expressing and connecting the human experience. I’m going to implement the Evernote usage, thank you.
Awesome Cole! I have to ask: what kind of doctor are you? I’ve worked in the healthcare industry for nearly 20 years on the hospital planning and management side.
William Carlos Williams has been an ongoing influence for me. He maintained an active medical practice AND was a “founding father” of modern poetry.
Hey Keith,
I’m a family chiropractor.
I completely agree, I think that those involved with healthcare have the opportunity see humanity in it’s fragility and resilience that lends itself well to collecting poetic observation.
Life is inherently simple and beautifully complex at the same time, and it is out of this dichotomy that I find inspiration.
This post is amazing. I started out in poetry and this inspires me to get back into it. Here’s my few notable moments:
punching out paper shapes for my wedding’s escort cards
the moment I go for a walk for the first time in a long time and realize birds still sing and it’s still beautiful
balling up a dishtowel after drying the dishes and throwing it at the stairs to take it up to the laundry next time I go up.
Really appreciate your feedback, Ben!
I see the wet dishtowel as a symbol of craft and labor. And punching paper shapes for wedding cards offers a rich playground. Excellent!
The pen lies crosswise on the pad of paper…
A ceramic angel sits encased in her snowglobe…
Cicadas and crickets compete in morning chorus…
The pen lies crosswise on the pad of paper…like a gateway barred and closed.
A ceramic angel sits encased in her snowglobe…like the trophy wife in her home.
I like the ceramic angle encased in her snowglobe is like a trophy wife – I like it a lot.
I love these!
Casey, I agree with everyone. That trophy wife one is a keeper! You need to flesh that one out somehow in your prose or verse. In addition to poetry, that would make a strong central image in a short story.
Yeah I agree with everyone too Keith! The trophy wife (I never would have thought of it) is absolutely stellar Casey. Woa, gave me chills….
cicadas and crickets compete in the morning chorus outside like boiling water and sizzling frying bacon do inside.
Great list of images, Yvette! And creative comments by Marianne and Casey!
The first image is like a child that just refuses to back down even if he’s just the only one left.
Keith thank you for your uplifting post! I appreciated your explanation about poetry taking one from the literal to the figurative. While reading your words, that is where my mind was going — to the similar purpose of mythology. Which in the end leads us back to our humanness.
This from the wonderful Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces; ‘Wherever the poetry of myth is interpreted as biography, history or science, it is killed. The living images become only remote facts of a distant time or sky.
To bring the images back to life, one has to seek, not interesting applications to modern affairs, but illuminating hints from the inspired past. When these are found, vast areas of half-dead iconography disclose again their permanently human meaning.’
As I was reading your first paragraph, I was thinking, “Yvette should read Joseph Campbell.” Then I read your second paragraph!!!
I love the feeling of running my finger over the screen of my iPhone, watching the pictures or pages roll by. If only life could be navigated so smoothly.
Hi Barb! What if you were inside the iPhone? What would you try to convey to the person running their fingers over the screen separating you?
That’s our role as writers, right?
There was a force guiding her life. Like the finger tracing over the screen of an iPhone, it determined the direction and pace of her life. At times, the pace was too fast she wasn’t able to keep up. Lights and images flashed by so quickly she was not able to absorb or retain what was going on around her. If she couldn’t remember or use the experiences, then what was the use?
Other times, the pace was brain-numbingly slow. Anxious to move on, she wanted to reach through the glass, grab the finger and pick up it’s pace. Enough, already!
Then there were the times when the finger dragged her backwards to places she’d rather forget. Places she wanted to imagine never existed, dark places she tried to ignore, even darker events she wanted to have never happened. But this force would not let her.
She understood how Godlilocks felt. Too fast, too slow. She was always searching for “just right”.
Great post, Keith. I love the collaboration in the comments. Joe, have you ever considered doing a post where we each add fifteen minutes (or whatever) to an ongoing story? We’ll probably end up with multiple stories and it’ll be mess but it could be really fun, too.
Katie
We did that with my family this Christmas (telling stories rather than writing them). It went well until the little boys decided to have a magical change whenever it was there turn and basically blow up all the rest of the story and start one they liked. We had to ban “magic” on the last round or two. It was fun. I think the differences in styles would make the result a mess but I think it would be fun.
Thanks Katie! Great idea!
I like it!
Wonderful post! I love collecting images through the day to go back and handle later. One of the most powerful ways I’ve found of collecting images that move me is through a camera lens. Some of my most productive and creative writing days have been accompanied by my camera. I’m not particularly good at writing poetry, I think I lack discipline, but I love writing prose in a poetic way.
Fat bumble bee sipping nectar and droning like a cargo jet
Ringlets dance to the rhythm of a little girls step
Azaleas fling open their fuchsia throats to the cloudy sky
Beck “Azaleas fling open their fuchsia throats to the cloudy sky” is just beautiful, very elegant. I’ll probably think of that every time I look at my azaleas on a drab day. It makes me think of an image of a red umbrella standing out in the rain. I picture gray, maybe cold and color which is an image that could be used in many analogies. I like the ringlets dancing too, very much. You have a way with words whether it’s called poetry or not.
Thank you Marianne. I appreciate your gracious encouragement! I get such satisfaction from putting images into words.
Beck, don’t worry whether you’re writing poetry or not. Then you can keep on writing it 🙂
Wow, Beck, great images! And I love the idea of a camera. I’ll be stealing that one!
Your images are perfectly tailored for haiku. The problem with haiku is most of it is really bad (mine included). But there’s not much in the world that can beat the power of a perfectly crafted haiku.
🙂 Billy Collins reference for the win.
Images:
-My cat squeezing himself into a small cardboard box, and being completely comfortable there as he falls asleep.
-The constant yammering of the TV as my dad refuses to mute the commercials.
-Rain falling on the skylight.
Nice! With the cat, I think of finding comfort in discomfort.
And, I wonder, if you could somehow pull off having the skylight falling in the rain? Or catching the rain? Or ignoring the rain? Somehow redirect the focus and the reader’s eye to achieve something surprising. Or not!!!
– getting married to the wrong man, for the sake of having a ring on the finger
– a decrepid old woman recycling regret
– God’s sweat
Images:
A girl staring at a single bright star under the clear summer night sky
A guitar standing on a dusty corner of the room
Watching the back of someone move farther away from you
A guitar standing in the dusty corner of the room is like a dream gagged and bagged and never spoken of again.
A girl staring at a single bright star under the clear summer night sky is like a painting and a poem and a song rolled into one.
Love your images! The guitar calls to mind our adolescence. There’s hope and loss in that image.
What I’d do with the image of the girl staring at a star is have the star be in a puddle on an empty street. Have the heavens move underneath her distraught.
But those are my riffs, not yours! I hope you can do something with these ideas in your writing.
You’ve provided so many ingredients for good writing, whether it be poetry or prose. I’ve got to get into the habit of capturing sensory images and sounds the moment they occur. I love Billy Collins, notecards, and all things poetic (imagery and figurative language). Now, to put them into good use.