Tonight's writing group prompt was to write an Abstract Poem. Abstract poems are like abstract paintings in that there is no literal narrative- it's all about using sound to convey emotion and story. You might also use the visual format of the words to help paint your poetic picture. For those who love language for its musicality, it's a wonderful way to play with your words. For those who struggle with this type of form, you might try going to your dictionary and picking a handful of words you like for their sound and then say them over and over again until they start to lose their literal meaning and your brain starts to just play with their sound and the feelings they evoke. You can also just make up your own words! Here's mine:
I gamble In furtive fertilizer Futile abandon Flummoxed in the The middle ground Stuck like sticks Tied Kept down Dinner sits on heavy hips And lips adorned with Sugar canes don’t Seem to get kissed As much as Mourned My knees get bound With rope in town And silly girls Leap To escape me now I get I get hit I get lower In myself Lowed down, mowed down Downtown is ripe with Grief Disguised in Heels And bright colors Perfect teeth Just masks for Frowns How now, how now Little ghosts of my Dreams Seem happier To see me than in Real life My jibby-jabs Do fail to greet me I feel great Sometimes Oh yes, in heaps Levitate above the Fettered meeps Who creep Like manikins with mobile hands I seep into delight Like The catticans In klissims Of star-sheep And the manic laugh does Seem to me A highered Down Than weeps of Clowns Masquerading as fun but Horrifying Out of context I bow down, I bow down When my frailties Lie To my friends- and Mom Spies In me the Delicate lining Spits and spots of tares and holes Shoot out my armor Loose strings, and Don’t pull Or I’ll lose stuffing Lose life, lose little sleep Lose those Fun Star-shaped Sheep "Get up until the feathers falter," My father yells On wings of grave diggers Their shoulders enough to Alter The course of dirted ground How now This very thing I gamble This was another writing prompt from the Young Adults Writing Group (updated from Teen Writers Workshop as we have both teens and early twenties) that I hosted tonight. One of the prompts I pitched was to describe hands and I gave them 7 words to incorporate: Insidious, Petulant, Rebarbative, Denouement, Efflorescence, Bucolic, and Dalliance. We wrote for 25 minutes. Here's what I came up with:
Red Handed They were small and so, so thin Just bone, damaged tissue and skin Such raw rebarbative combatant things Used to flick, pick, pull, flip-off And self-assault Yellowing at the nails with breakage From that violent inhale habit Her hands were often petulant In traffic And always in her dalliance with Thomas, Dick, John, Beau, or Shawn At their bucolic rendezvous chalet Her fingers found themselves molded With insidious coding Meant at once to fluster And heat up her efflorescent Lust investment Like a secret salesman Selling stock But once the mountain man Was conquered, climbed and shot All love and hurt acquiesced With no more to long for or seek out A tidal wave of empty thought Lampooned her headspace Lead-ing down her usually tick-ish hands And in those eclipses of the heart On sands of unsatisfying contentment She found her hands grabbing hard on pink, pink throats With grips so strong and uncompromising Such refusal to let go That Death came himself to Deal the final blow And when at last she was stopped Some years later Mid-lust-struggle Fighting to bring back her hunger Wanting to throw away the sated feeling in her belly That made her full and dull and wrong The detectives asked her why she’d done it And she knew The denouement would never bring them satisfaction Lucky Bastards, she thought then, To always have such unattainable answers To live for Well, for September I could go around in timber hats and tailored shoes
With mustard seeds bemused and stuck to the trunk of my mouth I could holler and yell and makes messes in masses Just to clean them up good before October bore Hoods of winter I could gather a stricken cotton viper to sting the pit Of my inner enemies and rise hellion rise up to St. Symphony I could go clean in my dirt and fester in hurt of all the ways I lost days wondering in sleep and vomiting my feet Losing all for a greater rebellion of life in the Dark of the night that I created as a falsehood for my days As my head pounded like balls on the court My neck swimming in tension and shoulders floating above ears My forehead a hurricane of cement falling downward Ever ever ever falling downward like it just can’t get enough Of pillows of down Even when inside, little voice, wants to get up Even when inside, little voice, wants to get up Even when inside, little voice, wants to get up Just falls down down downward and goes Does what it will, has will of its own Will stronger than little voice, little voice it drowns out Little voice peaks a sneak through a window and frowns Displeased little voice disowns itself Little voice quietens and says “hell with it” Says “fine, enjoy it” BELIEVES eventually cement will crack, break and crumble Or maybe, just may be FOUND dust-bitten and fumbled In pause, in respite, I can see where the faults lie I can slick my tongue into the gaps in my teeth With skin boney fingers can dip in and pull out With blood and gapping holes find tumors to extract Its not an exact science, all trial and error, but with faith And fighting spirit- if I can find fighting spirit, if I can get fed up enough To fight back against the dust of ground and down, down, down I can start looking up, spotting holes in the coffin Can lift up and look out, can dig up and blow out Can start a fire that ignites a new name and new words That you can exhale your air into and find your spirit Newly enflamed Little voice, little voice don’t lose hope yet For in September rocks may crumble, cement stick you to your pillow Know that the spirit grows frustrated in this state and will fight back Blow up outwards, maybe by November, to find a renewal of energies strengthened And upwards and outwards, not so hidden inside, little BIG voice will get up And rise and learn to grow flowers again Everything was old
Each morning The fresh dew Made it glisten Like it was new again And my memory Being foggy from Just waking Could believe That life was fresh To me But by noon The high sun Had sucked up All the droplets And moist Became mold Became old Familiar territory Memories remembered Unpleasant things Stuck to me like the Blades of grass That stained me Green And sky and earth Were as far apart As I remembered them My dreams untouchable The earth grounding me I asked it What I’d done so wrong To be stuck in mud Unmovable While my eyes could feast On lofty blues Freedom in sight But arms too short To pull me up Dirt The brown appearance Offensive smell With bugs that slim and crawl You don’t want anything To do with it At all Yet, there you are Married with The force of gravity Kept down Sky The free expanse Of blue and white And purple With flight of birds And warmth of sun It seems almost An obscene wealth Of goodness Yet people in skies Who fly in machines Never seem lost In the wonder Of it I wonder if the machines Having been built On dirt Have clouded them Or have they Who have been built Up from dirt Been tarnished so From the start To never be able To appreciate the Wonders of the sky I think about these things And get down During the passing days Each one quicker than the last Each sky coming and going And never in my grasp my eyes are burning and i can’t sleep, even though i’m so, so tired
i just lay awake, thinking and what am i thinking about? the ocean pouring over the rocks skin irregularities chest, love, life, mates, dog bites i want to call you and say take me away from here make me bleed something real and strong and passionate make me feel make this moment more than it is than it can be alone i want to but i don’t my eyes are burning and i need to sleep been too long a stretch without it now gonna need some reserve tomorrow you go on and i hope you’ll think of me someday, sometime and with a smile ONE THING
There is one thing Wanted You With listening eyes And arms shaped round A witty repartee Two fools Spending a day -------------- SPRING I often reflect on the soft sweetness of spring the smell of fresh grass and bulge of the bloom how round and full the season is with turbulent storms and hungry pollination the people lightly browned with sun kiss and as horny for love as the bees Yes, the spring is a great joy for me life swims do you know what i mean? the current is strong and every second flows on the river of life doesn’t stop for anyone and it can feel like racing sometimes like a surge like a tsunamic force pushing us beyond what we feel we can stand so we grab for stray branches to slow us down and sometimes cut limbs get a pierce in the gut when you fight it you will struggle and you still will not win the force is too strong and you are too small other times the going is slow and you flail your arms and legs trying to pick up the pace but there is no sprinting in wild waters you must go at the speed of the flow you are given that’s life -silence-
the necessary thing that sifts our beings out of fog and into clarity i’m reaching today from inside for something undefined i feel it as an anger that tenses up my face i groan and flail my butt in seat my contempt as loud and large as whales i do not know what saddens me or from what seed this anger grows -silence- i’m listening for answers waiting for peace to come the anger quiets in the absence of others leaving only careful, lonely pause the desire to hold on to keep this silent moment going uninterrupted and pure not ad any more confusion to it i’m stuck in a place of homesickness but i’m not homesick for any home nor any place i’ve ever been not even any one i’m aching for the things i’ve never done the places i’ve never been the homes not yet lived in i'm filled to the beast in anger sadness sickness longing and -silence- for what’s to come the bittersweet hanging uncertainty of dreams that may come true or simply come undone |
AboutHey! I'm Andie Bottrell, a multidisciplinary creative living in Springfield, MO. I share stories (autobiographical and fictional), poems, and other creative or personal musings here. Archives
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