Poetry On Demand

Long gone are the days when a bard-poet would station himself in the public square to provide entertainment both humorous and serious. Well, there was Roving Typist, who set up to write ‘Stories While You Wait’ on the New York City streets this past summer (and endured internet bullying for his efforts). 

When I heard that my church was going to host a craft show, I thought it might be a good, safe place for our Younger Daughter to become civically engaged and put her poetry-writing ability to good use.  “Let’s have a ‘Poetry Table’ at the craft show!” I said enthusiastically.  She probably felt like she had been volunteered, but she agreed.

Just some of the wonderful things available at our craft show.
Those lavender cookies were awesome!

We spent some time ahead of the event choosing and printing poems, some by famous poets, all in the public domain (e.g. Shakespeare).  She also picked a few poems of her own that she had written for other occasions. 

Then she asked, “How much should I charge?”  Hmm.  It is unlikely that anyone coming to a craft fair is going to pay for poems printed on plain paper without any visual art added.  So I said, “Let’s just ask for donations, and you can send the money you collect to a charity.  Pick the charity ahead of time, so you can let people know where their donations are going.”  She has aspirations of being a cell biologist working towards a cure for cancer, so she picked cancer research as her charity.

I encouraged her also to offer to write poems on the spot, on a topic of the donor’s choice.  This is a hard thing to do, even if rhyme is not required, since poetry usually comes from inspiration, not assignment. Also, penmanship, not one of YD’s strong points, counts in this scenario. 

Post-It Note poem in honor of Lauren

The bard at work, inspired by her muse, Einstein

People attending the craft show were wary.  What is this non-craft thing being offered?  Why is Einstein at a craft show?  Some people were kind enough to participate, either taking a pre-printed poem, or asking YD to write them a poem on a variety of ideas, including metal, a vegetable, prayer, an acrostic on the name ‘Lauren’, and fall leaves.  YD succeeded at writing a poem for most of the topics.  Unprompted, she wrote a saga, in rhyme, about a Boy Scout who sends his mother away when he is packing for a scout trip.

As the Roving Typist in NYC probably learned, it is hard to make megabucks with words.  Our poetry table earned $42.50 in donations for UPCI.  But YD’s sense of accomplishment was great.  I think Einstein enjoyed it too.

Please enjoy three of her poems below.  No copying.

 A Doodle

A hand

Moves

Across the paper.

A world

Appears

Underneath my fingers.

I see

The lines

Drawn, slowly, across the years.

In one minute, two,

Millenia go by.

I watch

The things

I draw

Slowly, slowly.

A nation

A hand

Slowly make the years flash by.

An uprising

Blood

An evil overthrown

As the hand moves

The hand gives

The hand takes.

I am the God.

I am the one

Who decides the fate

Of all who I see

Bowing before me.

I am the one who is.

I draw. 

 © All Rights Reserved. 

Oh, Deciduous Trees

Oh, deciduous trees, how do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

One leaf

Two leaf

Red leaf

Yellow

A pile upon the frosty ground.

Whee!

I jump.

One, two, red, yellow, orange

Fly from me.

Oh, deciduous trees, how do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

One swing

Two swing

Back swing

Forward

Whee!

I jump.

The swing swings far

Behind me.

Oh, deciduous trees, how do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

One branch

Two branch

Thin branch

Broken

A warning to the waiting climber.

Whee!

I jump.

I grab a branch, the ground far

Below me.

Oh, deciduous trees, how do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

But how can one count the two

Hundred

Ways that you,

Oh deciduous trees,

Have let me leap

Not back to the ground

But back, back

Back into the time

Of childhood.

 © All Rights Reserved. 

The Saga of the Packing Boy Scout

Once, in suburban mountains cold

There lived a Boy Scout, large and strong

Who felt, though he was twelve years old

That he had to bring a pack along

For soon a quest would take him off

Deep into parts of worlds unknown

And he knew, though you might now scoff,

That a pack would help him hold his own.

And so he packed, this great Boy Scout,

Three pairs of socks, and uniform,

Food, water, a map (for the route),

And set off into growing storm.

The Scout trekked long, but soon he found

He hadn’t brought a woolen hat

Or gloves, for he his mom profound

Had sent away when he had packed.

So now the Scout, he wanders still

Through the unknown parts of old

With no hat against the chill

Once, in suburban mountains cold.

© All Rights Reserved.