Tag / art

by Carol J Forrester

Echo #Cinquain Poetry – Writing In Fixed Form For Colleen’s 2019 Weekly Tanka Tuesday

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Echo.

Shadow voices

drifting slowly closer.

Seconds crackle, shiver, collapse.

Silence.

The little poem above is a Cinquain written for Colleen’s 2019 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge. Each line has a set number of words, and a set number of syllables. Overall it’s a tiny, tight poem, that like all fixed forms can be a pain in the arse to write well.

Fixed Form is probably the hardest poetry to write to a high standard, because the rules mean you have to find words that suit what you’re trying to say, but also fit in with the structure you’ve got to work with. It is just the same when you’re working with a rhyme scheme. You might have a word that paint the right picture for the piece, but it might not rhyme in the way you need it to, so you have to substitute in something else of rework the entire poem. It’s why I write so much poetry in free verse, because that way I don’t feel like I’m hammering my poems into shape that they don’t necessarily suit.

However, I do love the challenge of writing a poem in fixed form, which is why I still take part in challenges like Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, (and when I remember about it) December Form Challenge over on Deviant Art. I firmly believe that just because it’s difficult to write in Fixed Form, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to do it anyway.

Poetry is important free or fixed. How you chose to navigate the verses is up to you.

by Carol J Forrester

Waiting For The Bell

There was still tinsel around the picture frames,

all smiles and glitter staring back at you

in that echoing space

when the meals are finished

and the bottles drunk

yet the end is not quite upon us.

So we wait

and pretend

that this will be the year that we do something different.

by Carol J Forrester

Words For Silent, Empty Rooms

I’m still getting used to this lion in my mouth.

But sometimes

the notion of seen and not heard

still aches in my chest,

despite the waterfall of words I seem to spout

whenever my lips part.

 

When you’re trying to stay silent,

some times it helps if you cover up the abscene

with something meaningless

and hollow,

like empty poetry.

 

Laughter is also good.

If you can laugh about it,

it can’t of been so bad.

 

But time can chip away at you if you let it.

Too much silence

can eat the soul of you completely.

Not matter how small

the seed.

 

If we just don’t mention it,

ignore it and carry on,

then it’s not that big of a deal

so why make a fuss.

 

Women always make a fuss.

 

At night I feel silly,

walking with my car keys turned

to the sharp edge of a key-chain,

cold and hard against my palm

 

Alone is when I think about the school corridor,

his face split in two with that sneer

as I tried edging past him,

never close enough to touch

but clear and looming

this way was no longer mine to go.

 

In the light of my own hallway

I drop keys, and bag, and shoes,

and every memory of him,

the other lurking moments too.

 

We don’t speak about those here,

we don’t like to make a fuss,

those are the things for silent, empty rooms,

and notepads destined to gather dust.

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I think if I was to write a collection of poetry then it would be called Words For Silent, Empty Rooms and I’d fill it with poems like Office Bitch and Legs Eleven.