Small Poems and the Big Stories Behind Them

I recently entered a few poems in the CWC’s “Big Contest for Small Poems”. The rules were to write a short poem or prose piece, no longer than 75 words. None of my poems won, but I still wanted to share them here, plus the stories behind them, because I’m proud of them.

My first poem is called “Morning.” This poem will actually be going into “The Smalls,” a CWC anthology of selected poem submissions to this contest that will release early next year. The story behind it is that I was just not feeling it one morning, completely irritated that I had to go to work when I was so dang tired and I wasn’t looking forward to the deadlines I was slammed up against.

My commute includes a long stretch of back road, which I take every morning. The drive is beautiful, and this morning was no exception. The fog hung in the valley, the sky was pink and blue, and the sun was just starting to rise in complete dramatic fashion. It took my breath away, and made me release my hold on my bad mood in favor of feeling so grateful that I get to see this view every day. And when I got to work, I wrote the following poem:

Morning 
This morning I was determined to be in a low mood, but then the sun peeked over the mountain, and the clouds left a caressing shadow against the rising orange orb, and the morning fog hung like old man’s beard on the branches of the sky, and I forgot to be sad, or mad, or anything but grateful. 

***

The next poem is inspired by the Encyclical Letter “Dilexit nos” of Pope Francis, that was released in October. I am not Catholic, but I really appreciate the heart of our current pope. The letter he presented is a traditional statement on “the human and divine love of the heart of Jesus Christ.” It is numbered in passages, and I paused on #20, which includes the following: “In this age of artificial intelligence, we cannot forget that poetry and love are necessary to save our humanity. No algorithm will ever be able to capture, for example, the nostalgia that all of us feel, whatever our age, and wherever we live, when we recall how we first used a fork to seal the edges of the pies that we helped our mothers or grandmothers to make at home.”

I was so struck by this simple statement, how it really encapsulated how distracted we, as society can be to the needs and humanity of others, and how this invites us to pause and connect through the inspiration of nostalgia.

In response, I wrote the following poem:

Frances #20
Amidst the emails, the headlines, and the insistent notification of yet another bell to answer, I am distracted by the memory within my grandmother’s silver fork, and the power it has to not only keep apples from spilling into the world, but to ignite that longing for innocence past. And I am reminded that poetry and love, along with antique silver nostalgia, are necessary to save humanity.

Note: Upon reading it now, I am hung up on the line of “keeping apples from spilling into the world,” which I think is beautiful, but without the explanation, how would anyone know I was referring to its use of crimping the edges of an apple pie?

***

Finally, I amended a poem I wrote a long time ago, which I included in my poetry book, Everything I Am Not Saying. The first poem (Craving) was condensed from the original (One Thought) to ensure it fit in the 75-word or less guidelines. This poem was basically the aftermath of a casual affair, when it was supposed to be nothing more, but I still held romantic notions that it could be.

Craving
This craving can’t be quenched, though I try with the clove smoldering against my lips. You are asleep in her bed, and I wonder what you’ll dream and where the moon is tonight and where each car is going as they pass by my stoop. I wonder if I should have another smoke and if it’s really worth it, since it’s not the clove I’m craving. It’s you.

Here’s the original, which I literally wrote on the stoop of the condo I lived in at the time.

One Thought

This craving
I fear
cannot be quenched
though I try
to suffocate it
with a clove
that smolders
against my lips
and sends
breath
through open windows
of those
who quickly shut them
to keep parts of me out
while I
tensely inhale
as the craving remains
and you
are somewhere alone
asleep in your bed
not far
but not close
and I wonder
what your
last thought was
before dreams
took control
and where
the moon is
tonight
and where
each car is going
as they pass me on my stoop
and if I should
just go ahead
and have another smoke
though I’m
pissing off
my neighbors
and if
it’s really
worth it
since it’s
not the clove
I’m craving…

it’s you.

***

Post note: I took the photo on this post years ago of the sunrise as seen from my house. It’s not the one on my commute. My commute view is incredible, especially when the fog hugs the valley. But it’s extremely hard to capture because a) I’m not talented enough, and b) it’s on a winding road with very few pullouts. Just trust me when I say it’s breathtaking.