Blackout Poetry: The Poem Hidden in the Page

by Kasey Tross

One night this past weekend I was in one of those moods where I wanted to create something but I was too tired to write and too tired to have to clean up any kind of crafting mess, so I decided to try something new: blackout poetry.

If you're not familiar with the concept, it's where you take a page from a book (or any document, really) and select words from it to become your poem, then you simply black out (or strike through) all the rest. 

My first attempt was probably my favorite:

Funny how when we're struggling life still just seems to go on.

This one had kind of a story element to it:

"Almost handsome, never careful."
I may have to use that in a book someday.

My 12-year-old son saw what I was doing and decided to get in on the action. In my opinion, he won the award for the line of the day.

"Richard Harding Davis was suffering from Government"

Aren't we all?

This other one I did was kind of fun:

"Face the unknown as if it were a picnic." 

Now that's advice to live by.

So if you have an old book lying around (this one was pretty ancient and falling apart- the good thing about it was that the pages were super thick so I could even blackout both sides without it leaking through) and you need to scratch that creative itch without too much brainpower or mess, then I highly recommend giving this a whirl. 

It's fun to find the poem hidden in the page.

Speaking Out

Girl Cheering--Brisbane City Council (from Creative Commons)

Whew. I just hit “submit” on some poems for the magazine Rattle. It’s a publication (online and print) that is dedicated to poetry.  It’s pretty scary.

Why is it scary?

Well, one of my poems deals with the power I feel in being a mother. I literally say that in one line, that the true power of a woman is in being a mother and creating life.

That’s going to go over well (sarcasm font).  For the most part, the “artistic” world, especially the poet crowd, is leftish. This particular magazine had a “Tribute to Feminist Poets” recently, and actually reading some of those poems is what sort of got my poet’s brain percolating the thought of writing about true feminism embracing the role of mother instead of denigrating it.

My last article wrote about holding your tongue—this one is about standing up and speaking out.

Like I said last time, Facebook isn’t the place to have healthy discussions—it seems that every post someone makes has a 50/50 chance of having some angry, offended, or know-it-all person post something argumentative—and that’s just on regular, every day posts like, “Got the kids a Happy Meal today.” 1,2,3, GO! Find the person who is going to post the video about how they really make Chicken McNuggets! (I don’t care, by the way. Whatever they do, they are addictive and delicious and don’t judge me.)

So,  here I had an opportunity to stand up and speak out in the form of poetry, which may or may not be published, but I put it out there.  I think that’s part of it. When we speak out, we don’t need to track how many “likes” we get or tally up who agrees with us and who doesn’t.  We are standing up for our beliefs, and that is what counts. Those who are touched by what we say, will respond as they need to.

It’s like testimony meeting on Fast Sunday—the first Sunday of each month, members of the LDS church stand up in front of their congregation, if they feel moved to do so, and talk about the things they believe, or they know, or that they’ve learned.  Then they go sit down. There’s no applause, and sometimes, half the people in the room aren’t fully listening (because they are wrestling children, most likely).  But there are those who are touched, and they will respond or act as they need to.  Most importantly, the person who stood up, feels the conviction of what they just testified of.

When we are standing up and speaking out, that might be the most powerful thing of all. I know that in submitting this poem, in the writing of it I reminded myself of how much I love being a mother. It’s a reminder that I need often, because in the stress of my current life’s circumstances, it’s hard to remember amidst the fatigue, the carpools, the laundry, dishes, and diapers.  But it’s truth, and I am grateful for the opportunity to speak it and feel it.

Someone much wiser than I put it this way:

"If ever there was a time that the world needs disciples of Christ who can communicate the gospel message with clarity and from the heart, it is now," he said, adding that one man or woman can make a difference if willing to testify when the world seems to be going in the opposite direction."True disciples of Christ are not looking to make excuses for the doctrine, when it doesn’t fit the world’s current concepts. ... True disciples represent the Lord when it may not be convenient to do so. True disciples desire to inspire the hearts of men, not impress them."-- Elder Gregory A. Schwitzer of the Seventy, October 2015 General Conference

It would still be pretty cool to see my poem published, though. J

Gotta go back,... back,... back to school again!

By Lacey Gunter


Twas the night before the start of school and all through the house
all the creatures were stirring, even the computer mouse.

New outfits were laid out on the couch with care
in hopes they'd be worn with a confident air.

The children were restlessly chatting in bed  
About teachers and recess and the day ahead.

And mom in the kitchen filling lunches and packs,
while dad checks his bank account, hoping it's black.

When finally silence and sleep fill the air,
no sooner do alarm clocks begin to blare.

The sleepy heads stumble and arise with a clatter,
Then quickly and nimbly they began to scatter,

With showers and breakfasts and running around
searching for shoes that are ne'er to found.

Pictures are taken and vans loaded tight,
then off they all zoom like a jet taking flight.

The school is a bustle, the tension is thick,
The kids are all anxious and start to feel sick

Till their teachers all smile and wave with a knack,
"Happy first day to all, and to all welcome back!"

Some thoughts on writing, poetry, and other stuff

I have a thousand ideas for my contribution to this blog. Some of them have been floating in the ether for so long they are no more than wispy tendrils of thought; others hit me like a ton of bricks and I can't stop thinking about them. But tonight, I was looking through older posts making sure that a particular thing I wanted to say about poetry wasn't something I'd already said before, and I read a few of my older posts. To make it even better, I read the comments to those posts.

I won't go into all my posts. You can do that if you'd like. But I did learn something amazing. As I read those words, first of all, I felt eloquent for the first time in a long time. Some of that stuff is pretty good! I also heard my voice speaking so lovingly to myself, sounding like a long-lost friend, encouraging me, making me laugh, and reminding me of important truths. Here are a few:

--Don't stop starting over
--What you are is enough
--Remember that you were put on this crazy planet to change it for the better--and if God didn't think know you could do it, you wouldn't be here
--Practice makes perfect, even when we hate practicing so much because we're not perfect.
-- You've spent your whole life becoming who you are, and who you are is wonderful! Let that line shine!

I could go on. My point is that these are things I have forgotten. Scratch that. I haven't forgotten them. I've buried them in my mind and heart under giant piles of inferiority complex, laundry, and to-do lists. Reading them has already strengthened me.

How great would it be if I were writing like this in my own personal journal? How wonderful if I could read the words I wrote as I read the scriptures or pondered the words of the Prophet, and then when I had a hard day, I could gain strength from my own thoughts and feelings?

Of course, when I say "I," I mean "we." :)

Now, another thought--my original one. It's simple and it's not mine:

Wow, that's even related to my previous thoughts. How great is that?

Back to a sister from the old, pre-split Westside Stories chapter of ANWA. She said, more than once, to "write your truth."  I know this comes from Ernest Hemingway. Here is his full quote, discussing what he did when he got stuck in writing. He would tell himself:  

'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.'

So when we are writing poetry, we start with truth. We seek for truth. Sometimes it is with flowery words, sometimes we fit our truth into metered patterns and forms and sometimes we don't. I've said before that my poetry is for me, and that holds true. When I read it, after the fact, I'm often transported to whatever place and time I occupied when I wrote it. If I share it, I do so with hopes that it will help someone else to understand themselves through their reaction to my words; but if they don't, it's okay. Years later, I'll come back to it and find self-understanding and deeper meaning again and again. In that way poetry is like those old blog posts; voices from an old friend who knows me better than I know myself and is reaching out to leave me little treasures of wisdom. 

What have you learned from your writing? What gems of self-discovery have you found? 

Happy National Poetry Month!

We are eleven days into National Poetry Month, established in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets.  The purpose of the celebration, in a nutshell, is to celebrate poetry's place in our lives, and to help ensure that its legacy continues.

Is poetry important? I would say that it is not only important, but necessary. Not only that, I believe that it is organic--poetry won't ever "go away," because it comes from inside and pours out of us. There are many who call themselves "poets," but I would argue that in some shape or form, we are ALL poets. In his speech "Tide of Voices--Why Poetry Matter Now," poet Mark Doty asserts that poetry is "a way to speak. A way to be heard." I recommend reading his entire speech--it is poetry in itself and gives a great explanation as to why poetry matters today more than ever. The talk can be found here: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/tide-voices-why-poetry-matters-now

I myself love to write poetry. My poems sometimes rhyme, but usually do not. I don't have any form for them, although if one were to analyze them, maybe in 100 years in some high-school literature class, form may be found.  But mostly, the words bubble up and I write them down. I don't edit them much, and I've learned not to ask for critiques because when people suggest I change the words, it chafes at my poetic sensibilities as if my muse is offended that her offerings were not accepted. For that reason, I'm not sure if my poetry is meant for anyone's consumption other than my own, as a way for me to understand myself.  At any rate, for me, poetry happens more than anything.

One of my ANWA colleagues, Stephanie Abney, does a whole month of poetry on her blog, Stephanie Says So. She posts a daily tutorial on a different form of poetry and her own offerings in that form, and then invites her readers to try it out and put their poems in the comments. I've learned tons about poetry that I never even knew I didn't know.

So how can you celebrate National Poetry Month? The Academy of American Poets posts the following list of 30 suggestions on their website, poetry.org:

30 ways to celebrate national poetry month

1. Order a free National Poetry Month poster and display it at work or school.
2. Sign up for Poem-a-Day and read a poem each morning.
3. Deepen your daily experience by reading Edward Hirsch’s essay “How to Read a Poem.”
4. Memorize a poem.
5. Create an anthology of your favorite poems on Poets.org.
6. Encourage a young person to participate in the Dear Poetproject.
7. Buy a book of poetry from your local bookstore.
8. Review these concrete examples of how poetry matters in the United States today.
9. Learn more about poets and poetry events in your state.
10. Ask your governor or mayor for a proclamation in support of National Poetry Month.
11. Attend a poetry reading at a local university, bookstore, cafe, or library.
12. Read a poem at an open mic. It’s a great way to meet other writers in your area and find out about your local poetry writing community.
13. Start a poetry reading group.
14. Write an exquisite corpse poem with friends.
15. Chalk a poem on the sidewalk.
16. Write a letter to a poet thanking them for their work.
17. Ask the United States Post Office to issue more stampscelebrating poets.
18. Recreate a poet’s favorite food or drink by following his or her recipe.
19. Read about different poetic forms.
20. Read about poems titled “poem.”
21. Read the first chapter of Muriel Rukeyer’s inspiring book,The Life of Poetry.
22. Subscribe to American Poets magazine or a small press poetry journal.
23. Watch Rachel Eliza Griffiths' latest Poets on Poetry video.
24. Watch or read Carolyn Forche’s talk “Not Persuasion, But Transport: The Poetry of Witness.”
25. Read or listen to Mark Doty’s talk “Tide of Voices: Why Poetry Matters Now.”
26. Read Allen Ginsberg’s classic essay about Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.”
27. Watch a poetry movie.
28. Sign up for a poetry class or workshop.
29. Get ready for Mother’s Day by making a card featuring aline of poetry.
30. Celebrate National Poem in Your Pocket Day on April 30, 2015. The idea is simple: select a poem you love, carry it with you, then share it with coworkers, family, and friends.

Here's my own little poetic offering today to close: 

Go out and celebrate

'Tis a short thirty days

To honor the words

that pour forth, that draw out

the sighs, the laughter, the tears

That bring understanding 

That link us all in our

fumbling humanity.

Silly Poem Saturday

By Lacey Gunter

There is more than enough sad, negative and depressing things going on in the world right now. It's high time we all had a good little chuckle. So I declare today to be Silly Poem Saturday (or whatever day you happen to read this post). Here are few silly poems I enjoy and one of my own.  Please share one you like, or better yet, one you wrote in the comments section and have a splendidly silly day.


EARLY TO BED
by Mary Mapes Dodge

Early to bed and early to rise
If that would make me healthy and wise
I'd rise at daybreak, cold or hot,
And go back to bed at once. Why not?



SNOWBALL
by Shel Silverstein

I made myself a snowball
As perfect as could be.
I thought I'd keep it as a pet
And let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas
And a pillow for its head.
Then last night it ran away,
But first - it wet the bed.



WHEN I'M AN OLD LADY
by Joanne Bailey Baxter
When I'm an old lady, I'll live with my kids,
and make them so happy, just as they did.
I want to pay back all the joy they've provided,
returning each deed. Oh, they'll be so excited.
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.)

I'll write on the wall with reds, whites and blues,
and bounce on the furniture wearing my shoes.
I'll drink from the carton and then leave it out.
I'll stuff all the toilets, and oh, how they'll shout.
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.)

When they're on the phone and just out of reach,
I'll get into things like sugar and bleach.
Oh, they'll snap their fingers and then shake their head,
and when that is done I'll hide under the bed.
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.)

When they cook dinner and call me to meals,
I'll not eat my green beans or salads congealed.
I'll gag on my okra, spill milk on the table,
and when they get angry, run fast as I'm able.
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.)

I'll sit close to the TV, through the channels I'll click,
I'll cross both my eyes to see if they stick.
I'll take off my socks and throw one away,
And play in the mud until the end of the day.
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.)

And later in bed, I'll lay back and sigh,
and thank God in prayer and then close my eyes,
and my kids will look down with a smile slowly creeping,
and say with a groan. "She's so sweet when she's sleeping!"
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.)



WAITING
by Lacey Gunter

Texts on my telephone,

Emails in my box,

Dishes in the sink,

And a laundry full of socks

The kids are yelling "Momma!",

My husband wants his dinner,

The dogs are barking for a walk,

And time is getting thinner,

But I am busy writing

A story that will rock,

Only trouble is

I’ve got writers block!

 

The Christmas Raven

Once upon a midnight cheery, while I waited weak and weary,

As I waited by the fireplace as I’d done on Christmases before.

While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As a reindeer gently rapping, rapping atop the highest floor.

I whispered quietly:  “It’s him!”

Or perhaps I screamed it like a wild boar.  Time to get my gifts galore.

Ah, distinctly I remember, ‘twas the 24^th of December,

And I had just sent several letters saying I’d been good the year before.

Eagerly I’d wished the morrow, no more would I have to sorrow,

For I had wished the perfect gift that no one else had wished before.

Toys R’ Us had many choices, I could surely not ignore.

So, I requested the entire store.

Filled with wonderful elation, waiting with anticipation,

By the fireplace until I heard a knock upon the door.

[Knock, knock, knock]

That was odd I thought, confused.  Why would Santa use the door?

Right, I recalled.  This thing (fireplace) is fake, and simply set up for décor.

In fact, it plugs into the floor.

Perhaps if I’d been slightly stronger, I’d have waited slightly longer,

But I wanted my gifts right now!  So, I ran to reach the door.

Once I had stepped foot inside, then I would offer him a bribe,

And stand and watch as he supplied the many gifts I’d humbly asked before.

Here I opened wide the door.

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my…

[scream] (Santa is standing inside by the tree)

“Holy snickerdoodle!”

I said, as I lay prostrate on the floor.

“Couldn’t you have just waited outside by the front door?”

“No matter”, said I. 

“I won’t keep you long, just leave the gifts and hum a song,

For I know you have a very long and busy night in store.”

(Santa pulls out a single, unmodern gift and says…)

“Less is more.”

“Ummm,”  I said.  “I disagree.”

Trying not to let him see, that what I wanted most for me,

Wasn’t toys from the first world war.

I did not want one toy, thought I,

I wanted the entire store!

I argued back- “More…is more.”

Then the Santa condescending, his lame and pithy gift rescinding,

Took whate’er that stupid thing was, and dropped some coal onto the floor.

(Santa) “You’re no longer on the nice list, and this present you will soon miss,

Because coal…is stupid!”

Not only had he crushed my dreams, he ruined the whole rhyming scheme!

And his cold, judgmental gleam, did cause a rage ne’er known before.

Time to even up the score.

“You will give me what I’ve asked for, all the toys in the toy store,

Or you will spend this Christmas Eve, bound and tethered on my floor!”

Then back towards the entrance turning, all my soul within me burning,

My adrenaline was churning as I dead-bolted the door.

Sadly it had come to this. [gun cocks]

Getting gifts was such a chore.

“Empty the bag onto the floor!”

 “How dare you dare to threaten me, for I am Santa and you’ll see,

I can’t be pressed to giving better gifts when you want more.

You little children need to learn, that true respect is something earned.”

“Quiet, wretch!  It’s now my turn.”

I fired my Red Rider (BB gun) into the floor [gunshot] and overhead [gunshot]

So I’d seem hardcore.

Quoth the reindeer: [Sound of dying reindeer] Which is reindeer for

‘Ow, you shot me.’

Blitzen would be flying: Nevermore.

The fearful fat man then complied, emptying contents as he cried.

Now old St. Nick was not as smug as he appeared to be before.

But then I saw to my chagrin, the bag had little else therein,

And I cried-  “What fiendish sin!  The toys; why are there not more?”

(Santa) “The North Pole, sadly, all has melted, and my toy shop sank offshore.

We should have listened to Al Gore.”

I am no big fan of Al Gore or of the global warming alarmists out there.  But I do like a good poem now and then; and, I must give proper credit to the funny writers and actors over at the Studio C television show for this hilarious skit.

With regard to all of us improving our universe of writing, I offer a holiday thought: 'Reinventing the wheel' is not a prerequisite for becoming a successful author.  As I've demonstrated, the fine folks at Studio C simply took a familiar and popular holiday story and merged it with another equally familiar and popular poem and... Ta da!

The point is, as we search for ideas and themes to write upon, we might take a step back and see all of the existing writing that we might modify, add to, gussy up, or tone down (copyrights, notwithstanding).  For instance, what's the back story behind the dwarves from Snow White?  What happened to Belle and the Beast after they were grandparents?  You get the idea.

Have a wonderful Christmas and New Year!  May 2015 become our year to take giant strides forward in our writing and authorship.  May the 'Top 10' list be ever in your favor.

The Fleeting Muse

By Lacey Gunter


An idea flit flutters on a perch in my mind.
It whispers a tune, soft and faint, but lovely.
If I stop and I strain and I listen, intent,
Sometimes I can coax her to teach me her song.
But I must be quick and pay attention,
Or the melody and details are quickly forgotten.

Try as I may, to cage this rare bird,
She’ll only squawk and cackle when compelled for a song.
Instead I must let her fly free as she may,
With a bird’s eye view of the tangled forest of my mind.
Until once again she finds a nice perch
And her faint sweet tune comes wafting along.

Conference and Poetry

By Lacey Gunter

April is a wonderful month. The start of Spring and the celebration of Easter and the resurrection are a few of the reasons. But for Mormon mommy writers there are at least two other reasons to look forward to April.

April is always General Conference month for Mormons. This is a time we gather together to listen to apostles and prophets teach us the things God wants us to know in our day and age. It is inspiring, uplifting and uniting. I always end the weekend with a desire to become a better person and having gained a better understanding of how to do that.  What is more exciting, is knowing that millions of people all around the world are doing the same thing. What a powerful force for good we can become; and it all starts today!

April is also National Poetry Month. In our household, rhyming is practically a pastime. My kids think nearly anything can be made more fun by putting it to verse. So what better way to celebrate, than to combine these two April favorites. So, here is my Conference weekend  limerick.

 There once was a girl from West Valley
Who wanted her family to rally
Where virtues are taught
And spirits are wrought
For their part in the grand finale.

Have a great weekend and a most lovely April!

The Mommy Writer's Soliloquy

The Mommy Writer's Soliloquy
By Megan Oliphant



To write or to clean--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous filthiness
Or take brooms against a sea of dirt
And by cleaning end them. To write, to clean--
To write--and by clean to say we end
The heartache and the thousand Lego blocks
Scattered in carpet. 'Tis a consummation
dearly to be wished. But to write, to write--
To write--perchance to dream: aye, there's the rub,
In that longing for what words may come
When we have scrubbed off the stains of grape
Must give us pause. There's the need
of cleanliness again and again in so long a life.
For who can bear the whips and scorns of others
Who view our messes with a proud man's eye;
The pangs of cluttered counters, the laundry's delay,
The insolence of children denied food in clean bowls
Or a husband weary for lack of pressed shirts
When we may write a novel of novel proportions
With a silver laptop? Who would bear such
Misery of soul and sole
But for the dread of a story unwritten, unshared,
The undiscovered country from where
No tale comes but for the enticings of spirit
And makes us bear those ills we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus does conscience make mutes of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought
Of clean socks, folded and measured
In proper drawers.
With this regard the novel's currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. 

(A huge nod to Master Shakespeare, who makes even my jaded doggerel sound good.)

A Couple of Seasonal Poems

I'm pinch-posting for Nikki today. Since we're so close to Halloween, I thought I'd post a couple of darker poems from my "angst-y" years. Enjoy!

"Erik"

The mask would hide his face
from everyone who'd dare to look.
His mind is pained and twisted,
but his brilliance shined beyond.
He fell in love with innocence;
an error most men make.
The love he felt destroyed him,
and caused his heart to break.
Throughout his life they tortured him;
people, selfish and cold.
They failed to find his beauty,
and till the end, he was never told,
"I love you."
'Twas his innocent who said
those precious, simple words.
He fought so hard to keep her,
but he had to let her go
in the end.
For all he tried to do for her
he simply could not give
everything she'd need from him,
and he sacrificed his happiness
in hopes that she could live.
He died loving her.

August 23, 1992

"Pain"

She never turned her heart from him.
'Twas a pity he destroyed her.
She couldn't forsake his love, she said.
He used that love against her.
She never was too strong,
but the fact that he could hurt her,
made my blood turn cold to him.
I could not forgive the pain.
He didn't need her the way
she always needed him.
He used her to satisfy
his needs, and his alone.
Never could he love her
the way she deserved to be loved.
He didn't even know how, I wager,
to say a kind word at all.
For this, I cannot love him
in any way you may.
He is not my salvation;
he is pain, and pain alone.

August 23, 1992