An Original Poem: "Loose Change"

Loose Change
by Rachel Marie Talan

I don't keep track of dates
-- I never was good with numbers.

I measure time in moments:
some delicate,
some solid,
some old
and tattered.

I collect them
in glass mason jars
and line them up
in little cupboards.

But moments with you --
I cram those inside my pockets.

They sing against one another
like loose change.

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It's been quite awhile since I've written a poem. It feels good to exercise that skill again.

Recently I was notified that my poem "Clumsy" is going to be published in Phi Theta Kappa's 2011 annual literary publication. So that was quite validating. After submitting to so many publications and being denied, it's relieving to be accepted. If you don't want to wait until the publication is printed to read it, you can find it here on my blog.

I hope you enjoy it.

Thanks for reading.

We Talked of Getting an Inflatable Driver

"The Drive Home"

by W.S. Merwin

I was always afraid

of the time when I would arrive home

and be met by a special car

but this wasn't like that

they were so nice the young couple

and I was relieved not to be driving

so I could see the autumn leaves on the farms

I sat in the front to see better

they sat in the back 

having a good time

and they laughed with their collars up

they said we could take turns driving

but when I looked

none of us was driving

then we all laughed

we wondered if anyone would notice

we talked of getting an inflatable

driver

to drive us for nothing through the autumn leaves

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Mission complete.

I wouldn't be opposed to congratulations.

I Would Have Her Be Beautiful

"Selecting a Reader"

by Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,

and walking carefully upon my poetry

at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,

her hair still damp at the neck from washing it. She should be wearing

a raincoat, an old one, dirty

from not having money enough for the cleaners.

She will take out her glasses, and there

in the bookstore, she will thumb

over my poems, then put the book back up on

its shelf. She will say to herself,

"For that kind of money, I can get 

my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

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I cannot say I'm as practical as this ideal reader; I cannot say no to a book once it calls to me. 

This past week I spent hours researching a poem by W.S. Merwin because, for the life of me, I could not recall the title. Certain phrases came to mind, but the title still eluded me. And so I searched. Google did not prove wholly useless. Eventually I discovered the title of the piece. Then I learned which collection it was from. And from there I was able to peruse Amazon.com for the book. After all that searching, I purchased an entire collection for only one poem, a poem I so desperately want to remember. 

Once the book arrives, I will share that poem with you and the rest of the internet so that the next person who googles this poem will find it in less than 78398452110 hours of searching.

This is my mission.

A Thousand Eyes

The Night Has A Thousand Eyes

by Francis William Bourdillon

The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.

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A friend of mine recited this poem to me the other day, and I was rather surprised he knew it. I'm finding that most people love poetry when they fall upon it, but very few pursue it of their own will.

How do you feel about poetry?

"Press An Ear Against Its Hive"

"Introduction to Poetry"

by Billy Collins

from his collection Sailing Alone Around the Room

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

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In many of the creative writing classes I've taken, I've had to submit original work for critique, which I enjoy quite a bit. It's always interesting to see how people interpret my work. I'd never say that they interpret it incorrectly because the beauty of art is there isn't just one right answer. But individuals interpret pieces differently.

Often I write poetry without any certain direction or meaning; sometimes I don't quite know what a piece of mine means until it's overwith and it's been exposed to the reasoning of others. Words aren't always what give the poem meaning; the readers do.

When reading poetry, people become frustrated, thinking they aren't "getting it." It's really not so complicated as it seems. Turn off your analytical left brain for a minute. Though you may not discover the author's true purpose, you'll discover your own. There's not one right answer, so you can't get it wrong.

A Bit of Rubbish

Though I am a bookworm who truly does enjoy learning, the academic situation tends to drain me of my creative capabilities. I've been working on a short story for the past month, and though I have a working outline, I've only written a few substantial sentences. And as far as poetry goes...I've written nothing but utter crap since summer. I know all writers experience blocks sometimes, but it's still rather depressing.


But perhaps this pitiful inkling of a poem is the beginnings of a creative awakening:




"Microphone"


She moves of your volition,
her face close, closer.
You pick her up,
hold her slender body to you.
Warming under your palms,
she's part of you now.
Lips moving against her,
your voice breathes,
screams into her.




I submitted a piece to the local newspaper two months ago. I've been told it will be published, but they cannot tell me exactly when it will be (which irks me a bit). So that will be exciting to see my name in print. I'll be sure to let all of you know when it is finally published. Hopefully that will encourage my pen to befriend me again.

Summer's Fury

Quite the interesting weekend...

Sunday night was pleasant. My Love and I went to see Phantom of the Opera performed at this outdoor theater. Some friends were part of the cast, so it was exciting seeing them on stage, looking so sophisticated and theatrical. My only disappointment was the lack of passion in the relationships of the main characters. I always understood Andrew Lloyd Weber’s compositions as passionate, emotive pieces. Other than that (and the incorrigible heat) I enjoyed myself quite a bit. I’d pick seeing a live theatrical production over a cinema presentation any day...it’s just more romantic somehow.

Then Monday came. With clouds, rain, and other natural weapons. My workday was spent in the dark, caring for discombobulated clients. On the way home, all the streetlights were blank. It seemed the weather was against me and the baking frenzy I had planned with my friends. My little house was without power for the entire day along with the rest of the city. Even WalMart was closed. WALMART! How is that possible?! Goodness, we’re all so dependent on electricity. 

Though it was disconcerting, I always find a secret thrill when the power goes out. It makes me feel like I’m living during the Renaissance...well, that or a disaster movie. Each of which would be rather exciting, don’t you think? 

Anywho, after the frustrations of cold showers and semi-cold food, I feel in the mood for some thrifting...

Surely, there will be pictures to follow :)