Poetry and writing by Dave Jarecki » fragment

SOURCE

Dave Jarecki — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 01:55:16 +0000

A stop-off on the ride home today with a view of Mt. Hood to the left, Portland to the right, the Willamette River in between. I wrote in in a small notebook under the initial title, “View of Hood”.

SOURCE

I drink the river,
secret source of water.

Drink the bridge,
secret source of the city.

Drink the heron,
secret source of ink.

Until I drink the mountain,
secret source of sky.

–

What’s in a line

Dave Jarecki — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 16:33:10 +0000

ReadWritePoem’s prompt #71 asks to dig on a solid first line, either yours or someone else’s, in order to generate some new work. I offer the following, which is courtesy of me whyfe:

“Can you start early? I have to leave for the funeral soon.”

Granted, that’s two lines, but still it leads to one thought. Of course, she’d originally written it as:

“Can you start early, I have to leave for the funeral soon?”

Which is probably closer to how it would read if you could read words in the moment they flung from a mouth.

This all leads to an April project, in honor what some call “National Poetry Month”. Taking lines that Courtney (the whyfe in question) wrote out this morning, starting with the above “Can you start early…”, I’ll be writing and posting a new short piece every day through the month.

The rules:

1. Must have something new every day
2. Pieces must be at least 30 words (but not necessarily 30 lines)
3. I can deviate from the original line itself, as long as it serves as a prompt for what becomes the final piece.

Feel free to play along, offer feedback, and submit your own work. After all – when a month dedicated to poetry begins with a day dedicated to fools, what could be better than a little foolish work?

Freethought Friday

Dave Jarecki — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 20:06:18 +0000

The reason of your rejection will be the key to your success –

Now go forth and prosper.

Just a Small Thing

djblog — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 04:25:05 +0000

we can’t run up
to the old lady at the bus,
grasp her hand, but can
watch our way into her, peel
her clothes to expose
young flesh, see
how eyes flick
to a child she recalls
dead in his crib. take
the seat with her, know
her list, the friend
and meat she picks,
how she hates the cold,
is used to rain and fine
slow rides.