It was easy to let those lines stand alone. It seemed natural, quiet. It echoed a sense of mourning in its steady silence. I aimed to give the reader a little taste of each important fragment through my line breaks. “I miss” stands alone, being almost a sentence in itself. I wanted the reader to hear the croaking frog balloons in that line, and the line that comes before it, “The drone of,” slows the poem down even further. I hoped to awaken the senses and evoke certain emotions. My instinct was to write feelings down plainly, yet with a sense of being broken, and hope that it would be understood by my readers.

 

 

I’ve found that the different length of a line can add a greater and specific impact to a poem. A short line will stand out. A word that stands alone has the ability to catch the eye. It settles on you.

Conversely, there’s something about a lengthy line that can really bring a feel of control to a poem, like an engine revving, or a walk down a long and winding road. It beckons the reader to concentrate on a particular thought for a short time, and hopefully they’ll be able to take something away from that moment.

 

 

I started writing poetry as a form of venting. I later chucked that method in the bin because it led me to write a ton of terrible poems. I kept writing because I still had something to say, but I now disguise much of that by writing my poems in a character voice, similar to what I do with fiction. It’s a sort of detached expression. Therapy. Sometimes I hit the nail on the head, and sometimes I trash my art. But that’s what it is; art. And art is what I love.

 

 

I’d say, never stop writing. For every writer, there is a reader. It sounds cliché, but if writing is what you love, trek on. Be honest in your writing and say whatever needs to be said—don’t feel the need to censor yourself. Find a form that is original to you; write from your heart, your soul, your stomach, your big toe, hell, whatever part calls out to you, just put it down on the page. There will be someone out there that will appreciate it, someone that finds your voice refreshing. Finding that ideal audience is half the challenge, but it’s doable.

 

 

I’m currently working on a few poems inspired by (although not about) Bob Dylan, which is hilarious to me, considering I never much cared for the guy. I’m learning, though, to appreciate his poetry and his craft. I have a poem I titled “Sara,” (one of my favorite songs of his), which is a short poem much like “Thursday.” It needs work, but it’s coming along.

 

I also have a poem, “Something about Settling,” and I’ve been playing around with its form. It’s been both a long poem with drawn-out lines and a short poem with five parts to it. Despite the title, I haven’t been able to “settle” on which form is right for it.

 

 

Molly’s sleep, 
lush.
Weeds stretch 
green arms—high 
over gray
headstone tops

Soil, still 
soft under 
shoes. Rain-soaked 
tombs

I miss
The drone of
Frog balloons
Daughter 
dead at five

 

 

I pushed him out, bloody beneath the time-tarnished fire escape, wondered how I

Am supposed to dumpster-dive to feed myself, to fuel

A baby born in the alley on 9th Street, Tuesday’s umbilical still connecting him to me. I got

 

 

Lost while making my way over the George Washington Bridge that midnight, a

Woman with no sense of direction, busy lights passing by on both sides. Where

I was going was not home. Breasts dried up. Baby

 

 

Don’t cry no more. Eyes sealed, clamped tight, belly swollen, mouth shut, don’t

Want to open for this empty chest’s tough-tipped left breast

Your name still tattooed above it. Your name on the

 

 

Money I don’t have. Your name on the buildings

I pass, steeples stretched high, in God I distrust. When the world became so un-

Just, I puzzled, how could a god like mine sit and watch and

 

 

Want for his people a world so unkind? I buried my baby that Friday night.

Your daughter isn’t coming back to Sunday mass, bible class. This

Change is set in stone. I’ll walk through perdition a second time, a second life like mine, alone.