Today’s prompt:

Today’s prompt comes from Mark Stratton:
Make your poetry personal. I mean, it already is, right? It’s thoughts, observations, deep, dark, personal feelings and stories dressed up in pretty words and oblique descriptions. You get it, and some others get it.

Still others see it as something else entirely, which is great, honestly. We have our own set of filters our lives go through, and this influences how we interpret things. It is part of what makes reading poetry fun and interesting for me.

Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me.

So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.

Post your poem to comments!

Read the NaPoWriMo page for details on how the challenge works and how you can participate this month, no matter what your personal writing challenge is for the month of April.

Please read How to Post during NaPoWriMo to find out how the prompt posts work. Remember that work shared this month is shared in precisely that spirit: sharing, as opposed to critiquing.


Posted on April 5, 2015, in NaPoWriMo. Bookmark the permalink. 6 Comments.

  1. Peter

    He quietly tapped on my window
    that one spring night.

    Without a sound
    he crept around
    Watching me with every step.

    With the window unlocked
    He took and he stocked
    Everything in his grasp.

    I never knew
    until he blew
    my house and the neighbor’s down.

    Oh Peter.

  2. Easter eggs,
    Clutched in children’s hands.
    Faux, bright green grass,
    Flowing out of baskets.
    Chocolate and sweets,
    Stuffed in children’s mouths.
    This is Easter,
    The world says.
    Nothing but eggs,
    And goodies.
    Bouncing around in excitement.
    Oh, where did the Easter bunny hide that basket?
    Relaxing in the bright spring sunlight,
    Gorging on some leftover sweets.
    This is Easter,
    The world says.
    Stuff yourselves with treats.
    Relax in the spring sunlight.
    Just enjoy yourself.
    But really.
    Something tugs at the back of your mind.
    Something you don’t want to listen to.
    You try distracting yourself,
    With the treats
    And goodies
    And activities
    And all that fun stuff.
    But still
    That little question lingers in the back of your mind.
    Is the world right?
    Yes, you want to say.
    But there’s something more…….
    What is Easter all about?
    That is the real question.
    Not the goodies.
    Not the sweets.
    Not the activities.
    Not the eggs.
    Oh, and guess what eggs resemble?
    New life.
    And guess what Easter is all about?

    When he died

    And rose again.

    And defeated death.

    And gave new life.

  3. I’m not sure if it really makes sense. I’m not really good at these interpretive stuff, and the prompt confused me a bit. But nevertheless, here’s the poem!


    You don’t say it like able, or table, or fable,
    That makes it sound choppy and so unrefined.
    Instead you pronounce it like well or like fell,
    The word is so elegant, perfect in design.

    “Mabel” is a feeling that’s hard to explain,
    A deep longing for expressing oneself.
    “Mabel” is no faraway island or town,
    It is not an old book that is stuck on the shelf.

    Each and everyone has “Mabel” inside,
    You must simply tap into its beauty and grace.
    Like a river, allow its feelings to flow out,
    You must give it the proper time and space.

    “Mabel”, like a precious ruby or pearl,
    Like a diamond that’s tough to mine,
    Possesses a radiance not seen before,
    A power so beautiful, almost divine.

  4. “Solace”

    She is the secret shadow,
    Following, watching, waiting,
    Everyone knows she exists,
    But most harass her, baiting.

    Children notice her the most,
    They force her to move in silly ways,
    Trying her out like a new pair of shoes,
    But their fascination never stays.

    Most adults ignore her,
    Never giving her a single thought,
    Carrying on their search for meaning,
    But never realizing she is what they had sought.

    Some adepts see her, notice her;
    They are cruel to “Solace”,
    Altering her shape, changing her form,
    But they don’t realize that she’s already flawless.

    Only few see and appreciate her,
    Admiring her inner beauty and grace,
    They try to replicate her on paper,
    But they cannot seem to capture her face.

    “Solace” is the innocence,
    She is there, but just out of reach,
    For when you’ve seen to much,
    “Solace” disappears, and you cannot get her again.

  5. Meredith
    By Hannah Oliver

    We all have one just waiting to be discovered
    Whether we realize it or not
    It’s just waiting… just waiting to be uncovered
    But sometimes it seems to be tied in a knot

    Our poetry name is our style, the way that we write
    Although sometimes it just doesn’t seem to be in sight
    Mine is Meredith, as you can see
    Meredith is the way that I write poetry

    Sometimes when I write I just seem to be so stuck
    We all have those times where we feel “out of luck”

    Each of us has our own style, how we write
    You don’t need to aimlessly search for something when
    Our own is in sight

    Mine is Meredith

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