This Atelier is my personal workshop where I create and learn — it’s only natural that I share what I find along the way with you. These are sometimes directly related to posts from The Atelier Journal, and other times they are workshops I’ve have curated to better grasp a creative process.

Pour yourself a cup of whatever you’re enjoying at the moment, grab your notebook and favorite pen, even light a candle if you want — let’s learn something together.

This month’s topic: making poetry more accessible.

Poetry can be intimidating. I find there can be a particular hesitation with getting started. Our minds can be clouded with doubts — I don’t know enough about writing poetry. It won’t be any good because I’m not a poet. I haven’t read enough about poetry to know what I’m doing.

We have to push these thoughts aside. I’m here to tell you, the hardest part is simply this: getting started. If you have the interest in crafting poems, learning about structure and form, and writing more poetically, you can absolutely do it. It only takes practice.

My background with poetry: Despite formally studying poetry during college, I consider myself a novice. I have always had the poet inside of me, though. When I was a kid, I wrote songs and poems in my journals. In college, I took at least four different courses, with my favorite being one during graduate school. It was taught by my state’s Poet Laureate. In that class, I did some of my deepest work — I ended the semester with about fifteen poems. Regardless, I felt only two were actually complete. I earned an A, but it didn’t feel like I deserved that.

While I ended that semester with more confidence in my poetic abilities, I still (to this day) don’t feel like I’m even decent at writing poetry. It is hard work — when I put in the time and effort, I see the benefits through the lines crafted on the page before me. This leads me to the second hardest thing: consistent practice.

When I finished that graduate poetry course, I put those poems in a folder and forgot about them. For the better part of a decade. I took the work and notes from the guided sessions, dusted them off, and revisited them to see what fresh eyes could do for the words.

This is how we hone our craft — practice, practice, practice. Play with form. Experiment with line breaks. Do the work, put it away. Revisit it at a later time to enhance it.

Read some of my poems:

This month is the 30th anniversary of National Poetry Month. Every year, I want to do something more poetic with the month of April, but my motivation usually fizzles a week into it. I’ll write a poem or two, shove them in a notebook, and move on with my life. This year is different, because I have Behind the Lines. It’s holding me accountable to write a few more poems this month and to actually work on my craft within this specific genre. Maybe it will help you, too.

Follow me on Notes too — if you haven’t seen it already, I’m posting a poetry prompt there every day this month. It’s something simple to keep our creative juices flowing!

Even if the work doesn’t become publishable and lives within the confines of our journals, we’re still practicing. This month’s workshop will lay some groundwork for you to get started with poetry and remove the barriers that hold us back. You’ll walk away with not only the usual self-guided workshop, but I have a sample weekly rhythm you can follow, as well as some journal prompts.

Are you ready to exercise your poetic muscles?

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This Atelier is my personal workshop where I create and learn — it’s only natural that I share what I find along the way with you. These are sometimes directly related to posts from The Atelier Journal, and other times they are workshops I’ve have curated to better grasp a creative process.

Pour yourself a cup of whatever you’re enjoying at the moment, grab your notebook and favorite pen, even light a candle if you want — let’s learn something together.

This month’s topic: writing with ambition versus writing for attention.

This topic hits close to home for a lot of us writers and creatives. It names something we hesitate to admit out loud: we want the work to matter and we want it to be seen.

There’s a moment we all face, silently — when the work starts to move. It starts to change. Not because we lack integrity, but because attention trains our behavior. We see the stats — the opens, the reads, the views, the shares, the likes — and we start to drive our practice on how it will be received within these categories. Then, the work changes, becoming easier to repeat. Safer. We stop taking risks because we see what performs and increases those stats.

There’s nothing wrong with letting attention drive your practice. If that works for you, I’m supportive. We don’t judge in this Atelier, my friends.

Ambition, by contrast, is rarely as efficient. It asks us for time without proof and resists summary. It can often look like silence from the outside. When we aren’t posting yet we are working in the shadows, our audience can be left wondering what we’re actually doing between posts. Our mistake here though, is letting the anticipated response enter our rooms too early. The readers will wait — we always do. (Sincerely, from a fellow Reader.)

This month, I aim to walk us through:

• The differences between Attention and Ambition in our writing;

• Where we get lost;

• Getting stuck in an attention-feedback loop;

• When attention could be useful;

• The hidden costs of writing for attention; and

• Reclaiming ambition without rejecting the ones to come to read our writing.

By the time you finish reading and take yourself through the two self-guided workshops I’ve included in this month’s Behind the Lines session, you will leave with a personal framework — not rules — for sustaining ambition.

Ready to get into it?

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This Atelier is my personal workshop where I create and learn — it’s only natural that I share what I find along the way with you. These are sometimes directly related to posts from The Atelier Journal, and other times they are workshops I’ve have curated to better grasp a creative process.

Pour yourself a cup of whatever you’re enjoying at the moment, grab your notebook and favorite pen, even light a candle if you want — let’s learn something together.

Lately, I have been pulling out old notebooks and scrolling through my various neglected notes to see if I have any pieces to resurrect or revise. It prompted me to think about the appropriate timing for shelving work.

I found myself asking — how long should a piece sit? How long is too long? How do we know we are revisiting it too soon? Some of us ask these questions while we are still in the draft phase — the document is open before us, cursor blinking. The ink barely dry on the page of our journal.

When we ask this question, maybe we’re really asking: am I ready to stop? Is it okay to put this away for a while and come back another time?

As I ponder this, I expect I’m not alone. Naturally, I bring the topic to my Atelier audience.

Sometimes the question can be rooted in anxiety. Other times, maybe life is getting in the way. Or, quite frankly, we’re just tired. I can honestly say I feel all three.

How many of us have done this, subconsciously? We write, we stop, we shelve. We revisit… or we don’t.

Instead of getting down on myself or feeling like a failed writer, I am starting to consider “creating distance” another tool in my writing kit.

This month’s workshop is about changing the mindset about letting a piece sit. It’s not about neglect, it’s not about abandonment. It’s about refocusing our intentions, giving something more centered, focused attention. Taking our time with our words and being honest with ourselves in order to bring the best out of our minds and onto the page.

If you’ve ever revised something too early, polished what should have been cut, or confused momentum with progress, this conversation is for you.

Here’s a simple philosophy to follow, for all my Atelier readers:

Most writers skip at least one rest period. I know I have (and do). But that’s where fragility sneaks in. It’s essential to play the long game.

This month, we’re going review this philosophy and touch on:

• What letting a piece sit actually does for our writing

• Signs the work needs more time

• How to return without damaging the work

• Recognizing avoidance

• What to do while the piece sits

I also have a self-guided workshop at the end of this, designed for the writers who work in solitude and are willing to spend the time on a piece.

Now, I invite you to grab your journal or open a fresh document and join me for this month’s workshop on the benefits of letting our work be.

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Welcome to Behind the Lines, my personal “craft corner” of The Writer’s Atelier. Here, I take you behind the scenes (or, lines) on how I hone my craft or utilize specific processes and forms of writing.

This Atelier is my personal workshop where I create and learn — it’s only natural that I share what I find along the way with you. These are sometimes directly related to posts from The Atelier Journal, and other times they are workshops I've have curated to better grasp a creative process.

Pour yourself a cup of whatever you’re enjoying at the moment, grab your notebook and favorite pen, even light a candle if you want — let’s learn something together.

Behind the Lines is for my paid subscribers, but you can enjoy a sampling of what these posts are like via some poems I’ve published here:

This month, we’re getting into the process of freewriting: what it is, why it’s useful, and how it helps us get the creative gears turning.

Freewriting has always been a very powerful tool. The ritual of it — setting a timer, putting pen to paper, and letting thoughts flow — is how I start most of my essay or poem drafts.

I clear the clutter of my mind through this practice and jot down whatever is bouncing around my brain, so I can focus on what I actually want to write.

In fact, I used this method for one of my recent posts, “Northern Lights, Music, & Being Human” — after I got out of my own head to let the words flow on the page, I was pleased with where I ended up. (And, I had little editing to do before publishing, which is always nice!)

Before I get into the nitty-gritty of the practice, I will always try to leave my free subscribers with something valuable here on Behind the Lines. For this session…

JUST WRITE.

That’s it! Seriously. Just write!

The basics of freewriting are: you sit down with your journal or grab a legal pad, get your favorite pen, set a timer (or don’t), and just write.

Don’t worry about what lands on the page. Let the words flow through your ink. That’s really the core goal of freewriting, IMHO.

Now, let’s go deeper into the practice of freewriting by way of a little workshop session, shall we?

As mentioned above, I used freewriting to get me started on my last piece, “Northern Lights, Music, & Being Human”. I had inspiration and an idea top of mind, which greatly propelled the session forward.

Most of my writing starts this way, actually. I will open a blank document or page of my journal, stare at it for a few minutes, and write down the topic that’s on my mind. I’ll start with freewriting and see where things go before whipping the piece into shape. It’s a process, and for me, it can take a while. Partially because I enjoy the editing process, but also because I am, admittedly with my writing, a perfectionist.

Maybe you’ve never had a freewrite session before. Or, perhaps you aren’t sure what it is, how to do it, and why it can be helpful for your writing practice. Don’t worry, dear reader — I am here to help.

By the end of this session of Behind the Lines, you’ll be able to:

1. Define and distinguish freewriting, focused freewriting, and looping.

2. Design at least one freewriting-based activity to use in your own writing practice.

3. Connect freewriting to revision and reflective writing, not only using it as “therapeutic journaling.”

Ready to dive in? Let’s go!

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The Artist Will See You Now

You need to see the Artist, she implores. 
Her work heals, seals wounds. 
No appointment needed — once is all you need. 

Line up with the huddled masses, hushed whispers float around my head.
I hear you never feel pain again / it’s subjective / this can’t be for real / but she fixes people

The old woman ahead of me says, with a shrug, once is all you need. 
I don’t ask how she knows this for certain. 

Finally, a voice calls to me from behind the double doors.
The Artist will see you now.

I walk through the doors into a white room. 
The lights go out.

A moment passes.

A spotlight appears, centered on The Artist’s mottled canvas. 
Its splotches draw me closer. 
I feel it swallowing my grief and sadness. 
My madness. 

A soft voice fills the space. 

Euphoria. 

An unrelenting swell -- it pulsates through my veins. 
It wipes clean the dusty corners of my soul. 

I bathe in this feeling until the spotlight finally dies.
The room begins to lighten, leisurely, to a soft periwinkle hue. 

A door on the opposite side of the room emerges out of nowhere. 
Inviting me to walk through. 
Before I do, the Artist smiles, clasps my hands in hers. 
My pain ceases.
She disappears into the darkness behind me. 

Before I exit, a piece of paper drops into my hands. 

Recall this image 1-2 times every eight hours or as symptoms appear. 
Unlimited refills. No follow-up appointment necessary.

And in fine print:
This too shall pass. 

BEHIND THE LINES

This is another poem inspired by ’s #tinyautumnpoem challenge — this time, the prompt was “mottled”. I immediately thought about an artist friend of mine and her work, two particular pieces.

Krista is massively talented and when I look at her work, I genuinely feel healed. I can’t explain it. I just do! I commissioned a few pieces from her because of this. Go look at her art. Buy some for your own walls.

When I view art, and not just creations by friends of mine, a myriad of emotions surge. I could wander around our local art museum for hours, taking in the different works one at a time, soaking in the images and considering how they were crafted. What the artist was thinking when they carefully applied their colors to the canvas in front of them. If it was healing for them to create the piece that eventually rests on the walls of a home or a museum. If they knew their work would help someone, in some way, someday.

Writing is like that too, for me anyway. Healing. I often wonder if my work brings joy to my readers, if my pieces are relatable. I suppose that’s a nice thing about this place — I get to share my thoughts and pieces and in real time, you get to respond in real time. Conversation begins. With art in a gallery or within the walls of our homes, we take it in quietly and often alone, without being able to talk to the artist, ask questions, or share how their work touches our lives. This is probably why I tell my artist friends often how much I appreciate their work. Why I buy pieces from them when I can afford to do so. Why I upgrade to paid subscriptions here. Why I share their links, repost their pieces. I like to see my talented friends shine — and if I can share their work with others, maybe they will find some success, or spark conversations and become friends too.

Back to the poem I crafted for this post: I kept thinking how nice it would be if we could just walk into a room, view a piece of art, and suddenly, magically, be healed of our ailments. Have peace flood our souls, bring solace to our lives. It would be incredible. In another world, maybe. I like to think there’s a world out there like that, don’t you? If only. 🩷

All of my friend Krista’s current art for sale is on her Etsy, Debra Mae Design. Check it out. She also makes really cool earrings and will post those from time to time there, so bookmark her shop for fun little surprises like that. 🥰

I’ll be honest, it’s been difficult to write for nearly a year. I do keep trying though — knocking out a chapter or two of my serialized fiction, an essay here and there, and working on my novel (same one, and yes, again — more to come on that in a future post this month!). It’s enough to keep my pen moving, but the words haven’t poured out like they did in the past. Can I blame insurmountable grief? Maybe. I don’t really want to, but if I’m being honest, that’s probably the culprit. That and my award-winning ability to dissociate by reading a book, playing Animal Crossing, or getting lost in a television series.

All things considered, I truly am desperate to push past it. So I must. But how? I just have to. It’s time, yet again, to remind myself:

Last week, an author I follow — — posted on her Instagram that it was time for the #tinysummerpoem to return. She posts a prompt daily, consisting of one word, and the goal is to write for ten minutes and create a poem. Easy peasy. Exercise your mind, get the words flowing, and be poetic. For ten minutes. I think it goes for a total of fifteen days (unclear). Anyone can do it! EVEN ME!

Usually, when I set out to do these types of “challenges”, I start strong for a day or two, and then… I fizzle. I let it fall to the side because I’m doing something else. I literally don’t even last two days!! There’s nothing to blame, either, except my own lack of discipline.

Ooof, I just got real with myself. It’s true, though — I simply lack the discipline. That hits me hard, but it’s honest. When I don’t have an end goal involved — something more than yay, you did it, whoo! — I end up dropping it. Whatever “it” may be. I think the biggest reason I actually finished writing the novel was to prove to myself I could do it… and I couldn’t do anything else due to the pandemic. But, I did it, and it felt good. It feels great when you accomplish something major, you know? I’m still riding that feeling, the high I got when I wrote the final sentence and sat back, looking at the page, realizing I finished the story. I finished the piece. Because I sat down and did the work. I actually wrote.

Being a writer means you write. Being a good writer requires you to spend time honing your craft and exercising the creative muscles and doing it often. Like, daily, if you can swing it. Or at least throughout most of the week. It’s hard for a lot of us to do that, especially when you have a day job… but you have to do it.

That’s my opinion!

(I can’t help myself — anytime I utter that phrase, I hear Tamra Barney screaming across the RHOC reunion set. I always will.)

It is my opinion, though, and I firmly believe it. Because I’ve seen it work in my own practice. If I can’t spend the time flexing those muscles, putting the pen on paper, working on sentence structures… I feel stagnant. Within my own craft, I have to do more than just “sit down at a typewriter and bleed”, like Hemingway said. I already know I can sit down and write if I make the time for it, but deep down, I yearn to be challenged and enjoy trying new techniques. It’s why I consult the many craft books I keep on my shelf (and keep buying more). I dip in and out of books like ’s Big Magic, Stephen King’s On Writing, and Steve Kowitt’s In the Palm of Your Hand. I do the exercises, fill notebooks, and when I complete my session, I set the pen down and walk away from my desk feeling delighted, accomplished.

But where are those pieces? Do I finalize them? Not often. I keep them in the notebook and vow to revisit and revise, to turn it into something publishable — either through submission to a publication or on my own blog. Starting this #tinysummerpoem stint, I’m reminded why I started my Substack in the first place. TO SHARE MY WORDS WITH YOU.

So, the challenge of the #tinysummerpoem is to simply write for ten minutes and not edit — just write — I’m doing exactly that. After the ten minutes are up though, or perhaps the next day, I will absolutely be spending time with the writing I completed. I want to share them here. I probably won’t share them all, but my hope is that I come out of this challenge with a handful of poems I feel good about sharing with the world.

To celebrate moving past this round of writer’s block (because, hey, I’m doing the damn thing!) and to end this post… I want to share one of the poems that was born out of the #tinysummerpoem challenge this week.

The prompt was “CIRCLE” and these words came pouring out. I didn’t do much revising after the ten minutes, either. I just rolled with it. I have to admit: that is hard for me to do. The editor in me is really hard to keep quiet. This word immediately (and obviously) made me think: spherical. It also conjured images of summer and the routine of an adolescent during the hottest months of the year (playing outside, swimming, running around with your friends, etc.). I can’t explain why — maybe because it’s the height of summer and I could hear the cicadas and birds singing in the morning sun.

I suppose it’s relevant too, this post I mean, to this prompt: I’ve come full circle with the process of overcoming writer’s block yet again: I write, I’m blocked, I write again, I’m blocked again, I write again... That’s the watered-down cycle, anyway.

Without further ado, here’s the raw poem in all her glory.

CIRCLES
summer friendships can never be broken / we tie the bands around our wrists / the daisy chains resting upon the tops of our sunkissed strands like tiny halos, our summertime crowns / clementine peels tumble onto the tufts of clover at our feet / when the sun burns too bright we dip our bronzed bodies under the chlorinated blue waters / we swim in circles, creating tidal pools / we are the mermaids we were born to be / the sun says goodbye / we swear we won't / lying in a circle on a plaid blanket, our heads touch and we look at the stars / vowing to always remember these days

Maybe I’ll change the title and revise the formatting, but I’m digging where I landed when my ten minute timer expired. I feel good when I complete this exercise! So, I am keeping my notebook close, ready to start the morning, spend a break between meetings, or grab any quick ten minute block of time available to create something small, precious and enjoyable.

Watch this space. I can’t believe I’m typing these words, but maybe this is my way of holding myself accountable and attempting to establish some kind of discipline in my personal practice. More to come…

A Bottle of Autumn

A bottle of autumn is filled sweaters and ciders and pumpkins and bonfires —
uncorked only during the dying season
to warm our bones on the crisp, cool nights, 
when the harvest moon illuminates our inky indigo sky.

Shelved for two hundred seventy-four days, it's opened
when the air begins to bite our still sun-kissed skin, 
when we begin to yearn for our very own Stars Hollow, 
when the leaves begin their final descent.

Autumn seeps out of the bottle and into the atmosphere, ablaze with comfort —
the sidewalks, suddenly lined with fiery orange sycamores 
and the ground, littered with the vibrant fallen, fragile foliage,
which crinkles to dust under our soft steps during an afternoon stroll.

BEHIND THE LINES

I was listening to Third Eye Blind this afternoon and this line (below) in “Ode to Maybe” always makes me think about what, if anything, would I bottle and sell to the masses?

If I could bottle my hopes in a store-bought set, they’d be nutmeg peach and they’d pay the rent.

Now that weather has finally turned more autumnal in my neck of the woods, I feel light and cozy. I’m nestled in my favorite hoodies, drinking coffee. The air is chilly, leaves are turning and beginning to fall, mums and pumpkins adorn porches around the neighborhood. The smell of burning leaves, pumpkin-flavored coffees, baked goods, and candles with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg and clove hang in the air. All of these things would fill my bottle of autumn — an homage to the season that I could enjoy year-round, and not just for the short-but-sweet ninety-one days.

The cover photo I chose for this post is one I took a few years ago when visiting Québec City, taken on a gorgeous fall day while we walked on the cobblestones around the old city. It feels like fall when I look at this photo. I’m instantly transported back to that day and can feel my cheeks turn pink from the cool air.

If you’re on any social media, your feed is inundated with autumn vibes with every swipe. Well, this is my contribution for the season. Last week, I saw post after post channeling Gilmore Girls and Hocus Pocus, and a part of me wishes I had a place to retreat to during the fall months like Salem (albeit overrun by tourists this time of year) or the fictional Stars Hollow. Where I live is flat but the trees really light up during this time of year, so that will have to suffice.

Happy Fall, y’all — may your season be cozy and full of comfort.

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Nine Eleven
As seen from the Midwest

In the middle of a cornfield, 
another Tuesday begins.

Eight hundred miles 
away from the Big Apple, 
the heartland pastures are sprinkled 
with dew drops 
and the students are still sleepy 
when the first bell rings.

The news 
          crawling
enters a rural Indiana school 
by 8:51 a.m., before 
the first period ends. 

By 9:03 a.m., we are still 
          paralyzed 
by Dan Rather's report.

His somber voice
bounces off the two-story tall, 
dingy steel garage doors. 
They haven't had the chance 
to welcome the morning sun 
into the dusty shop.

A stomach-churning, 
bewildering silence 
echoes in the empty
cobalt locker-lined halls. 

"POP QUIZ" — it means 
          nothing.
The words have been hastily erased 
from the mossy green chalkboard. 

Students stack
behind the Bondi blue iMacs
clogging the invisible network lines, 
making it impossible to search for reason. 

We wouldn't 
find the reason anyway.
Not yet.

The cafeteria sits empty — 
the turkey Manhattan 
goes untouched. 
Football practice, 
canceled. 

Callers are greeted
with rapid, rhythmic pulses
keeping them from connecting
with loved ones who live states away.

Lines form behind the pumps at Casey's. 
The Dairy Store closes early. 
Wonder Bread disappears from IGA's shelves.

The religious gather 
at Sacred Heart, seeking
solace in prayers.

Time 
stands 
still. 

BEHIND THE LINES

From time to time, you know I like to explain how I crafted a poem. Since this one doesn’t need an explanation on the inspiration, I’ll focus on the revision process for this poem. All said and done, it has taken years to get it to this final form — but now, it finally feels complete.

I first wrote this poem in 2012 while taking a graduate-level poetry course, taught by Indiana’s Poet Laureate — who, at the time, was Karen Kovacik. There aren’t enough words or praise I can give Karen for helping me better hone my craft as a poet. Through the duration of our semester together, she led us through an exercise she called “X-Treme Revision.” She challenged us to revise and refine our words — it was hard, but so satisfying. I still use my notes, handouts, and books we reviewed in that class as a guide while working on my poetry today.

The first iteration of this poem was so bland — I can’t even find a copy of the example right now and it’s probably for the best. The iteration that I turned in as “final” in that class was so much better, and it was the version I ran with for nearly a decade. I would repost it once a year, in memory of an event that I witness nearly first hand via television, live, when I was barely eighteen years old.

Timed truly seemed to stand still that day, amidst the confusion and horror of the events we witnessed on live television that morning.

The entire day is still crystal clear in my memory: I was in first period (Horticulture), at the computer because work in the greenhouse was complete. My teacher came out of his office after receiving a phone call and told the seniors to “find anything they could online about a plane hitting the World Trade Center.” We slammed the network before we pulled out the old television from the back room (it had “rabbit ears” to access local stations — we often watched The Price is Right during lunch) and switched to Channel 18 (the local CBS affiliate) just in time to hear Dan Rather’s report. We sat together in a stunned silence long past the bell ringing, officially late for second period, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

The halls were empty, the classrooms were lightly buzzing with chatter. We were taking turns on computers and landlines, trying to get more information from eight hundred miles away.

On this twenty-second anniversary of the September 11 attacks, I decided to sit down and refresh this poem by recalling the memories of that morning, that day, in my small school and small town. I incorporated the tiny, vivid details that stand out still to this day — the color of the lockers (and iMacs in the library), practices being canceled and watching lines form at the gas stations in the area. Hearing Dan Rather tell us what happened as the Pentagon was attacked. Being confused. Seeing the shelves in our local IGA become barren from panic buyers, unsure of what the rest of the week (or month) would have in store. We didn’t know if flights would continue to stay grounded or if another attack could happen. Chicago was only ninety miles away — what if it happened in our backyard?

I don’t want to end this so abruptly, so I’ll go back to how important it is to incorporate those vivid details into your work. I remember an example from one day in class, on how much our work can be elevated by showing the reader proof of being in the room. The power of imagery! The example: lace doilies on a dining room table in someone’s home. How the once-white lace, yellowed by time, or the morning sun that streams in through the dining room window, stands out during a dinner party. How the texture feels against your fingertips, lightly brushing against it during the host’s toast.

Using this exercise within my own poem, I tried to focus on sharing the color of the iMac or the freshly painted lockers for the new school year. The dirty, tall steel garage doors in the industrial shop part of the school where we watched the news. These tiny little details, sprinkled into the recollection of the event, in hopes of ushering the reader into the room with me.

I hope you can picture it as vividly as I can.

Share vibe with me

where the fireflies glow

darkness — 
                an indigo canopy
draped over the endless fields
like you drape yourself 
                over me 
on the gingham blanket lying 
                between us 
and the lithosphere

fireflies,
     flickering
stars, 
     shimmering
luna, 
     luminescent 

the symphony of summer
the low hum 
    of insect wings
    of leaves rustling
    of exhaled vows
    of broken promises

but here, in the garden —
               our secret shall remain

Share vibe with me

BEHIND THE LINES

This poem started from a doodle, a free-write session after viewing a photo and gif I found on Reddit. Yes, Reddit! Reddit is full of inspiration. I often bookmark/save things like this to look back on later to fuel my creations.

I stared at this gif for a while and felt a pang, a longing for my rural roots. There’s something special about growing up in the country, in the early weeks of summer. It’s somewhat romantic. At least, that’s the vibe I get when I reflect on the setting.

When I was a kid, I would sit in the yard or perch at the top of the tree fort and watch the fireflies float above the fields in those early summer weeks. Journaling, daydreaming, letting them inspire me. Seeing a photo like the one I have here (I am not sure who to credit it to, but it was posted by the user TimReavesPhotography) instantly takes me back. Except my landscape didn’t include the mountain/hill, but rather flat cornfields that went on for miles.

While this poem is not based in my own reality, it gives a coming of age vibe, sprinkled with tender heartbreak. A secret love, maybe? A hidden romance that ended too soon?

Happy National Poetry Month. I hope you created some pieces that make you float. And if you haven’t yet, you still have a few days. ✨

Feverishly we search for a spot to shield                
               us from the sun, we find ourselves
returning to the temple trees, where
                we lie beneath the white
and pink blooms, with the scent of summer
                luring us to waste the day away
noon passes and the sun begins
gracefully descending, sinking
                slowly, her luminous rays bleed
into the horizon beyond the courtyards
plumeria floats along the breeze
               tickling our senses
and as quickly as it began, the day ends — 
               this is when we become alive, when
night’s starlit canopy floats
                above us, extending the
invite to dance, to sway together
                beneath the temple trees

BEHIND THE LINES

From time to time, I’ll explain the stories or source(s) of inspiration behind the poems I pen. I typically start writing poems via free writing (just getting words out on the page), to see what I’m vibing with during my session. I’ll review resources or books I have on my shelf to experiment with different forms, to see if I can make the words that flow from my pen fit within a format that calls to me.

This week, I pulled out an old unfinished poem and picked a form I enjoy: acrostic poetry. I found pushing myself to craft lines around a single word, which is to be spelled out vertically, challenging in a wonderful way.

In “The Temple Trees,” I used line breaks both for intentional pauses and to also call more attention to the sensory of the setting, using the lines to showcase the word “frangipani.” This was inspired by the fragrant smells of a lovely bloom that reminds me of warmer days, which is something I’m desperately awaiting as we officially enter the spring season.

A famous example of the acrostic format is Lewis Carroll’s “A Boat, Beneath a Sunny Sky,” which spells out the name “Alice Pleasance Liddell.” This poem concludes his novel Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There (which was written as a sequel to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland). The more you know!