Sparely, create a setting that doesn’t exist. Make sure there’s earth, air, water and fire in some analogous form. (Fire: matchstick, candle, hot sauce, shame.) This is the moment after something has happened. Do NOT be explainy. Write the poem/prose poem. No “I” allowed.
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Prompt: An Occasion
Poem in Which the Poem Works Very Hard to Identify Itself / Kristen Brace
Prompt: Mistaken Images
Prompt: Death is a fact of life.
I had a post up a couple of months ago having to do with writing about death. Someone complained that now was no time to do that. I disagree. Death is a fact of life and cannot be ignored. From In the Palm of Your Hand by Steve Kowit. Write a poem in which you are reminded that you too will one day die. It could be prompted by something you see (roadkill) or a song loved by someone who’s passed. Talk about the objects more than your feelings. They will come through.
Here’s an example by Ted Kooser, Death of a Dog.
Prompt: A Journey
Prompt: Favorite Words
Window / Patricia Barnes
Rust Belt / Randy K. Schwartz
Prompt: Write a Haibun
Try a haibun.Haibun (俳文, literally, haikai writings) is a prosimetric literary form originating in Japan, combining prose and haiku. The range of haibun is broad and frequently includes autobiography, diary, essay, prose poem, short story and travel journal. Usually the prose is in the present tense, not longer than 180 words, and the entire thing ends with a haiku I’m trying my bunkhouse piece in this format. You can find lots of info online about them. The Haibun Hut is a Facebook group where Haibun can be posted by anyone. The masters of the Haibun were Issa and Bashō. Here is one from Bashō (translation by Franz Wright):
As the freezing rain of early winter began falling desolately over everything, I sought warmth and company at a roadside inn. Allowed to dry my soaked clothes at the fire, I was further comforted for a time by the innkeeper who tactfully listened to me relate some of the troubles I met with on the road. Suddenly it was evening. I sat down under a lamp, taking great care with them as I produced my ink and brushes, and began to write. Recognizing my work, he solemnly requested that I consider composing a poem in honor of our one brief encounter in this world:
At an inn I am asked for identification
traveler let that be my name
the first winter rain



