Trimerics: back to the familiar and into the unknown

.
Howdy, Campers!  Happy Poetry Friday (PF link & my poem are below)

First of all, we at TeachingAuthors hope you're getting some solid sleep, walking a dog, connecting with those you hold dear, and finding a little island of peace in this brave new world. We appreciate each of you very much.💓

This is our final post on how we're taking leaps in our career or our writing during this leap year, beginning with Bobbi's terrific Taking Leaps in Historical Fiction. (Lately, going to the grocery store feels like a leap of faith, doesn't it?)

But before we get started, a brief detour. The Jewish holiday of Passover in 2020 begins at sundown on Wednesday, April 8, and ends Thursday evening, April 16. The first Passover seder is on the evening of April 8. Here's how to celebrate Passover online, posted on the blog ReformJudaism.org, and here's an article on how those in Staten Island are (or are not) celebrating Passover in this strange time (Orthodox Jews cannot celebrate online).

So the other day I got a lovely email from Alysse Rich, the Principal of the Children’s Jewish Studies Program in Toronto Canada's Danforth Jewish Circle. If you have 10 minutes, enjoy watching Alysse (and little Arthur) reading and singing my Passover picture book, MORE THAN ENOUGH, (cheerfully illustrated by Katie Kath) to her school. (Alysse plays a mean guitar player and has a lovely voice.)

Okay ~ now let's get back to our regularly scheduled program: the leaps each of us has taken or hopes to take.

Today I encourage you to take a leap: try a poetic form that's new to you. And since I've fallen in love (again) with trimerics, why don't you try writing one? 

In June 2011, I posted about falling in love with trimeric poems for the first time. Here's a good definition from http://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/trimeric/: Trimeric \tri-(meh)-rik\ n: a four stanza poem in which the first stanza has four lines and the last three stanzas have three lines each, with the first line of each repeating the respective line of the first stanza.  The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -. 

My love for trimerics faded, but now I love being back in the arms of this form. In fact, trimerics have become my escape from pandemic pandemonium (and emails!  Is everyone drowning in helpful or alarming or helpfully alarming emails?!?).

Why do I love trimerics? Because all I need is a first line. That line takes my hand and leads me to places I've never known. Each new poem pushes me to leap into the unknown.

drawing (c)2020 April Halprin Wayland. All rights reserved.

Here, for your reading pleasure, are three trimerics.

In TENDER, the first line walked onto my page, unattached to any idea. It grew into a poem about my son when he was a young teen.

TENDER
by April Halprin Wayland

He's a slip of a boy, really.

Tender as a slim green shoot

just angling out of earth.

But there are other ways in him.

Tender as a slim green shoot,

he also bristles into cactus,

a dragnet of needles—watch out!

Just angling out of earth,

he can still be caught (wear gloves!)

He can still be taught to breathe gently.

But there are other ways in him

beyond tender, beyond thistly.

Walk into his rooms. Switch on each light.

==============================

I have NO idea where this one came from:

CHANGE OF PLANS
by April Halprin Wayland

"One more thing," she said quietly,

not wanting to interrupt him.

He looked up from the last chapter.

He had been reading a murder mystery.

Not wanting to interrupt him

was her mantra, her world view, her Golden Rule...

until Aunt Blanche had that talk with her.

He looked up from the last chapter

and saw that she was aiming a blow torch

at his lap.

He had been reading a murder mystery.

He was dying to know how it ended.

He didn't know that she had been reading it, too.

==================================

And this one I wrote today. Once again it started with the title.

FRIGHTENED? ME?

by April Halprin Wayland

When I was little,

my mom used to say,

"Every bad dream is a story you tell yourself."

She would rock me to sleep.

My mom used to say,

"Dark things that shake you awake
will be gone in the morning."

"Every bad dream is a story you tell yourself,"

she'd murmur, rocking.

I loved her warm flower smell.

She would rock me to sleep.
She can't anymore.

I've learned: now I tell myself a different story.
=================================

all poems (c)2020 April Halprin Wayland. All rights reserved.

If you DO find yourself fiddling with trimerics when taking a break from sewing face masks (which, even if they're just bandanas, are apparently great if you want to keep yourself from touching your face 90 times a day), please share them with me ~ I'd love to read what you came up with!

Thank you, Tabatha, for hosting Poetry Friday
at The Opposite of Indifference

posted in good health from a respectful distance by April Halprin Wayland