Howl, Starfish, Early Night

First Mentor Poem

Howl
EILEEN MYLES                        

​a refrigerator
makes a lot
of sound
so does a bird
people are
always talking
full of love
& pain
we started
a fund
and the dogs 
are needing
some money &
I don’t know
how to do
it & I’ll
learn from
one of them
Tom’s blue
shirt & glasses
are perfect.
My teeshirt
is good
my pen
works
I breathe.

Copyright © 2020 by Eileen Myles. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 3, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poem Writing Prompt #1:

In talking about her poem, Myles said “Everything howls, everything’s a teacher,” so that inspired today's challenge!  Free write about what is howling around you, inside and out.  Then, pare it down to an “essential poem.” 

Second Mentor Poem

This lovely, quiet, nuanced reading of Lerman's poem is a real treat.  I recommend using earbuds to pick up the soft voice of the young reader.  Click the image or the link above.  PoetryBones has also worked with this poem last year! Check out the session materials here, including a meditative video on real starfish in the channel and Lerman's own reading of the poem in the middle of an interview.
​

Starfish
ELEANOR LERMAN                        

This is what life does. It lets you walk up to 
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a 
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have 
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman 
down beside you at the counter who says, Last night, 
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?

Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological 
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old 
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it 
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.

And then life suggests that you remember the 
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.

Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life’s way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won’t give you smart or brave,
so you’ll have to settle for lucky.) Because you 
were born at a good time. Because you were able 
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.

So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And 
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland, 
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel, 
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.
 
From Our Post Soviet History Unfolds by Eleanor Lerman, published by Sarabande Books. Copyright © 2005 by Eleanor Lerman. 
Source: https://poets.org/poem/starfish

Poem Writing Prompt #2

 Choose one of the crowd-sourced prompt ideas and write for 10 minutes: 

Life lets you have a sandwich, and pie
What does life allow you to do. . . .
Settle for lucky
Because you are lucky. Not smart or brave
Are you old enough to appreciate it? Too     
     old?
You listened, stopped and started again
The far and boundless sea; smiles on their
​     starry faces

That love, unconditional who
     waited for you
pie for the dog
there might be nothing at all going
     on
Who waited for you w/o condition
There are starfish in the channel
Is this a message?
Born at a good time

Closing Discussion

Early Night
ALAN SOLDOFSKY

In early December
           singing under the hedge
of verbena beside the porch.

What lies the sun tells
          of a few leaves stripped of their color,
parenthesis of rust on the hinges of the car door.

High wisps of clouds
          lit up by something
that has fallen.

The edge of a storm front
          faintly coming, a change in the smell
of the air, a quiver in the wind.

The incipient darkness, smooth as licorice.
          The only light in the house
the one in the closet that’s been left on.

The house quiet except for
          the gnawing in the attic.
The sound of a sound

that can barely hold the weight
          of being heard, a remnant
that ripples down the hallway

into the room where
          you slept. Your books still
dozing on the shelves waiting for you

to open them, or whatever
          it is you will do
when you get back to what you left.

Source: Rattle (Rattle #31, Summer 2009)

​