here are some steps you can take to make your way from idea to poem:
Choose a specific event from your past.
Imagine the event from start to finish. Really see the memory.
Make a list of all the things you remember—all the objects and moments that you recall from this event. If your event is a block party, for example, some of your objects might be the plywood DJ booth, a purple ice cream truck, the neighborhood grump sitting on his porch yelling at kids, the Cubs ball cap you were wearing, a fire hydrant, someone’s creamsicle melting on the sidewalk, hearing the O’Jays’ song “Family Reunion.” The list could go on, but name everything you remember, and don’t worry if it seems to be ancillary to the event itself.
Read through your list of all the things you remember, and choose three of the most interesting things—or have a friend do it for you.
Focus on those three things, which are probably specific images, as you construct a poem about your event or incident. Let’s say you choose the creamsicle melting on the sidewalk as one of your three most interesting things. You might begin the poem
Ants swarm the creamsicle melting on the pavement.
Don’t be afraid to extend the moment:
Ants swarm the creamsicle melting on the pavement. They drown in sweetness,
Drunkenly swim in sugar.
Then you may want to transition to the next thing on your list of three. In the following, you’ll notice that I use the transition to widen the scope of the poem—to allow the speaker of the poem to see more. This allows me to identify more things from my list:
Ants swarm the creamsicle melting on the pavement. They drown in sweetness,
drunkenly in sugar, unaware of the surrounding party, overgrown grass being
Tamped by neighbors’ glad dancing to the O’Jays’ croon of “Family Reunion,
bass tremoring the DJ’s plywood booth.
At this point, the poem has its start. If you get stuck, return to your list of things and add more of them to the poem.
Teach Us to Number Our Days”
BY RITA DOVE
In the old neighborhood, each funeral parlor
is more elaborate than the last.
The alleys smell of cops, pistols bumping their thighs,
each chamber steeled with a slim blue bullet.
Low-rent balconies stacked to the sky.
A boy plays tic-tac-toe on a moon
crossed by TV antennae, dreams
he has swallowed a blue bean.
It takes root in his gut, sprouts
and twines upward, the vines curling
around the sockets and locking them shut.
And this sky, knotting like a dark tie?
The patroller, disinterested, holds all the beans.
August. The mums nod past, each a prickly heart on a sleeve.
