Hi Friends,

I have contributed to a poetry book that is being sold to benefit Hypoplastic Right Hearts foundation. I invite you to participate in one of two ways.

1. You can purchase the poetry book, which is chock full of delightful poetry including work from Denver’s Poet Laureate, Chris Ransick and many other fine poets from around the country. You can purchase the book here:
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/the-hearts-content/6199583

The book goes on sale January 1st . All proceeds benefit Hypoplastic Right Hearts.
Get your copy now and have it autographed at the reading.


2. You can attend the poetry reading.

The Heart's Content
Sunday, January 31, 2010 at 4:00 pm
The Lincoln Center Mini Theater
Tickets are only $10

Come listen to selected readings of The Heart's Content; a poetry compilation to benefit Hypoplastic Right Hearts. This benefit will feature the talents of Colorado poets Michael Adams, Bill Roberts, Joy Sawyer, Debra Shirley, and Shirley Sullivan; as well as others from the book including Denver Poet Laureate Chris Ransick, and poets Michael Henry and Patrick Carrington.

Buy your tickets at the box office or at http://www.fcgov.com/lctix/show.php?id=118

Become a fan on Facebook, search for "The Heart's Content"

Hypoplastic Right Hearts is a 501 (c)(3) nonprofit dedicated to the education and inspiration for families whose babies face multiple open-heart surgeries in their first years of life.
If you are unable to attend, you may make a tax deductible donation to Hypoplastic Right Hearts at www.firstgiving.com/LiamAdams
Please direct any questions to Amanda Adams ([email protected])


Or you can do both!

I’d love to see you at the reading.

Peace,

Debbie Shirley

Earlier this year, Bill Roberts, a poet I happen to know and admire, challenged me to write a poem a day, five days a week. Each week, Bill sends our little poetry group a prompt gleaned from lines of Charles Simic poetry. Here is a poem that I wrote from the prompt “Empty Platforms Without Towns.

Promised Land

Debra Shirley

She was born on the prairie in 1935,
some place east of Oklahoma City,
a town that no longer exists.

Her Daddy dragged her and her mother,
raggedy as dustbowl lungs,
all over Colorado that first year.
West Slope fruit farms to
silver claims in Cripple Creek,
ten stakes in twelve months.

They finally lit
on the farm fields of rural Illinois,
where she raised a flood
of brothers and sisters, eight in all,
one after another.

By sixteen, she was cocked and ready to spring,
determined chin pointed towards Chicago,
a song in her throat.

She was all but down the road
when he sauntered in,
smooth talked her into moving south,
back to his home place in the Blue Ridge.

The promised land,
in the end, turned up to be
just another empty platform without a town.

Springboard: My writing partner Faye and I picked these random words and phrases out of random books: dragging, forest, inheritance, fiddle neck, floor boards, balancing, emerge, branch, turtle. We wrote for 10 minutes.


Dragging my brother John, forest to forest, tree to tree, in search of the perfect Christmas tree, the perfect fall leaf, a crystal, a geode, some moss to sit on, to dream on, to take home in a bag, make a terrarium. The smell of spongy forest floor, that fragrance of humus our only inheritance. Fiddle neck ferns sprout through and around the bowing floorboards of the old Beck House porch. Out back, the fading remains of once glorious gardens, stone arches crumble into a luscious field of daffodils & paper-whites, narcissus & stray grape hyacinths. We gather them up, loading each other’s arms overfull, balance on sloped feet along the lip of the stone fountain, scoot through the leaning coach house, splat through the trickling branch, spill some flowers for the sake of catching a turtle, sprint home laughing, noses yellow with daffodil pollen.

Since I was a kid, I've had a thing for seed catalogues. I used to pore over them for hours. Still do. If you’ve never spent an afternoon with a seed catalogue, I highly recommend it. You will be amazed at the wealth of fascinating words. The same goes for field guides of any sort; trees, insects, rocks & minerals, birds, etc… I also comb estate sales and thrift stores for vintage books, and I have found several lovely old books with magnificent illustrations. Two of my favorites have dozens of paintings of Wildflowers and North American Water Fowl.

For the following Free Write, I used my book about wildflowers and a music dictionary. I randomly chose four words from each book by closing my eyes, opening the book and pointing. The flower words I picked were Delphinium, Night-smelling Epidendrum, Cranesbill and Fireweed. From the music dictionary I picked samba, flutter tonguing, plectrum and finger pluck. The parameters were to write 4 two-line stanzas.

Here’s what surfaced for me:

The Delphinium, blue breath of afternoon,
peek over the hedge, bob and samba

Night-smelling Epidendrum thrum,
flutter tonguing the gorgeous lilies

Pining Cranesbill swish, beg,
tempt and worry Queen Anne’s plectrum

Till Fireweed obliges
with a tickle and finger pluck.

Springboard du Jour: Using a seed catalogue, field guide or the like, randomly choose four words. Using a music dictionary, dance dictionary, cooking dictionary (or the like) randomly choose four more words. Write 4 two-line stanzas, each stanza using one word from each list. Remember – this is a free write – write as fast as you can and with abandon.

Choose a word, any word – APPLE for instance – and as quickly as you can, write down five words for each letter in the word.

A – aggregate, agile, agony, actor, Augustine
P – pomegranate, poo-poo-pee-doo, pompadour, prickly, pop

And so forth. Then do it again. Same word, only this time list verbs. You can do this with any sort of limitation – just nouns, just verbs – whatever strikes you. I try to include verbs every time. Verbs make interesting things happen.

After you have made a couple of lists, go through – very quickly - and circle one word in each line that really zings you. Make a list of these words – keeping them in the same order. Write a paragraph, using the words in order, tweaking the tense if necessary.

Here is a recent free write that sprang from this exercise. My words were: Agile, poo-poo-pee-doo, Persian, lick, everlasting, assuage, pare, pricked, larder, etched.

The agile pubescents pull a succession of blouses on and off, waiting for perfection. When it struck – it was poo-poo-pee-doo, three girls in a row, as satisfied as Persian cats. They all but licked themselves, reveling in their tightly held belief in their own everlasting youth. Never, yet, had they known the aged feelings that flag, requiring assuaging. After the lovely parade, they stopped to pare themselves down to barely lingerie. The entire department was pricked up and alive, waiting to see what the lovelies would do next. Shockingly, they headed straight for the larder, to gobble down sausages and brined pickles. Still, the image of their morning stretch was etched into our eternity.

OK So, most of the stuff in free writes is pure crap, but still – there are things happening here. For instance, this line “They all but licked themselves.” That’s interesting. Might see that in a poem of mine some day. Even if nothing particularly usable pops up, free writing gets the writing bones lubed up and ready to go.

Springboard du Jour:

The doctor said to my father, “You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That’s what I’m telling you now.”

From the poem “His Stillness” by Sharon Olds, from Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980-2002.

Last week, my writing partner, Faye Quam Heimerl, cooked up a delicious free write based on her Steak Dianne recipe, which calls for steak, butter, mushrooms, lemon juice, parsley, and Worcestershire sauce. Faye posed this question: What would Steak Faye or Steak Debbie call for? Steak Gratitude? Steak Disappointment? Here are a couple of my word recipes from that writing date.

Steak Dubya
Dry cutlet of horse's ass, dredged in a pinchy rub
No Sauce
Mushy Peas
Chitlin cornbread, dry as a popcorn fart
Tootsie Roll on a stick
Mint Toothpick.

Steak Merengue
Side step of pork
with Cha Cha Chorizo
Thrum the edges with cumin
Sizzle the rack over high heat
Zip the sauce with a Thai chili swish
Bump and grind until hot and tender


Springboard du Jour: What's your word recipe for Steak You?

“Is that blouse starched and pressed, missy? Sit still now, we got company in the parlour, and I gotta git you presentable. Stop fidgeting, honey, and let me get that cowlick mashed down. Oh, lord, there’s something sticky on your patent leather, holt still a minute while I polish it up. NO, you cain’t go outside and play with cousin Walter, he’s got his mud shovel and he’s flinging dirt as fast as a dog digging under a fence. NO, you cain’t play with your Sludge & Goop chemistry set, neither, I don’t know what Nana was thinking when she give you that. Awright, stand up straight now and go on in there. Ya’ll ready now? OK. Everybody’s a’watchin. Go ahead now, sugar, and say something purty!"

Are these the kind of expectations you put on your writing? Does everything you write have to be “purty” and “presentable”? Don’t it make you just want to wither up and die?

Give your self a break from perfectionism. It’s a certain death knell for creativity. It’s too much pressure to perform. Writers need to spend a good deal of time just playing with words and language. Remember why you started writing in the first place? How a certain turn of phrase took your breath away, set you to wailing, or made you laugh so hard that it hurt? Sometimes language is so delicious, you just want to wallow in it. That’s what you need to do at least a little bit every day; wallow, frolic, snort around in it. When there is no pressure to be “Great”, your deepest creativity feels safe enough to poke its’ head up and join you, because the “nasty critic” is off duty and writing is actually fun. Then, when you are sitting down to produce something “presentable”, your creative voice will be available for you– and not in a grudging way, but full of joy and ready to breathe life into your writing.

So, go and play, now. You hear me? Write the way kids finger paint – all gloppy and with all the colors. This is supposed to be fun!

Check out Six Word Memoirs on NPR

http://www.npr.org/programs/totn/features/2008/02/memoir/gallery/index.html

You'll be amazed how much can be said in just six words.

Here is my first impulse:

Mothering

Motherchild, separate cling separate cling, wings


Springboard du Jour: Pick one of these topics and boil it down to six words: Your Love Life, Your best friend, Your Mother's (or Father's) Life, Your childhood, Your work...

Structured free writes can force interesting imagery. Create strict parameters, choose a subject and let go. I like playing with the form of Etheree - a poem that is ten lines long. The first line has one syllable, the second line has two syllables, and so on. There are no rules as to rhyme or meter. I like to write it as fast as possible, still keeping track and adjusting for correct syllable count.

For this Etheree poem, I closed my eyes, opened the thesaurus and pointed to the word "jazz".

Jazz

Hot
cliches
don't work here
jazz is fresh juice
electric voice writhes
clarinets wail, wriggle
keening saxophones give wings
to embedded joys and sorrows
Wrested from their cells, their voices soar
tripping the clouds, diving into our mouths

Springboard du Jour: Try an Etheree about stormy weather.

This free write was sparked by a wonderful woman I saw driving by.


She was a spindly neck with a thrusting jaw & airy hair,
blasting by in a battle ax of a station wagon
I bet she smokes Kools, makes Jello molds every holiday
red & green for Christmas, pink & yellow for Easter

She holds a yard/craft sale every late October
potholders, crocheted southern belle skirts for plastic dolls
beads pinned in snowflake patterns into Styrofoam balls
decoupage Jesus ornaments, toilet paper cozies,
frog bags with wide-open mouths for stuffing plastic grocery sacks into

She has a porcelain poodle collection on a mantle

She tole painted her TV trays & has plastic flowers in her widow boxes – hanging wisteria and daffodils

She goes to the Dollar store every time her Social Security check comes and picks out five dollars worth of clearance stuff for her only grandchild: bubbles, jax, giant foam noodles for swimming, flip-flops, Spongebob underpants. She hides the noodle & flip-flops n the back of her closet until summer, hope she bought them big enough.


Springboard du Jour

Watch for an interesting character - in the grocery store, at a burger joint, walking in you neigborhood - anywhere - and free write for 10 minutes about their imaginary life, quirky habits.

Springboard du Jour


The memory of you emerges from the night around me.


From The Song of Despair, a poem by Pablo Neruda
Translated by W. S. Merwin

Springboard du Jour

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.


by Rumi, from The Essential Rumi, Translated by Coleman Barks

Springboard du Jour

Grasshoppers popped under tires,
the trees swelled with grackles,

a line from the poem Dead Center, from Ice, Mouth, Song by Rachel Contreni Flynn

Free Write Friday
Free writes are an excellent way to loosen up your writing bones. Choose a springboard, set your time (I like 10 minutes), put your pen on the paper and don’t stop writing – no matter what crazy things pop into your head. If you get stuck, write “I’m stuck, I’m stuck, I’m stuck” or I’ can’t think of anything, I can’t think of anything, this paper is cheap, this paper is cheap, where’d I get this pen, oh yeah it was Foss drug, that great old fashioned store with an actual Soda Fountain, just like Rexall Drug in Clayton….” You get the idea - eventually, something else will creep in and you’ll be off again. Trust yourself to write down everything you think – no matter how freaking weird. You'll be amazed how many little jewels will burble up out of your subconscious, little kernels of ideas that may blossom into your next poem, or spark a new story. You won’t believe all the quirky characters puttering about in that head of yours. I love this quote from Flannery O’Connor: “I write to discover what I know.” Free writing is an excellent tool for dislodging some of the more interesting matter that lurks below.

Here’s one of my recent un-edited free writes. I don’t know where this fellow came from.

My Springboard: “I wouldnt go by nothin he said.” From All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy


“I wouldnt go by nothin he said.”

Sallow cheeked, yellow wax bones and teeth. Fur-lined Fudd hat with flaps. He won’t look you in the eye without you give him explicit permission.

He’s a nod, a scrape & bow, a shuffle, a perpetual apology.

But he’s right, nonetheless, whether she gives him credit for it or not. He’s spent so many years tuning in to the subtle cues of those around him; he’s a master of the right word, a master of pushing the button that drops a dime in his gritty palm.

He’s a listener, a gatherer, a pocketer of details. He knows when Sam, the cattleman, gets paid out on the sale of a bull and prone to get loosed up and easy at the pool hall.

He knows when Larry Dryman’s wife is getting bitchy loud enough to pester him right through the open window till Larry’s gotta step out and breathe. Larry gets sympathetic when his wife gets bitchy.

Even Lois gets sympathetic, like she will be later for having picked on him in front of a stranger.

Springboard du Jour: “I wouldnt go by nothin he said.” From All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy

Where was I? Oh, yes. Wad-O-String, the other variety of rough patch I sometimes hit that is not – I repeat – NOT – Writer’s Block”.

Wad-O-String is unrelated to inspiration. I can be plenty inspired, and still find I’ve written myself into knots. Like a literal tangle of yarn, the harder you pull, the tighter the knots. Whatever it is that I’m trying so hard to say becomes convoluted, prickly, wadded up, my original thread inextricably tangled up in….goo. (Forgive me, Bob)
And, like the knotted yarn, you have to loosen up, work from the other end for a while. If it’s a short story, work on a different scene, flesh out a different character. You might find fresh insight from a different part of the story. Another trick is to work on something else, altogether. If it’s a short story that’s binding you, work on a poem, or children’s story, a personal essay, a journal entry. Often, while you are keeping your brain occupied with something else entirely, your subconscious either gets the knot out, or finds a solution you’d never even considered.

One more word on the Shy Toddler Syndrome I mentioned yesterday. One other cure is simply to write anyway. Even if it’s nothing but driveling crud, keep writing. Eventually, you’ll bore yourself to tears with your own whining and get over it. In any case, don’t; turn a rough patch into a clinical diagnosis. It ain’t nothing but a thang, so SNAP OUT OF IT! and get back to work.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

I hate the phrase, “WRITER'S BLOCK”. It’s a sure-fire buzz-kill. I run into plenty of rough patches, but I’d never do a fool thing like pronounce myself a victim of “WRITER'S BLOCK” - I’m far too susceptible to suggestion. Most of my “rough patches” usually come in one of two varieties: Shy Toddler Syndrome or Wad-o-String.

Shy Toddler Syndrome has to do with elusive inspiration, and is a lot like your best friend’s irresistible three-year old. The more you want to grab that cutie and smooch up those sweet punkin cheeks, the quicker that kid will disappear behind Mama’s legs and hold tight. The more you coax, the tighter the grasp. The only solution is to ignore that cutie entirely. Get completely absorbed in something else. Go to the trunk of kid toys you keep in the corner and start pulling out stuff. Play-Doh, Lincoln Logs, bubble-blowing lawnmower - doesn’t really matter what you pick out, but it matters very much that you actually get into it, really play in earnest. Kids are natural born Fake-N-It Detectors. One whiff that you’re trying to manipulate them and you can forget it. Crayons and markers are always a good choice. Forget the coloring books, though – they cramp the artistic style. Just plain drawing paper is good– the bigger, the better. After a few minutes, that cutie will sidle on up to see why the heck you aren’t paying attention to them anymore. Just keep on drawing. After another minute or two, without saying a word, push a blank piece of paper and some crayons towards your target, but get right back to your own masterpiece. Very soon, Cutie-Pie will start jabbering a little bit and before you know it, that kid will be up in your lap, demanding to point out the meaning of every scrawl and squiggle she made when you weren’t paying any attention.

It works just as well for skittish writing inspiration. When you get frustrated because nothing’s coming, just leave it the hell alone. Get up and do something interesting. Go see a foreign flick. Go peruse your favorite junk store. Make a painting. But really immerse yourself in it. Like toddlers, inspiration can smell bullshit a mile away. If you really commit to the thing, it will begin to loosen up the creative wheels, and soon you’ll be standing in the back of the Salvation Army Thrift Store holding an old gourd, remembering how Grandpa used to always keep a gourd dipper for getting a cool drink of water, and how nicely that detail would work in that scene you’re writing about the old fellers that sit and visit all day on the porch at Alley Grocery.

I think I’ll save Wad-O-String for another day. Happy Writing.

Springboard du Jour: “In the long unfurling of his life, from tight-wound kid hustler in a wool suit riding the train out of Cheyenne to geriatric limper in this spooled out year, Mero had kicked down thoughts of the place where he began, …” from The Half-Skinned Steer, a story in Close Range Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx

A springboard is anything that propels you into writing; free writing, journal entry, rough draft of a new poem – any old form your inspiration takes. Lots of books on writing have great lists of prompts to get you going. A Writer’s Book of Days by Judy Reeves or Wild Mind by Natalie Goldberg are two that come to mind. I’m partial to diving off from a great line I’ve run across in a poem or novel. When a turn of phrase arrests me in some way, I jot it down in a little notebook I keep near my desk. Whenever I’m ready to free write, I flip open my notebook and pick the first thing that strikes me – then fling myself into the abyss.

I’ll be adding a daily (or nearly) springboard above for your consideration, and I invite you to take a flying leap.

Springboard du Jour: "I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" from Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams

Just finished reading All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy and I’m wrung out. I am a certain dolt for not having taken up McCarthy’s work sooner. His writing is as muscular as the unbroken horses that throb through the story, setting a pace that will stagger you. McCarthy’s vision is one of terrible beauty, impossible to turn away from. There are turns of phrase so pure; they’ll set you to weep.

As a writer, this book left me praying for the wisdom to be still enough to hear the truth, and the guts to write it as fiercely as McCarthy has done.

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My Oak Tree
a drawing by S.H. Johnson
http://www.waysidewoodworks.com/

Making time to write can seem impossible. I get it. I have a fulltime job, I teach, I have a ten year old that takes piano lessons, is in the band, Girl Scouts, PeaceJam Juniors, etc… etc… I really do get it. Still, I can’t believe how many “writers” I meet who don’t actually write. They are chock full of great ideas for stories, they just never seem to get around to putting them on paper. Oh, maybe they will write once a week while they are taking my class. They want to write. They plan to write. And they plan to do it as soon as they have more time. Some day.

Here’s the thing: You will never have more time. You will always have too much on your plate. You will never have the luxury of holing up in a clay and wattle cabin in the Appalachians, overlooking a scenic vista, warming your brilliant writerly hands by a crackling fire.

If you want to write, you will do it sitting on the toilet with kids banging on the door, demanding to know what you are doing in there. The cotton ball earplugs are located in the bathroom – that’s a plus.

If you want to write, you’ll put your kids to bed and ply your husband with extra cake and beer, so he gets all full and sleepy and nods off halfway through the late show. Then you’ll tiptoe into your room, shake off the weary, and put one word after another.

Of course that means you have to give up the Sex and the City reruns you only get to watch when he’s asleep. You’ve probably seen ‘em all six times anyway.

My challenge to those of you who want to write: Promise yourself you will carve out a little time every day. Start small, say, 10 minutes a day. But do it. I promise, once you have made the commitment to make even a little bit of time every day to honor the craft of writing, you will be pleasantly surprised how life will begin to open up and accommodate you. You will be amazed at how much writing you can get done by wedging in a little time here and there - half an hour before everyone else gets up, 45 minutes in the wee hours of the night, fifteen minutes in the dentist office while you are waiting for the drugs to kick in. By drugs, I mean Novocain.

Now, if you are this very minute whining to yourself about how hard it going to be to find 10 minutes every day, maybe writing really isn’t your thing. Perhaps you don’t really like writing, after all. It’s O.K. Really. It’s not for everyone. If it’s not really for you, save yourself the headache and get back to Carrie & Mr. Big, with my blessings.

But, if you think you really DO want to write and not just think about writing, start right this minute. Stop surfing the web and start putting words on paper. 10 minutes. Go!

I try to journal a little bit every morning – process yesterday’s news, get interesting snippets of dreams down, kvetch a little. Over the last year or so, I have spent a few minutes most mornings adding a list of things I am grateful for. I find that if I am very still, put my full attention on my good fortune, my day is always the better for it. I have greater patience for disgruntled fellow creatures, razor-thin bank balances and knots in string. Life looks brighter and decidedly more peaceful through the lens of gratitude. Here are a few items from my morning list:

-My daughter is a wonder. Lovely. Clever. Funny. Creative. Generous. Kind.
-For Christmas, my husband, a gifted artist, gave me prints of two of his amazing pencil drawings.
-I love the work I do, and I’m grateful if it makes a difference in the lives of the kids I work with.
-I have an abundance of fascinating friends.
-Santa remembered to get treats for my dogs’ Christmas stockings this year.
-Poetry gives me a buzz.

I’m rich! I’m rich!

See what I mean? I urge you to try it out for yourself for a week or two. I bet you’ll feel like you’ve given yourself a little gift each day – the gift of gratitude.

I grew up in the Southern Appalachians where my father’s family has lived for generations. They were masters of making do with little or nothing. From quilting to toy making, canning to music making, these people lived artfully and joyfully – and none more so than my father. A stonemason by trade and musician at heart, my father instilled in us a sense of abundance- even in the face of what most would consider to be a meager existence. He filled our house with a love of music and had an eye for beauty. He found great pleasure in small things – and was quick to share his wonder and gratitude. He marveled at the intelligence of honeybees and his children, at how many different shades of green you could find in one garden, the beauty of a freshly sliced beet. He showed us how to whisper a doodlebug out of its dusty hole and how to talk to a news bee. From the porch alone, he could point out a dozen reasons to be thankful: hickory nuts, chinquapins, blackberries, black cherries, gooseberries, persimmons, poke salat, scuppernongs, muscadines, raspberries, elderberries, wild scallions – all gifts for the taking –all you had to do was notice and enjoy. He taught me to appreciate tinkering, puttering or just sitting quietly to watch trees dance in the wind. He taught me that, if you look for the best in people, people will show you the best in themselves, and that to be without money does not mean to be poor of spirit. These many years later, even from my home in the suburbs, I am continually reminded to notice the abundance that surrounds all of us. And I am delighted to find that the reminder comes most often from those we usually assume have nothing at all. In my poem The Gleaner, I salute those who, like my father, value the beauty of trees dancing in the wind.

The Gleaner

Brought forth from a long line of stalwarts
steeped in the pride of knowing how to make do
(with naught or less than)
possessing a steeled jaw, nose well suited -and used to –
holding firm and long to the proverbial grindstone
brow and long-angled back pitched ever forward in hearty plow fashion
he scratches through the supposed detritus of his neighbor’s lives
a perpetual infusion of wondrous and revealing artifacts
discarded in a steady stream and strewn
along the suburban curb

From amongst the reeking remains of
vacuum-packed family occasions, he gleans
conjuring baubles, novels, cord, glass blocks,
lamps, just today, a ladder
(made sturdy with the help of a crossbar found in a neighboring can)
three yards of snowflake cotton print folded
together with a hand embroidered tablecloth and six napkins
a can of hominy – still under warranty

and

“Ah, yes.” the footstool he’s been awaiting

“All things come…”

burrow-packed back
bent and straining over quick feet
eyes darting,
he hums along home