Today is April 30th, the final day of National Poetry Month. Have you celebrated in any way? Does poetry not draw you in? Do you write poetry on a regular basis? Have you ever written a poem?
Lots of questions with varying answers. I always encourage prose writers to try their hand at poetry. You might be pleasantly surprised at the result. There are poets who take many courses to help them write poetry and study for years, but there are also a good number who have no formal training but still like to dabble in poetry. It's great if you are knowledgable in meter, rhyme, rhythm, and form, but it's not an absolute must. You can write free verse, even rhymed poetry without knowing all those little intricacies. If poetry interests you, do some reading and learn some of the key points.
Below, you will find a few poems that I have written. Some were published, others not (yet). If I can do it without ever having taken a class on this type of writing, I'm betting you can, too. In honor of National Poetry Month 2021, give it a try. Jot down memories or things you see that inspire you. Emotion is such a big part of poetry. When you're moved, don't let that feeling slip by. Instead, write a poem. As in prose, there is a first draft and then an editing process. Share one in the Comments section if you like.
(This narrative poem was published in Boys’ Quest magazine)
Chinatown Cat
Ling Po had a ginger-colored cat,
not a very pretty one at that.
Near a window he oft slept by day.
Nights he went out and far away.
Where in Chinatown did he go?
Ling Po really wanted to know.
Night after night Cat went
As if on a mission he’d been sent.
One warm and moonlit night,
Ling Po followed on Cat’s right.
Cat slid by cans for trash,
then Ling Po padded softly past.
He stayed a bit behind,
while Cat continued down the line.
Cat didn’t even seem to slow
when sirens began to blow.
On through dark and eerie streets,
Master and pet moved on silent feet.
Farther and farther, past store upon store.
Ling Po could not take much more!
Now, beyond temple and pagoda.
This Chinatown boy needed a soda.
Then, Cat stopped, looked all around
and crouched down close to the ground.
He lay there, green eyes peering
at an ancient man now nearing.
“There you are, my friend,” he fretted
“Come close to be petted.
Ling Po waited behind a car.
Was this the reason they’d come so far?
The Old One bent, pigtail swinging,
from Cat’s throat, a purr like singing.
Now Cat belonged to the pair,
for Ling Po knew he would share.
This cat who loved both young and old
was surely worth his weight in gold.
With patience, Ling Po watched the two,
no more than that could he do
until Cat turned to take his leave
and Ling Po followed him home with relief.
--Nancy Julien Kopp
Darkness
Night shadows shimmer
across my bedroom wall;
tree branches bend to
the will of the wind,
reaching for the window.
Moonlight guides my steps
as I pad to the empty kitchen.
In the lunar-lit darkness,
more shapes flicker and beckon
on this well-known path.
A glass of milk to help
me drift into sleep
before too many thoughts
again wrap round my mind
while I watch silent shadows
dancing through this wakeful night.
---Nancy Julien Kopp
He Said
Join me for lunch, he said.
I’m doing fine.
He said, I’m ninety-one.
I have no hearing aid.
I use no glasses.
Mary is gone, he said.
She had Leukemia.
I didn’t think she’d die.
The sparkle left his eyes
I miss her, he said.
---Nancy Julien Kopp
(a haiku that won first place in a contest)
rolling thunder hums
within dark, ominous clouds
melody of spring
--Nancy Julien Kopp
(written after a trip to France and Monet's house and garden)
Musing On Monet
I stroll in Monet’s garden, mere
steps away from his grand pink house.
I’m in France, Giverny to be exact,
in the heart of Normandy, land
of milk, butter and cheese.
Monsieur Monet owned
another title—master gardener.
His eye for color, texture and light
stretched from his rainbow garden,
capped by sky, then through his brush.
Birdsong and butterflies stir the air,
as I wander among violets and lavenders,
the tawny golds and blush-rose pinks
until his flowers simply embrace me.
I stop—pirouette slowly,
revel in the unique spectrum this
gentle summer day. Did Claude
ever do the same, brush in hand?
Perhaps he sat at the garden’s edge,
small table at his side, drinking tea
and nibbling a sweet biscuit, while
scanning greenery for the perfect scene.
Did he call for his wife or mistress to fill
his cup again? Did one of eight children
he raised bring the biscuit tin outside?
Or did he shoo them all away so as not
to break his lone and pleasant reverie?
Maybe he wandered to the nearby pond
where water lilies floated, framed by
arched, wooden bridges, as a soft
summer breeze caressed the trees.
Oh, that I might have walked in this
glorious garden with Monet, sipped
a cup of tea by his side and soothed
my soul with the beauty he created,
splashing vibrant color onto canvas.
Yet, what incredible joy there is in an
oft dreamed-of journey taken now
when I have years of living behind
me but many more yet to come.
Monet strolled here and so have I.
---Nancy Julien Kopp
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