Write your Autobiographical Poem without referring to yourself

1. Read Tupac Shakur’s poem “The Rose that grew From Concrete”

Tupac Shakur

The Rose that Grew from Concrete

(autobiographical)

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack
in the concrete
Proving nature’s law is wrong it learned 2 walk
without having feet
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned 2 breathe fresh air
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else even cared!

 

2. Write your autobiographical poem, without referring to yourself, without using the words “I” or “me” — just focus on another being or object.  Write in detailed images.  In essence, become one with the other, with the object or other being, however you see it.  If you want, focus on nature.  It works.

 

* Thanks to poet Rosette Capotorto for teaching me this poem.

Poetic Mead

Villanella 4:

 

On the moon I bleed.

O! Blue moon soul!

One more swig of Poetic Mead.

 

The creek bends around the cabin where I write and read.

Silver moon reigns tug my blood right out of my hole.

On the moon I bleed.

 

I rest when my heart’s ache says my soul has the need

to stave off death’s ax, but of that swing I know we have zero control.

One more swig of Poetic Mead.

 

In my fever it’s always Lancelot who pounds in on his muscular white steed.

My pen leaves tracks of life on this paper, one magnificent scroll.

On the moon I bleed.

 

Earth spins so fast I can’t feel the speed.

Overhead heavens pass, as onward another generation of lives roll.

One more swig of Poetic Mead.

 

The city stands up to Heaven on the good welder’s bead,

I slow down to pay the toll.

On the moon I bleed.

One more swig of Poetic Mead.

 

copyright 2013 Annie Lanzillotto

 

Above is my first draft of a new villanella.  “Poetic Mead” is the drink of poetic inspiration.  The nectar that we need and then need to give to others.  It’s forged of the suffering of our lives and the moments of spirit ecstacy.  As writers, we sip the poetic mead and keep making songs out of life.

One good thing about being sick is I quiet down, put the brakes on other’s needs of me, and create solitude, necessary for the writing life.  I feel my heart talking to me, saying lay down, pull up the covers, breathe, let go of all worry, listen to the soul talkin’.   

What does your soul say?  

What scroll would you love to leave behind?

If, as my poem above says, your pen is leaving tracks of this life on the paper, if in one life, you get to leave behind one magnificent scroll, 

take the pen to paper

and let the soul speak. 

What does your heart tell you?  

When you take the time to rest and listen to your heart, what is being said?