The 30 Poems in 30 Days series is written by John Hewitt. When I came across the site I did not realize that I in fact just barely missed this year's edition of it. As a result, I am starting at 2007, at the beginning. Quotes come directly from Hewitt, and thanks to him for the work and effort her has put into this.
Today’s Poetry Assignment
"Get out of the house and write in a new place. Write about the place you choose to go to. Don’t just rely on what you see. Describe the smells, the tastes and the sounds if you can. Try to give your readers a full picture of the place you choose."
Poetry of Place
"Now that we have moved from personal poems into poems about the world around us, it is time to explore poetry of place. Poets have memorialized places in verse for about as long as there have been poems. In a place poem, the poet attempts to capture the spirit of a particular place, and perhaps use that place to reflect upon either the events in their life or the events that have taken place at that location.
Things to remember when writing a poem about a place:
- The more vividly and distinctly you describe the place you are writing about, the easier it will be to draw your reader into any other themes that you have in mind.
- Themes that arise out of the description will be the most likely to take root. Look for details that blend well with your thoughts.
- The more meaningful a place is to you, the more likely you will write about it with passion, but sometimes it is more interesting to look for a location you don’t know so well and imagine a history for it.
- You are a poet, not a reporter. Don’t feel as if can’t change the occasional detail. Just be aware that if someone with knowledge of the place reads it and catches the differences, it might annoy them. Barbara Kingsolver writes books that are set in my hometown of Tucson, but she makes up most of the details, which is why I can’t stand to read her stories.
- When you can, it is a good idea to actually be at the location you are writing about when you write about it. Plenty of poems have been written after the fact, however. Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey was written five years later, and it may be the most famous place poem in all of literature.
Getting out of the house was the last thing on my mind this rainy day. I thought at first I would write in the library, but I didn't make it there before it closed. Then I thought maybe Starbucks, but you can't just sit there without buying a coffee or something. So I finally settled on a location. I always have this urge to preface my poems with the strong statement that I don't actually believe this to be any good, but I promised myself I would post it here, but I think that will get old after a while. Just know it is there and implied day after day. This one is kind of on the long side. I could probably use a little more editing.
Laundry Day
How many lives pass through the doors of the laundry mat?
Stained panties, baby puke, dog pee, and smelly socks
20 lives are carried in baskets
every day carried through the doors and slapped on counters
Tonight there are only three,
a mother with her daughter
a guy with pink shoes
and me
Start with the guy with pink shoes
Mostly because I can't stop staring at them
Pink with red trim and why do they exist?
And why a boy would buy them?
I don't have a problem with a boy wearing pink shoes,
But what boy doesn't have a problem with wearing pink shoes?
The dryer hums and the clothes click click, the zipper or a button
The mother flips a towel, her reflection fuzzy in the glass storefront
But I am not talking about her yet.
Even though the TV is blaring the pink shoe guy has music pouring out of hid laptop
He is smiling and typing away, must be talking to a girl
I look at the holes in his jeans, and the hat on his head, he sort of looks like a runaway
Guess that is what's in right now.
The soda machine glows in the too bright room, with it's 10 rows of flourencent lights
The TV blares over the sound of tumbling walls.
The guy in the pink shoes is laughing again,
And pulling his jacket close, even though it's warm in here.
He scuffs his pink shoes 5 steps to the door and goes outside.
As the glass door closes it forms a fuzzy mirror of the mother and her child speaking Spanish.
The air smells like half chewed gum, I wonder if it is their laundry detergent.
The girl holds the door open as her mom carries a basket out to the car,
She stands there holding it open
The smell of smoke lingers in and cold air is like a rushing wave
There is a girl on the webcam of the laptop
The laptop is sitting on the chair with the screen facing me
I can see her sticking out her tongue but has no idea anyone is watching her
She is fixing her hair and the pink shoe guy is still outside
The smoke clinging to the air like it belongs in here
I think about what it would sound like if everything in this room was turned off one by one
Sometimes you don't realize a sound is there until it's gone
I stare back up at the florencent lights, they are humming too, but I can't hear them
The pink shoe boy is back, his chain wallet sliding and clashing
Every time he moves
Whispering from mother and child
The bang of the laundry basket
Humming of the last spinning dryer slowly fades away
And I guess that just leaves me, the imposter
Scribbling and pretending I belong
Just watching these lives go by
How many lives pass through the doors of the laundry mat?
Stained panties, baby puke, dog pee, and smelly socks
20 lives are carried in baskets
every day carried through the doors and slapped on counters
Tonight there are only three,
a mother with her daughter
a guy with pink shoes
and me
Start with the guy with pink shoes
Mostly because I can't stop staring at them
Pink with red trim and why do they exist?
And why a boy would buy them?
I don't have a problem with a boy wearing pink shoes,
But what boy doesn't have a problem with wearing pink shoes?
The dryer hums and the clothes click click, the zipper or a button
The mother flips a towel, her reflection fuzzy in the glass storefront
But I am not talking about her yet.
Even though the TV is blaring the pink shoe guy has music pouring out of hid laptop
He is smiling and typing away, must be talking to a girl
I look at the holes in his jeans, and the hat on his head, he sort of looks like a runaway
Guess that is what's in right now.
The soda machine glows in the too bright room, with it's 10 rows of flourencent lights
The TV blares over the sound of tumbling walls.
The guy in the pink shoes is laughing again,
And pulling his jacket close, even though it's warm in here.
He scuffs his pink shoes 5 steps to the door and goes outside.
As the glass door closes it forms a fuzzy mirror of the mother and her child speaking Spanish.
The air smells like half chewed gum, I wonder if it is their laundry detergent.
The girl holds the door open as her mom carries a basket out to the car,
She stands there holding it open
The smell of smoke lingers in and cold air is like a rushing wave
There is a girl on the webcam of the laptop
The laptop is sitting on the chair with the screen facing me
I can see her sticking out her tongue but has no idea anyone is watching her
She is fixing her hair and the pink shoe guy is still outside
The smoke clinging to the air like it belongs in here
I think about what it would sound like if everything in this room was turned off one by one
Sometimes you don't realize a sound is there until it's gone
I stare back up at the florencent lights, they are humming too, but I can't hear them
The pink shoe boy is back, his chain wallet sliding and clashingEvery time he moves
Whispering from mother and child
The bang of the laundry basket
Humming of the last spinning dryer slowly fades away
And I guess that just leaves me, the imposter
Scribbling and pretending I belong
Just watching these lives go by
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