“It’s just another day, another episode.” – Van Hunt, Dust
Zadi Diaz tweeted this the other day in a retweet:
Poetry helps get the creative juices going: RT @PoetryFound: Sign up to have a poem emailed to you each day. http://t.co/9GrTC64rmw
— Zadi Diaz (@Zadi) January 19, 2014
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That resonated with me as I’d been slowly making my way through Urban Tumbleweed, Harryette Mullen’s tanka diary released late last year. Like Americanah, I read this as a physical, rather than e-, book. Poetry seems like something you should be able to squeeze between your fingers or hear spoken aloud.
It’s entirely possible I don’t know what I’m talking about, though. I don’t read much poetry. My interaction with poems are more of the rhythmic american variety.
But I tumbled an LA Times review that featured one of her tankas and it was clear something in it was meant for me. So, I’ve been reading it during rides to and from work and finding myself attempting to capture my observations of the happenings on the metro in verse.
Tankas. Longer than the haiku that are more common in the US. These are my poor attempts at that form.
A trio of girls take selfies on the speeding train,
Quick flashes of light and dark as background
I could learn from their artistry
The toddler and the old man next to each other but unrelated
One in stroller, the other with cane
Neither on sure footing
Loud youngsters drink and intimidate until they reach their stop
As the doors close
Quiet kindness returns for the relieved riders
Two girls pantomime being fisherman and prey
Giggles, smiles, and finally an embrace oblivious to all
I smile too.
The world makes more sense in a poem.
