Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to join our October poetry challenge!

Here’s the scoop: we’re writing a terzanelle! If your immediate response is ⁉️ you’re not alone. Two Italianate poetry forms – the terza rima and the villanelle – combine to give us the best of both worlds. Choose a pair of rhymed words for your A1 and A2 rhyme – we’ll pick from show and know; slight and might; round and bound; and score and more – then carefully compose your repetitive rhymes. Are you in? Good! Be ready to share October 30th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. See you then!

The seasons of endings has begun. As I write this, the gardeners have ripped out three trees from the backyard that have some sort of disease, and taken out vines and rosebushes that share the same malady. The hill that makes up most of our yard looks denuded and depressing, and I was thinking on that this weekend when these guys wandered past:

A year ago May, a mama turkey wandered through our yard with eight babies, some of whom got stuck, unable to get back through the fence (however they got through; jury’s still out on that). We gently scooped them up and reunited them with their (hissing, agitated) mother in the neighbor’s yard, and this spring, a young turkey has started to drop by again and again, by herself, just to quietly roost in a tree. This is the first time she’s brought a little friend.

All things happen in their season. Sometimes it’s time to wield a chainsaw and stop the spread of disease in your growing things. Sometimes it’s time to sit down and watch a wee turkette discover whatever it was she was chasing in the grass. Some moments we encounter require action; some moments require our stillness. The trick is knowing what is required of us, when, and to move accordingly.

When I started trying to compose a poem based on this month’s prompt from THE CREATIVITY BOOK, edited by Colby Sharp, it went sideways pretty quickly. A story my mother recounts from the age of door-to-door salesmen (and running to the store and leaving your kids home alone) is coming home to find a man standing awkwardly in the driveway in front of our house while behind the screen door a five year old me sat silently on my time-out chair. I’d opened the door when he knocked, inherent nosiness briefly eclipsing the bone-deep knowledge that I wasn’t supposed to open doors at all. When asked if my mother was home, I’d simply turned away, putting my face in the corner while he stood, wholly at a loss for what to do next. (PLEASE NOTE: I did not, at least talk to a stranger. The letter of at least one law was followed.) The ironic (READ: unnerving) thing is that my mother didn’t make me put my face in the corner as a correction that I can ever, ever recall, and it’s not like I was a child who wasn’t ever corrected. I must assume that I’d seen that on TV and it signaled the contrition I felt…? Who really knows?

…In any event, I’ve always had a keen understanding of assigning fault and punishing myself. But a poem slogging deeply through the particular ick of THAT thought didn’t feel wholly… necessary, so I recalibrated.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Poetry Princesses took this prompt in their own unique directions. Today’s host is fellow Poetry Sister Tricia, whose poem and the rest of the round-up is here at The Miss Rumphius Effect. Thanks, for hosting, Tricia! Sara’s poem is here; Liz’s poem is here, and Mary Lee’s poem is here. Laura’s combination prompt poem is here. Michelle K’s musings are here. Karen’s poem is here, and Carol V’s Cousin Heidi’s faultline is here, and Margaret’s post is here. Other Poetry Peeps may taking on Colby Sharp’s thought-provoking prompt may pop in throughout the weekend, so do check back for the round-up here.

The word sonnet comes from the Latin sonetto, meaning “a little song.” Though I intended the form to help me create something lyrical, I got maybe four lines into a poem, exploring the definitions of fault (tennis serves, fissures in the Earth’s mantle, blame) and loathed it thoroughly. So I went back to the drawing board again, and tried to see the prompt as it was written to be – a classroom writing assignment generator. That single word turned me towards remembering all the things for which I felt responsible in school (Odd aside: I never write poetry about my second life in the classroom, as a teacher. Hmmm), then the poem – and a young narrator – grew in a better direction. IRL, my brain is maybe not all the way there yet – but while there’s life, there’s time.

By the time I had a feel for my imaginary narrator, I wanted to add more – more words, more deep thoughts about girls and identity and roles and taking up space — but this is where relying on a form saves you from yourself. It forces you to say JUST what’s allowable, and no more. I fudged the meter a tiny bit here or there, but I can overstate quite a bit if not restrained (just ask my writing group; the margin note, “Maybe Cut…?” was likely developed by Somesuch Literary solely for me) so I allowed the meter to say I’d reached the end. And for a second draft, I was pretty satisfied.

A Little Song for a Growing Season

It’s all my fault; I have all the regrets:
In P.E., I stepped on his shoe,
The ball that he served smashed into the net…
Oops – no points now. And there’s no redo.

The seating chart put me where I learn best:
Front row, right in front of Ms. Vaughn.
I raise my hand every time (I aced the test),
‘Cause of me, HE’S getting called on.

Mom says that women should take up more space.
…Does she even mean loud girls like me?
Ms. Vaughn says I’m growing right into my grace –
I’m not graceful. But …maybe? We’ll see.

Not my fault I’m taller, smart, silly, or still…
HE can’t figure me out, but I’m learning. I WILL.

There’s still growth in seasons of death. There’s still something small blooming in every winter, light shining through the lines of every deepening dusk, and beginnings looped tightly to every ending. May you find growth sparking in lichen or mosses; in the quiet, resting places where leaves are falling to compost – may life still find you. With your stutters and starts and abandoned attempts, may progress still place one shaky step on the path forward. And as you stand in the shadow of a light that seems to be fading, may you remember that you are smarter than you feel and stronger than you think, and you are so, so loved.

Until next time, remember:

A fault is a place where change begins.