Take 1 prose piece you’ve written and recast it with line-breaks two ways — as a 1) narrative poem (a poem that tells a story) AND 2) lyric poem (a poem that uses language to evoke). You are not required to adhere to any metrical or formal elements or structures — both poems should be free verse.
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Narrative Poem- From ‘Its A Match’
Swipe, swipe, swipe
Hello, I love you, goodbye
A vicious cycle
Tell me I am pretty please
Tell me you like me
Low-cut shirts, make-up, the right words, the right angles
Just tell me you love me
Like he never did
Just tell me you love me
Even though I don’t love you
Ask for my thoughts
Ask for my words
Ask for my permission
They ask
They always ask
Lyrical Poem – From the same source
I am so tired
Tired of how fake this is
Tired of the show
Tired of being on display
Like a zoo, like a circus act, like a piece of meat
For their hungry hungry eyes
I don’t like you
But love me
Lost after leaving
Searching in places where you are not
hoping, yearning, pleading
It will fill a hole
It doesn’t
Dirty, scared, imposter, fake
This is not me
Small light
Sudden change
Different, comfortable, new
My heart
Now warm.
Narrative Poem – From Travelogue
Rows of wide aluminum canoes
with their signature bright orange stripes
lean against one another,
the ones farthest from my tiny toes
lean against the crumbling stone wall.
The camp is old,
really old,
but the canoes always appear shiny
and brand new,
proudly displaying the names
of the honorees,
my grandpa and mom among them.
They sit in the dark brown mud,
the earth unable to sprout grass
due to the feet of small children.
Years worth of history is present here,
like a photo album or guest book
allowing future generations to wonder
about the people behind the names
of the dozens of canoes.
At least I wondered, at the time.
I wonder now if they are ever all used at once,
or if they are just there for history’s sake.
I am about to leave for “trail”:
an excursion full of mystery to me.
I am about to follow in the footsteps
of two generations before me.
I am about to learn
what my grandpa, mom, aunt and uncles, older cousins, and older sister
had been praising for years.
Trail.
I was tiny,
having just barely finished fifth grade.
With my short, sandy brown hair
most likely held back by a headband,
I was ready to go. Maybe.
I had heard of the brownies made only with water
and cooked over a campfire.
Scrambled brownies.
It sounds weird, but they taste delicious,
I promise.
They’re still my favorite.
I had heard of the routes,
the tents,
the new friends that would supposedly last a lifetime.
My mom still remembers her Camp friends,
but will I?
We save the canoes from the mud.
Our first exercise in teamwork.
We move them to the water,
careful to avoid scratching the keels on the ground.
Our tiny arms work together
to carry three boats to the waterfront,
then slide them into the
slightly rough waters.
Lyric Poem –
wide aluminum canoes
glistening orange stripes,
their vibrant signature
rows upon rows line the crumbling stone wall
the camp is old, really old
yet the canoes
a contrasting shiny and new
display the names of accomplished leaders
in the mud,
they sit, wait
the earth unable to sprout grass
due to the feet of small children
years worth of history,
a photo album, a guest book
for future generations to wonder about
the people behind the names
on the canoes.
I wondered, at the time
I wonder now
if the canoes are ever all used at once
or if they are just here for history’s sake
trail:
an excursion full of mystery to me.
following in the footsteps of two generations
I am about to learn what my family had been praising for years.
trail.
I was tiny,
short, sandy brown hair
a vibrant headband
I was ready to go. Maybe.
the routes, tents, new lifelong friendships
Mom still remembers her Camp friends,
will I?
I’m quietly
nervous, afraid, but
I help save the canoes
from the mud
Narrative
Everyone sits around the table,
Chewing in an awkward silence that envelops the room.
The silence is deafening,
You can hear every move of a utensil-but no one dares to break it.
We all pretend to ignore what just happened,
Using food as a crutch to pretend that we are busy with other things.
We do not pay any mind to recent events.
The head of the table tries to interrupt such awkwardness,
Piping up with “this chicken is so tender and flavorful”.
Now that I pause to think about it,
The food is cold and tasteless.
This will be the last dinner party I attend for a long time.
Lyric
Everyone sits around the table chewing in an awkward silence that envelops the room
The silence is deafening you can hear every move of a utensil but no one dares to break it
We all pretend to ignore what just happened using the food as a crutch
Pretending that we are busy with other things not paying any mind to recent events
The head of the table tries to interrupt such awkwardness
Piping up with this chicken is so tender and flavorful
Now that I pause to think about it the food is cold and tasteless
This will be the last dinner party I attend for a long time
Narrative:
Stephen is only tough on court
Or with his brothers
A 90mph serve
He jumps in front of the service line
Momentum pulls him in
A split step
He slams a huge put-away volley
The sweat off his neck wips, his head turns
CMON ON!
Everyone is on their feet, Mom, Dad, Nana, Rumi, and Caden
Lyrical:
A Kick serve
90mph
Squeaks of Zoom Vaper Pros
Bent knees
Compact follow-throughs
Split step
Volley
40-15 match point
Narrative Poem:
The drive normally
takes about four and a half hours.
That night, it was longer.
I had offered to drive back to give my Dad a break
since he had just done the drive down to get me.
About an hour and a half in, things are going well.
We are listening to music
singing loud enough that our voices fill the car with sound.
The air is warm and cozy and the cars on the road fly by us.
All of a sudden, I smell something.
It doesn’t smell good.
The smell was that of burnt plastic
when suddenly I heard something crackling too.
Now I’m freaked out.
I turn down the music and ask my Dad if he hears the crackling.
He, like any good Dad, rather than taking me seriously
crinkles the bag of chips he was eating between us and says,
is this the crackling you’re talking about?
I roll my eyes while he laughs at my expense.
Finally, he tells me to pull over.
Once we stop I notice the smoke immediately.
The driver’s side door was smoking and sizzling.
I throw it open and let the smoke billow out onto the road.
Both of us can’t help but laugh
this was going to be a longer drive.
Lyric Poem:
We sing loud enough that the vibrations fill the car with sound.
The air is warm and cozy inside,
as cars on the road fly by us with a whoosh and a blink of their bright yellow eyes.
All of a sudden, I smell something.
The thick scent of burnt plastic begins to coat my nostrils.
It starts to get more aggressive as I realize, there is a sound of crackling too.
I turn my head to find the door smoking and sizzling.
I throw it open and see a dragon.
With red eyes ablaze and smoke pouring out its mouth.
The McRae’s arrive in their distracted, bustling manner to the Watsonville house with 2 minutes to spare.
None of their vacations go exactly as planned – no one wants to recall the trip to Boise that began and ended in screaming matches – but this one has run fairly smoothly so far, all things considered.
They unlock the door and Jesse rushes up the stairs to make sandwiches.
They aren’t actually on a strict time crunch, but Jesse promised the Harrises food upon arrival and she refuses to disappoint.
She loves the Harrises in the way you love family, although she only met them 20 years ago on a study abroad trip to England.
So do her two daughters, Sadie and Ainsley, whose relationship with the family for years was simply the girls torturing Sarah and Brian with words to say in English accents.
Jesse’s husband doesn’t usually come on these vacations but has tagged along this time and looks forward to seeing the family, in his own way.
The sandwiches are prepared,
the girls are already fighting,
and the Harrises are, of course, late.
The McRae’s arrive
in their distracted, bustling manner
to the Watsonville house with 2 minutes to spare.
None of their vacations go exactly as planned
– no one wants to recall the trip to Boise that began and ended in screaming matches –
but this one has run fairly smoothly
so far all things considered.
They unlock the door
Jesse rushes up the stairs to make sandwiches
They aren’t actually on a strict time crunch but Jesse promised the Harrises food upon arrival
she refuses to disappoint.
She loves the Harrises
in the way you love family
(although she only met them 20 years ago on a study abroad trip to England.)
So do her two daughters,
Sadie and Ainsley,
whose relationship with the family for years was simply the girls torturing Sarah and Brian with words to say in English accents.
Jesse’s husband doesn’t usually come on these vacations
but has tagged along this time
and looks forward to seeing the family,
in his own way.
The sandwiches are prepared,
the girls are already fighting,
and the Harrises are,
of course,
late
NARRATIVE:
my best friend
the statue
towering and beautiful
looks down
grazes fountain’s bowl
we don’t need to talk much
she just sees
and knows
LYRIC:
Mars for Marguerite for Mary
nobody has a name for you
miss beautiful life
nobody has filled your cup
since Sophomore year, at least
cold stone chips away
i keep your debris in my pockets
i see you and i ache
Narrative:
I once sat on a bridge, with
Dread and glee meeting there
Inside me.
Feet dangling over the side,
Of a bridge high off the ground.
The voices in my head took turns
Why are we here
One questioned
I grimaced, my eyes stapled open.
Why not
Replied the other
I smile wide, grin carved
Into my flesh and soul.
We could get hurt
I shook with fear.
The potential is what makes this
All the more thrilling
The other rebutted
I sparkled with laughter.
The ground is much safer
My screams barely cut through the wind.
A life spent on the ground
Is a life without this view
I laughed in the booming gales.
I don’t want to die
That one was in agreement. And so
I clung tight to the world.
Lyrical:
High off the ground
Dread and Glee sat
One grimaced
The other smiled
Booming wind blew
Dread and Glee spoke
We could get hurt
That’s what makes it thrilling
Feet Dangling over the side
Dread and Glee turned
The ground is much safer
But it doesn’t have this view
Laughter and shaking
Dread and Glee turned
I don’t want to die
Neither do I
Narrative:
Benji was the first to move.
His body launched
into motion
at the unmistakable sound
of ceramic shattering on the hardwood.
A rhythmic clicking of claws
followed the familiar lapping
a dog in human-food heaven.
the rest of the family,
who stood
swallowing nothing
but the weight
of the uncertainty
Next was Tommy.
Quick breaths escaped
tight lips
in the form of a laugh
almost
caught in the back of his throat.
After what felt
to him like ten minutes
of giggling
but was truly just one,
he bent down to collect the shards from the floor.
Sophie broke the silence.
Lyrical:
an unmistakable sound
ceramic shattering
on hardwood floors
clicking
scraping
sniffing
familiar lapping
a dog in heaven
widened pupils and a dry mouth
knees bent to meet the mess
a sister scorned
a mother naive
knawing at bones
clinging to the sweetness
From: Letter to Childhood Self
Narrative Poem
Dear everyone,
people will find a chance to live. Very few of those people deserve attention.
They are realized, afraid, tired, and so worried.
They leave room. go to school. the day should be scary. It also has “safe”. Don’t know.
better off without them. Fight a wholly good person. unapologetically
shut it down right now. what they say and do, cataclysmically make it easy. stop being compassionate just because you were good
A person, ugly, unlovable.
Yes, Don’t let live.
good things feel nothing, so why not grow things, without so many ideas up there.
Go for it.
Likewise, it happens with them. The end of the world.
the tone of this letter has been harsh, because Turns out, it won’t get fixed. Lucky for you, you’ll get to those later
Down the Line
Lyric Poem
Past,
Not everyone is going to find you.
Many people will find you without giving.
There will be people who live your life. attention.
talk with them. you’re afraid they’ll stop loving you. News flash, we’re past that point. They want to tell you they love you, but they’re so tired, and they’re so worried you’ll stay forever.
The world is going to be scary.
Rot. She’s going to become your friend.
you don’t make it easy. Earn her trust.
Ugly, unlovable, bitterness all the time, melancholy and anxious, but don’t deny your nuance.
Everything and everyone dies, but to die you had to have lived first.
worsening develops for the love of everything good in this world.
Start. More. Strangers.
anyone’s going to know
You
Narrative:
the music is ringing
so excruciatingly loudly in her ears
that she almost can’t hear
a single sound
she’s just spiraling
around and down and around
like the falling snow she lay under that night
a girl twirling in slow motion
a blur of red and sparkling glitter
and really she’s not even sure
if she’s matching the music
is it country or pop or maybe rock
she can’t tell
but it doesn’t matter
as long as it’s not that jazz
that was drifting out of the open window
but its not
she knows its not
so she just keeps dancing
her long delicate fingers
with chipped white nail polish
reaching for the slightly moldy ceiling
and then out
towards the plastic picnic table
where the bowl of Mystery Punch
is almost empty
and she is smiling
teeth glittering like a disco ball
through the thick curtain of dark hair
stuck to her damp face
as she watches the figures around her
blur into colorful disco lights
making her feel like an art-deco abstract painting
and this is good
feeling like a painting
because feeling like a painting
is much better than feeling like a drowning girl
with a cracking heart
so she lets herself flow
rippling around the room
in her knee-length camellia red dress
and $11 department store heels
that click against the peeling linoleum floor
and if eventually
all the people start to leave
and the music stops
well she is none the wiser
because inside her abstract painting
she can’t hear
a single sound
Lyric:
she’s spiraling
around and down and around
blurs of red
and sparkling glitter
and there are lights spinning
bright reds and blues and greens
a girl twirling in slow motion
falling snow
that never reaches the ground
is she even matching the music?
it doesn’t matter
its ringing so loudly
you almost can’t hear
a single sound
she’s dancing
long delicate fingers
with chipped white nail polish
reaching for the slightly moldy ceiling
and further
out towards the plastic picnic table
where the bowl of Mystery Punch
is almost empty
as the people fade into background noise
she is smiling
teeth glittering like a disco ball
through a thick curtain of dark hair
plastered to a damp face
from the outside
she looks like a figure
in an art-deco abstract painting
but really she’s just a drowning girl
with a cracking heart
she is flowing
rippling around the room in her knee-length camellia red dress
$11 department store heels
clicking against the peeling linoleum floor
and if eventually
the music stops ringing
and the snow stops falling
would she notice the silence
from inside her abstract painting
where she can’t hear
a single sound?
from Meditations in an Emergency by Cameron Awkward-Rich
Narrative:
The sky this morning
through the gaps in my slanted blinds
was a volley of arrows to the heart. Even
when I close the offending blinds
and shut out that gray, that cloud,
I can hear every drop of rain
like a physical impact in my chest.
I go outside to be inside that
rush, that torrent, that downpour
to match a downpour inside. There are everyday
places to go and ways to get there and
paths to follow and people to pass.
Birds soar, doves, their wings pale
like a snowfall in reverse. Scattering like petals
against the sky, like the fallen petals of old womens’
roses on pavement between tents and running children.
Footsteps are heartbeats, and heartbeats
are breaking.
I thought, until past when I was too old to think
such things, that I could run the world over
without resistance beside the challenge
of any ambition. No pressure
against, only pressure with, coaxing, breeze
on my cheeks. I’ve been taught. We’ve been taught
to believe in wind-whipped fabric and blue skies,
where the peaceful mundane is an oddity
and the tumult is monotonous, white noise to our ears.
I put a hand over this splintering, shattering
bullet hole in glass where my heart is.
Lyric:
I think I liked it better in darkness,
before the day and the outdoors pressed into my shelter
and brought with them the scars in this wound-torn
world of ours: the fleeing of some wild hearts
and the trapping of others. I only love this life
in sleep, when wilderness isn’t caged
and promises are only mine to give.
NARRATIVE:
The girl across the aisle
two rows back
talking to someone on speakerphone
for god knows what reason
usually I find this irritating and grumble about
“the audacity” under my breath
but she’s going to be a bridesmaid
on May 12th
that’s pretty soon
and she’s making me imagine summer
and flowy linen
and dancing at the wedding of someone I love
and today is the first warm day where I remembered what its like to sweat
under my boobs
from my brisk walk to the train stop
weighed down with a backpack full of things I don’t need
and two fresh loaves of bread
one for my parents and one for us to snack on
and the sun
oh the sun
is lighting up the trees
which are still leafless from winter
but billowy nonetheless
and this time a month ago
it would be dark already
and I wouldn’t have gotten
to see the sun
bathe the incomprehensibly tiny hands of the tiny child in the seat in front of me
pointing out to her overwhelmed mother
the blue sky
and brown buildings
and I wouldn’t have gotten to pull you close into me
so we could gasp together at her cuteness
maybe
somehow
canceling out
how her every word
is being shushed
by busy
respectful
parents
our loaf is three quarters through
and we’ve got two short hours
before we’re home.
LYRICAL
across the aisle two rows back
on speakerphone
she’s going to be a bridesmaid on May 12th
pretty soon
imagine summer and
flowy linen and
dancing
the wedding of someone I love
the first warm day
sweat under my boobs
a backpack of things I don’t need
two fresh loaves
one for my parents and
one for us and
the sun and
oh the sun and
the trees
still leafless
but billowy
nonetheless
a month ago it would be too dark
to see the sun
bathe
incomprehensibly tiny hands
of the tiny child
pointing out to the blue
sky and
brown
buildings
you
close into me
our loaf three quarters through
two short hours
home