SLO NightWriters’ had the pleasure of hearing local poet and California Polytechnical University instructor, Lisa Coffman at their March Meeting.
Lisa was the winner of the Stan and Tom Wick Poetry Prize from Kent State University Press for her first book, Likely, which is available at:
http://www.amazon.com/Likely-Poems-Wick-Poetry-First/dp/0873385543
She gave the NightWriter group one poetry exercise. She called it “three levels of focus.” She gave us a group of nouns to choose from (wine, whine, sofa, blood, mountain, dirt or any general noun) and then told us to write a sentence using it. Then start a second sentence using the first and expounding on it. Then write a third sentence…and stop there.
Here are some of the results:
From the image of “Wine”
Wine
Wine stains
Wine stains on my favorite grey velvet vest
don’t let anyone tell you that white wine doesn’t stain your clothes
Someone had poured white wine into a Dixie cup and handed it to me at the beginning of the party
We were twenty-something and the future seemed limitless
until I had to explain to my father why I didn’t get home until two in the morning
I don’t remember what excuse I used,
or how the wine was spilled on my vest
By Judith Allen
The wine we drank at Christmas
The blackberry wine we drank at Christmas that loosened our tongues so we could laugh again
The blackberry wine we drank at Christmas that loosened our tongues so we could laugh again after months of silence.
By Betsy Cornelius
The dirt in my mother’s garden
The dirt in my mother’s garden where we planted, weeded and harvested and I grew dizzy in the heat
The dirt in my mother’s garden where we planted and weeded and harvested and I grew dizzy in the heat but relished in the first bit of a warm, red tomato.
By Betsy Cornelius
The blood matted in Corky’s fur
The blood matted in Corky’s fur from the gunshot wound inflicted by my father
The blood matted in Corky’s fur from the gunshot wound inflicted by my father, as tears ran down his face, after a car ran over our family dog of fifteen years.
By Betsy Cornelius
The mountain looked within my reach.
The mountain looked within my reach. The top of the saddle, fifty feet away at most, seemed attainable even though it was getting late and we needed four hours to hike home.
The mountain looked within my reach. The boulders thrown across the face of the saddle looked manageable from below but as we climbed closer, Jacob said, “Mom, I don’t think we can do this.” We were so close to the top that I hated to turn back and goaded him on: “Come on. You can do it. Don’t give up now.” But Jacob sat down. “Ok,” I said. “I’ll go on without you just to see if it’s possible.”
The mountain looked within my reach. Jacob sat, explaining that the altitude was getting to him, and I pressed upwards. But this time he was right. I, the adult, understood that my son was now an adult, too. And he knew if we tried to climb over those boulders that at least one of us would die.
By Nancy Moore
Mountain
The mountain I saw
The mountain that reminds me of home
The mountain that looks like a giant ice cream cone
I love ice cream
Ice cream is my favorite desert
Ice cream comforts me
By Destry Ramey
Sofa
I’ve had my sofa for 35 years
My sofa held my son when he was small
My son loved my sofa
We would cuddle up on my sofa to talk, read or watch TV
As an adult my son loves to sleep on my sofa
My son will choose my sofa over the bed when he visits
By Destry Ramey
Cat Fantasy
The whine.
The whine that my cat sighed out.
The whine that my cat sighed out when I walked by her.
The whine that my cat sighed out when I walked by her and looked at
the softness of her fur and wanted my fingers buried in it,
wanted her warm vibrating body pressed to mine.
The whine that my cat sighed out when I walked by her and looked it
the softness of her fun and wanted my fingers buried in it,
wanted her warm vibrating body pressed to mine,
and did she whine with desire because she loves me, too,
or because she’s thinking, not again; don’t touch me.
By Susan Tuttle
The River
The river.
The river that ran dry.
The river that ran dry in the summer.
The river that ran dry in the summer after a spring when the rain failed.
The river that ran dry in the summer after a spring when the rain failed,
and he went down on one knee in the dry river bed.
The river that ran dry in the summer after a spring when the rain failed,
and he went down on one knee in the dry river bed
lined with cracked rocks and dead moss and fish bones
and asked me to reach for life. With him.
By Susan Tuttle
Blood
The blood.
The blood I didn’t see.
The blood I didn’t see shone in the darkness.
The blood I didn’t see shone in the darkness on the night we sat in the brilliance
of the waiting room.
The blood I didn’t see shone in the darkness on the night we sat in the brilliance
of the waiting room and the doctor came in, scrubs still pristine blue,
and told us he was dead, and my heart bled.
By Susan Tuttle
There were some “indent” problems with Susan Tuttle’s poems; I hope to fix the problems in the future.
I didn’t include mine, because I turned it into three stanzas and I’m going to submit it to the SLO NightWriters’ contest.
Contributed by: 
