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Michael Simms: Writing Prompt #1 | The Quotidian Poem
Ed. Note: This post marks the beginning of a new irregular feature in Vox Populi. Every now and then, a new writing prompt will appear. I hope readers of Vox Populi, many of whom are writers, will find the prompt helpful in stimulating their creativity. You are welcome to post poems or flash fiction in the comment section below.
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Many poets have made use of a rhetorical strategy I call “The Quotidian Poem” which consists of a series of mundane chores or errands in a normal day, and then WHAM! Something happens that shocks or enlightens the poet. Frank O’Hara uses the strategy a number of times, most famously in his poem The Day Lady Died about the death of Billie Holiday. The strategy is also employed by Marie Howe in What the Living Do, an elegy for her brother.
Here’s my own attempt:
Driving Home I’ve had a bad cough so I went To the East End Co-op and talked With Jackson who helped me find White mulberry bark dong qui root Skullcap and stinging nettle And stopped by the produce aisle To pick up broccoli sprouts And Midnight Express and Carried my environmentally Correct burlap bag with vegan Hippie stuff to the checkout Where I praised Jackson To Melissa his boss and went Outside got in my hybrid And drove down Penn Avenue To Dallas Avenue and cut past The universities and across The Liberty Bridge and up the Long hill glancing at the river And the blue city turned Right then left pulled Into the driveway and looked up At the window where Eva is Writing this morning after a long Talk over coffee about whether She is good enough to write her Book about poverty and trauma And violence and gave a small prayer Of thanks and wow and sorry To be so lucky so full of joy In these last days before The whole thing collapses.
Prompt: Write a quotidian poem of your own, keeping in mind these guidelines:
- Your tone in the poem should be breezy as if you are talking to a friend who’s asked what you’ve been up to today.
- The individual chores or errands should be typical of your life, but each one should have something unusual or eccentric about it. In this way, the reader will develop a sense of who you are and the kind of life you live.
- Include the names of streets, stores, people and neighborhoods, as well as natural features, such as trees and streams, dogs and birds. You want the reader to feel as if he or she is actually right beside you moving through a day in your life.
- You might want to have the whole poem one sentence so there is a quality of continuity to the journey, but don’t force the syntax. Let the language flow conversationally.
- The surprise at the end of the poem can be an individual tragedy, such as the death of a loved one, or it can be a public event affecting millions.
- To get you started, you might think about what you were doing when 9/11 happened, or who you were with when you realized that Trump had been elected president, or when you found out a loved one had died or… any event that looms large in your life.
Have fun!
Copyright 2020 Michael Simms
Vox Populi 
I just so happen to have had a “quotidian poem” published yesterday. (Alas, it’s prosy and long.) It’s about the competition between housework and writing:
https://multiplicitymagazine.com/all-purpose-poem-with-stain-remover/
Thanks, Michael, for getting us thinking and writing and reading about well, the ordinary stuff of life.
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Thanks for the prompt; my muse been hiding. I would like to add my attempt. Leo
Walking Fuzz
October’s chilly wind and warming sun
long held hostage way into November
finally made release, escaped detention.
Fuzz yanks and drags me up Chevelle
for our daily inspection of Redneckville
joyful in his visions during scent pursuit,
seeing things I can’t even imagine, while
I chase just an untainted moment of bliss
passed Grand Prix Blvd onto Bonneville
and a beer-bellied neighbor pretends not
to see us. “Great day!” I holler, loudly,
eliciting a Sam Elliot-like wave as he
poses before a flittering Trumpbo banner.
Suns’ warmth pulls us further up the hill
through ditch’s trash and desiccate weeds
expanding our collection of beggar’s lice
and across from Really-loud-Mustang guys
a cast off bag of Cuties, over-ripe delights,
and I stand and peel and devour, for show.
Fuzz in ecstasy jerks my leash to go and
I clutching my rescued Cuties relent and
grudgingly we retrace our happy steps the
breeze hard against our backs, bittersweet,
pushing me to end my brief get away and
I pray, well, just hope, I don’t really pray,
she did not forget and get up and fall. Yea!
She’s fine reclining in her chair, buzzer
cord attached-the Bee Gees Jive Talkin’
on YouTube for the umpteenth time and
“Hun, the nursing home called three times;
I forgot how to answer it. You better call.”
I always take the phone. Why not today?
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Thanks, Leo!
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Funny you should ask for this. Here’s something that I think is sort of close to what you have in mind. I’ve been working on this bit for a few days –
today you cracked a glass in your hand
and as you wiped a drop of your blood
you considered the business of hands and scars
you considered how your hands age and the times
you’ve taken Communion in those hands and you ask
just what is the difference between the religious
and the creatures subject to nettles and vines
once you warned the birds at your feeder
that by night something deliberate stalks
something gray and almost unborn
something that will drag a small body home
today you cracked a glass and as you bled
you stared out the kitchen window and considered
the fences between you and the crosswalk
an autumn that can’t decide on a color
the long scar on the tree in your yard
a long scar from what once was lightening
jst
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Superb!
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Great imagery, John. Thanks for posting this poem.
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A Short Block
Ralph Levine had
the Laundromat
adjoining my
dad’s drugstore
at 138 North Avenue,
Mike Pisani had
the barbershop
adjoining Ralph.
I don’t recall
what intervened
before you reached
Danny’s luncheonette,
where I saw our
southpaw welter,
Ronnie Cohen,
hunched over
a cup of coffee
at the counter
one afternoon,
dark glasses on
even in that
dim interior
to hide his most
recent bruises.
Nearly sixty-five
years later
I’m still there,
at that moment,
in the respectful hush
barely broken by
the coffee maker’s
soft bubbling,
otherwise no
noises.
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I love this, Michael! Thank you for posting the poem.
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In awe of the response to this prompt. It takes me 2 weeks to finish one poor poem and I SO envy writers who can just write a poem so quickly!
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I love that prompt dear Michael — thanks. And thanks for your poem. I have a quick question: when I comment on Vox Populi (not on FB) my comments don’t appear anymore. Is that because you want to filter the comments before you post them? (I don’t check again a few hours later…). I commented this morning on the old movie post and on your writing prompt and….it just doesn’t immediately appear as it did before….
Be well, friend, Laure-Anne
Laure-Anne Bosselaar Poet Laureate of Santa Barbara https://poets.org/poet/laure-anne-bosselaar https://fourwaybooks.com/site/laure-anne-bosselaar/
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I would guess a good percentage of my poems fit this description. Thanks for this fun idea.
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Thank you for this poem, Michael! I love looking through the window at the end and feeling the speaker’s gratitude. I will try it in my classes!
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Thanks, Sally! If you’d like to post the best of the student poems in this comment section, please do!
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That was fun Michael. Thanks for the prompt.
Everything Seems an Effort
I drove into the post office lot down Freeport Road, pulled into the last space, worried there‘d be a long line, too many people. I donned my Secret Swear mask that Amy from McWalker in Millvale had sewed. Stay the F back, Six Feet MFer, Stay the F back, no one knows what’s inside.
I stood on the designated floor spot, six feet apart, waited my turn and dragged my reusable shopping bag with packages, looked around. Can’t hold my breath. It’s the reusable bag you can’t use anymore at the check out now, they’re back to plastic. I carry my own roll of packing tape, just in case, my own pen. I’ve got to enter my pin on the pad, pull out the card with the chip. Put back in my wallet. There’s hand sanitizer in the car.
It costs more to mail a small padded envelope to Arizona, Miss Marple Scarf inside, hand knit for my best friend’s birthday, knit in Fourteen by Juniper Moon, strange name for such a squishy luxurious yarn and than there’s the huge box i lift to the counter, the box I stuffed with Maura’s birthday quilt secure in a laundry bag, inside that big box, headed to Ohio for just two dollars less. Yes, thank you, I’ll take a sheet of the Purple Heart stamps please. It’s the fourth of seven grandchildren quilts, Pandemic project, sewing and knitting my way through, i hope there’s another side. This one has fabric squares of synchronized swimmers, Airedales and slime. There’s chocolate covered strawberries, notes on a staff, lacrosse and volleyball, blueberry pancakes, too. Like an art project. The 108 inch wide quilt backing called Unstoppable says You Are Loved and Pursuit of Happiness words, goals, printed on 100% cotton was on backorder from Keepsake Quilting in North Carolina but came last week. Mail order or local curbside pickup at Firecracker Fabrics in Morningside. Quilt’s final stitch on the bias bound edge at two AM. I’m binging BBC’s New Tricks. I got it mailed just in time, slight pressure and a deadline help prod one out of listlessness to arrive on Monday, he said. Phew! Tuesday she’s twelve.
And the RBG socks are on their way to my daughter Laura. The white colorwork dissent collar rounds each ankle, stands out on black, so hard to see stitches in the night, I included a Lego catalog for Charlie to check what he’d like for Christmas. I’ve got tracking numbers, a lengthy receipt reminiscent of the tp that was scarce.
A tin of olive oil from Labriola’s, crusty bread and tray of mushroom ravioli, olives and Parmesan would be good to pick up but I drove by, passed it, as I saw another seriously crowded parking lot Friday morning.
Relieved to get home to my gravel driveway covered in leaves, leaves that need to be raked not blown like my neighbor, I park in my 100 year old garage notice my ex-husbands childhood sled still hangs for twenty nine years. Metal runners with rust, there’s no one here to use it, rub a candle along the edge.
It’s good to be home, get in my house, turn the lock, inch towards recluse. I wash my hands,breathe and push the button down on the electric kettle for tea. Tea in a thin lipped cup or thick lipped mug?
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Wow, Ruth! What a fine excess of detail. Thank you!
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I’m sure some sharp editing would strengthen it and reduce the excess.😀
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NIGHT OUT
When your life is entwined,
braided, twisted into the life
of an agoraphobic alcoholic,
you stay home a lot.
Which is why I jumped at
the chance to go to a big,
important party, a party where
my friend would be feted,
welcomed into the world of
famous poets and novelists,
where we drank champagne
and left you at home.
When I picked up the phone
after the party, when another
friend told me how your heart
had faltered, then stopped,
I heard the scream, long as
a giant flute stem, brittle
and sharp as a good knife,
but had no clue it was mine.
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What a beautiful poem, Louise. Thank you for posting it.
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Considering its source, I will savor that compliment, a delicious, melty lozenge 😊.
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I think our readers should be aware of your stellar reputation as an author, Louise: http://www.louisehawes.com/books/index.html
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Thanks for the signal boost 😜
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This post should get the words flowing.
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Every morning, pandemic or not
I take out the dog, we both hate mornings
We like to sleep till late
Dog and her master lazy as hell
We drag our feet on the asphalt, she does her things, I try to stay awake
The grass looks so appealing
The pandemic turns everything sterile
Easy breakable, like the ties between cells were smashed by a hammer
The thin air is no more thin
It becomes a matter of some kind
Breathable only through a cloth
The streets are barren, the trees too
Hell is spreading in everyone’s cells
My neighbour from the second floor
An old man always dressed in a three layers costume, constantly wearing a surprised expression on his face
My neighbor from the third floor, an early bird
Woke up that morning
His sight dimmer and dimmer
It took forever to get ready
He got nervous, anxious
He stopped behind his door to breath out his anger
Then he called the elevator, pressed for the 9th floor
Stepped into the balcony and ended there on the spot
A short flight
A possible solution
By the time we’ve returned from our walk
The world acted like our building never had a 9th floor
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Thank you, iulia! Great contrast between beauty and horror, the mundane and the unusual.
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Thank you so much! Much appreciated!
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