ARS POETICA: The Art of Poetry
On this Lion’s Gate, we Scribes present 18 poems about poetry, celebrating the art, craft, impact, and importance of writing. From healing to self-discovery, from holding grief to offering love – creativity gives us the chance to make meaningful connections within ourselves as well as with those around us.
Poets have a special knack for turning loneliness into community and desperation into satisfaction. The true ‘Art of Poetry’ is alchemy. A rejection becomes an invitation; pain becomes pride; darkness becomes light. Where there once was nothing, a poem fills the void with something beautiful and purposeful. A few thoughtfully-written words can reach out and transform someone’s world, reminding us of all that we share and all that we are.
Featuring the following poets:
Amy Austin, @amy_r_austin
Summer Awad, @summerawadwrites
Cari Lynne King, @inkstainedmemoirs
Stella Van Buskirk, @poet_svb
Amber Sparks, @asparkspoetry
Frances Denise, @francesdenisepoetry
Cheyanne Leonardo, @dithyrambler
R. Clift, @r.cliftpoetry
Trent Sizemore
Laura A. Clift, @l.a.clift
Olivia Gilreath
After reading, if you find yourself feeling inspired to write a poem of your own, we have included a few poetry prompts at the end of this article. We also invite you to send us your creations over on our submissions page for a chance to be a featured poet on our site! We welcome writers of all experience levels and wish to cultivate a community of open minds & hearts, where we all have a place for our authentic selves to feel seen and heard.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
ARS POETICA
ARS POETICA
Writing lines is an exercise
in learning to waltz with grief
I mean that:
(1)
ink spills onto the page
(2)
and the blots form lines
(3)
and the lines form words
(The words complete thoughts
that I hadn’t dared to speak)
I mean that:
(1)
the page itself takes the grief
(2)
and gives it a name
(3)
and turns it into healing
(There is ebb and flow
there are highs and lows)
I mean that:
writing lines is an exercise
in beautiful release
–Amy Austin
⚘
ON IMPENETRABLE POETRY
When I read a poem that's
knowingly impenetrable,
that begs me to take out my dictionary,
that teeters on the tight rope saying,
“look what I can do,"
I wonder what the writer is hiding
behind all those big words.
I wonder what it might look like
to remove the mask from the face
of what approaches honesty,
the courage to speak but the arrogance
to believe that a reader will climb
the barbed wire of your language
to surmount the fence of your
muddled truths.
I wonder how many thesauruses
you've paged through,
counting the syllables,
mining for the million-dollar word,
the one that obscures enough of your intention,
absolving you of the responsibility
to say anything at all.
When I read a poem like this,
I sigh and turn the page,
mourning the loss
of precious moments spent
interpreting, excavating.
Because what I always liked
about poetry
is not just that it was bold enough
to let itself be understood,
but that it understood me.
I never fought the current
to get to it; it threw a life preserver
to where I was,
and it reeled me back in
every
time.
–Summer Awad
⚘
LEAVE MY BODY TO SCIENCE,
LEAVE MY LEGACY TO THE POETS
May the doctors
and the scientists
and the students alike
Find their fame and
Fortune
as they study my brain
to the most microscopic molecule
A speck of dopamine
Or a drop of serotonin
could perhaps hold the key
to someone else’s cure
Just as they held the key
to my prison cell
May all the misworkings
tangled up within my body
Serve as a cure
for those still trapped
in theirs
Mark my love with a poem
sweet and simple
but with ferocity
found only in the wild
Through the tragedies
that have befallen my journey
Please
find art in the way
my smile still danced
across a darkened room
and illuminated the shadows
Let not my suffering
be in vain
–Cari Lynne King
⚘
DEAD POETS SOCIETY
what about the lilies in the kitchen, smelling like
the boat that sunk the poet but not the poetry?
are the undead lovers worth as much as the ones
burned alive for their love?
death got your tongue,
but we have your voice.
tell me where the cave is, the one that
sucks all the marrow out of life.
poets aren’t tragedies.
poets aren’t tragedies.
hearts are too important to burn.
always, always the category:
poets celebrated posthumously.
we’ll congregate where we have to
but never in death.
find us in spring’s tree, the backyard.
our heart of hearts.
the moment, gorgeous, before the boat topples.
that’s where we are.
somewhere between
the poem
and the edge of life,
alive.
–Stella Van Buskirk
⚘
How many nights
have you spent
putting pen to paper
instead of razor to wrist?
How much blood
have you spilled
on those pages
begging yourself
to still exist?
How many scars
have you called
decorations in this
haunted home?
How many nights
have you leased
out the rooms
to not feel so alone?
–Amber Sparks
⚘
IN GRATITUDE TO THOSE WHO WRITE
May I thank you
For capturing how I feel
Putting it down on paper
For stepping a bit further
Deeper
Than what my eyes can see today
A gift that tells me you remember me
I recall too –
That you share my questions, my plight
I get
Your humor, your delight
How you romanticize things in a way that feels like dance
I’ll do that for you too someday
When you need it
In validation
Affirmation
A nod and a wink
I understand you
We are never alone
Even in our loneliness
Never underestimate how much your words
Hold out their hands to another
We live and die in love
Together
In all of these ways
You are flowers
–Frances Denise
⚘
PHOSPHORESCENCE
after Emily Dickinson
when i think back to all the times
i searched with broken heart
for words that rang familiar, loud
and honest in the art
of matching up experience
with that which makes it more
meaningful than nothing – this
congruent metaphor
may be the judging owl
or player at the keys
or barn left barren in the wake
of mystifying breeze
or some brief drama in the flesh
where finding fairer house
confronts the cleaving in my mind –
the solemnest of vows
between myself and something death
endeavors to obscure
and yet this homestead thread persists
in poems that endure –
beyond the tests of ticking clocks –
in spellbound realm of stars –
to offer phosphorescence
and light a world so far
away and far removed and far
off – lost – in time:
once she’s touched a naked soul
life unfolds in rhyme –
aglow like glinting diamond,
ruby, fluorite, tourmaline –
to reach this side of heaven
her knowing must have seen
a small-town girl, her little life
her dandelion hills
her memory in winter
of eager daffodils –
and so i hope somehow my voice
will reach the yellow home
where her poetic presence
foreshadowed one – my own.
–Cheyanne Leonardo
⚘
Be careful
getting close
to me,
I’ll replace
your bones
with poetry,
so the weight
that’s crushing
you to carry
will be
supported
doubly.
Infinitely.
–Amber Sparks
⚘
I will paint your scars into masterpieces
and chip away at your broken marble heart
until the angel within is freed
I will whisper poetry in your ears
and sketch charcoal mountains
gently across your skin
I will pluck at your heartstrings
like a harp singing
and teach you how to dance
while holding me close
I will look at you as if you belong
in a world-renowned museum
and I will see every imperfection
as priceless
I will love you
in the only way an artist can–
with everything I am.
–R. Clift
⚘
MAYBE I SAY “I LOVE YOU” TOO MUCH
Call me when you get home. (I’ve buried enough people and can’t bear to lose you.)
Have you eaten? (Please fuel your body so you can be your best self.)
Can I get you anything? (Your wants and needs are at the top of my list, even above my own.)
Just wanted to check in. (You are always on my mind and thought you should know.)
Here’s my latest poem. (My art is my soul and I want to share that with you.)
Take your meds. (It’s ok to need them.)
I love you. (I mean it.)
–Cari Lynne King
⚘
I miss
the calm in chaos
the peace in war
the sanity in insanity
the understanding
the omnipotency
the wanderlust
the safety
the danger
the raw emotions
I only feel
(& can’t write
unless the words are for)
you
–Amber Sparks
⚘
And so it is,
I write letters and postcards
that never reach the post office,
poems for you, about you, to you–
I print books woven with my heartstrings
and send them all over the world,
I speak words into microphones,
I hide poetry in libraries and bookstores,
I give words to strangers on the street
hoping they will carry each syllable
in their pockets until one of them finally
makes it back to you. Always hoping
they will one day make it back to you.
But how could I ever expect you
to recognize my words when you have
long since forgotten the sound of my voice?
–R. Clift
⚘
PUBLISHING COMPANY
You’ll use me from currency, that will never sit right with me,
It’s something you couldn’t possibly deserve,
Another sequel, a trilogy,
You saw my abilities,
Before I ever once saw your concern,
I’m just a hard-working slave,
For the art form that I love,
And if I let that surface,
Could you loosen these cuffs,
And let me feel the freedom of burning the schedule,
To set aside time for something more casual,
A stanza, a comma, a collection of words,
To you my poetic skill is all that I’m worth.
–Trent Sizemore
⚘
“I think art, mostly, is meant to be consumed,”
she said.
Her friend was baffled. “What, like food?”
“Well, doesn’t a good concert leave you
energized? A painting turns your mood, a poem
soothes your heart. It’s not needed for survival,
sure– but it’s necessary for life.
Art is nourishment.”
–Laura A. Clift
⚘
When morning breaks
and all has passed away
the poets live on
with words eternal
–Cari Lynne King
⚘
CURIOSITY
a strange and eager little beast
performs her wish to know
the contents of each arcane box
and mary and godot –
who might perhaps be long lost friends
or parents of a part
of the creature’s secret dreams
and open, hopeful heart.
what more could three old wise men bring
to the little barn
where, upside-down in origin
love cried in mother’s arms?
what says patient reluctance
to greet the desert sun?
another revolution brings
a bloom – but still undone
is waiting on the infinite
for a definite reply
when the answer is the simple fact
you thought to ask the why –
why is winter warming up?
why is summer sad?
why is autumn beautiful?
why are springtime’s hands
so small and so commanding,
unseen and yet so strong?
such poetic curiosity!
the ghost is never gone –
a daisy rests upon her breast
atop her gown of white.
unsuspecting, as foretold
i followed – in her light –
–Cheyanne Leonardo
⚘
WHISPERS OF THE POET’S HEART
In realms where words and dreams entwine,
A canvas vast, a world divine.
Where whispers turn to verses bright,
And shadows dance in the morning light.
Each stanza sings a tale untold,
Of hearts that yearn, of souls that fold.
In every line, a secret is shared,
A poet's heart laid open, bared.
Through poetry, we find our voice,
In rhythm's pulse, we make our choice.
To weave with words, to craft, to see,
The endless beauty poetry can be.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
HOW TO BE A POET
Being a poet
is being vulnerable.
Being a poet is carrying a pen with you
everywhere you go.
Being a poet is getting called
an enchantress and pathetic in the same day.
Being a poet is staring your own demons in the face
and writing down their names in permanent ink
for everyone to see.
Being a poet is writing what you feel,
what you must–
no matter what they say.
Being a poet is a state of mind, a way of life,
a beating heart that is ever so afraid
to show itself, but does so
anyway.
Being a poet is recognizing poetry in other people’s
everyday words more than actually writing it
yourself.
Being a poet is taking in broken hearts and
teaching them to feel again so they can leave
and go love somebody else.
Being a poet requires a promise to be authentic,
a promise to be true, a promise to be messy
and raw and imperfect and real.
Being a poet isn’t for everyone,
but it is all I ever want to be.
–R. Clift
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Writing Prompts
In “Ars Poetica” by Amy Austin, the poet says, The words complete thoughts / that I hadn’t dared to speak. What are some thoughts you have been holding in lately? Even if it’s messy, see if you can find a way to get those thoughts written out on a page, in pursuit of that beautiful release. After all, the raw emotions, as Amber Sparks says, are central to the writing process.
In “On Impenetrable Poetry” by Summer Awad, the poet refers to poetry as a life preserver, a thought later echoed by Laura A. Clift when she writes that poetry is necessary for life. What are your personal life preservers? Can you identify those things which you find necessary for life? Write a poem about what saves you, about all that keeps you going.
Let not my suffering / be in vain commands Cari Lynne King at the end of her poem, “Leave My Body to Science, Leave My Legacy to the Poets.” For our experiences to carry meaningful weight, we must preserve them in memory. Or, as Stella Van Buskirk says in “Dead Poets Society,” we must find the moment, gorgeous, before the boat topples. Whether painful or joyful, mournful or celebratory, write a poem in which you explore your own legacy. What memories & moments do you hope to leave behind for others to find? How can you capture those now, while they are still close to life? What can others learn from your experiences? What wisdom do you wish to impart?
“In Gratitude to Those Who Write” by Frances Denise reminds us that our words offer the power of companionship when they reach others. A nod and a wink confirms that we are seen, and we are held in that understanding and moment of connection with another human being. To illustrate this point, “Phosphorescence” and “Curiosity” by Cheyanne Leonardo are both inspired by the poetic legacy of Emily Dickinson, who has provided countless contemporary poets with that sense of companionship and a guiding light. Who are your favorite poets? Which writers do you feel grateful for? Whose words have made you feel seen and understood? Who before you has paved the way for your own self-expression? Write a poem in which you pay homage to those voices that have uplifted & inspired you.
In “Publishing Company” by Trent Sizemore, the poet laments the fact that the art and craft of poetry is actually de-valued by tying it to currency. He asks that the industry loosen these cuffs and make room for something more casual and free. And, as Olivia Gilreath says in “Whispers of the Poet’s Heart,” poetry is a realm in which words and dreams entwine, a place where one can see a poet’s heart laid open, bared. Allow yourself a moment to open your heart and free yourself from the need to assign value to your poem. Give yourself permission to create and step into a world divine, replete with endless beauty. What comes to mind? Build that world with your own words.
“How to Be A Poet” by R. Clift expertly captures what matters in assuming the role of Poet. In this poet’s experience, vulnerability, bravery, and authenticity are among the necessary qualities. On the other hand, strict schedules, academic achievement, and conventional success are nowhere to be found in this poem. Write a poem of your own in which you explore what it means to be a poet. Think of this as a moment to free yourself from anything holding you back from truly embodying the poet that you are. With your one-of-a-kind beating heart that feels, what can your poetry offer the world?
With endless love & gratitude,
