Turn to the outdoors for poetic inspiration. Sit and observe nature for a few minutes. Notice what you hear, smell and feel. Take your impressions, focus on specific descriptions, and compose a short poem.
- Read other poems to get an idea for the styles you like.
- Use comparisons (simile and metaphor).
- Read it out loud to yourself so you can hear how it sounds.
- Listen to tips from Kwame Alexander, NPR’s poet-in-residence
Submit your entry by Wednesday, September 30, 2020 to email@example.com. Include your name, age, poem (20 lines or less) and the location that inspired it – attach a photo if you want! ORK will award a t-shirt to the top three poets.
By: Mel Sparrow
Do you hear the grass?
It makes me laugh
As it blows in the wind
And reminds me of an old friend
The wasps hum
While dragonflies vibrate like a drum
The Kingfisher sings
While the fish scream
Listen to the sounds
As the blackwater’s heart pounds, how it pounds.
By: Robert Frost
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798 (excerpt)
By: William Wordsworth
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
‘Mid groves and copses.