Poetry from Daily Life: Sometimes, the words come uninvited, David Harrison says

This week's column is written by David L. Harrison, the host of Poetry from Daily Life. David, who lives in Springfield, made up his first poem more than eighty years ago and is currently Poet Laureate for Missouri and Drury University. Two upcoming trade books are "Wild Brunch, Poems About How Animals Eat" and "A Tree is a Community."

When a poem just happens

So far during the course of Poetry from Daily Life we’ve heard about a number of ways in which poets find inspiration for their poems. Taking a walk. Observing. Starting with a single word. Choosing a subject that has meaning to the poet. Establishing a theme. Ted Kooser says that ideas for poems don't work for him. The idea is too much in charge, and takes over. He likes to let the poems appear while he’s writing just this or that.

There is of course no “only way” to kick-start a poem. Those who have been at it very long have probably used numerous prompts — planned or not. In a previous column, I included “The Price of Eggs,” a poem that came from a highway billboard. Who knows what I was thinking that day when Madge forced herself into my thoughts by bragging in letters 10 inches high about her great breakfasts.

Sometimes a poem forms because of something you’re doing. Late in her life as my mother’s strength waned, I found myself performing small tasks for her that I had never dreamed of being called upon to do. One such duty was pulling on her compression hose. Kneeling at her feet while she sweetly endured another of the indignities rested on the enfeebled, I tugged and pulled the hose over her toes, up her feet, and onto her ankles. The moment became a poem, uninvited but determined to take form.

These feet,

once so quick

in a game of tag,

so graceful

sporting high heels

at the dance,

∘

Weary now,

ungainly appendages,

painful reminders

that time matters.

∘

I kneel in silence,

tug as gently as I can

tight hose over

calloused toes

that once pirouetted

or playfully pinched,

∘

“Turnabout is fair play,”

I tell her.

“Turn about,” she whispers,

smiling, no doubt,

at some distant memory.

More: Poetry from Daily Life: Ted Kooser digs into that feeling of a 'First Snow'

Sometime after Sandy’s parents died, we tackled the melancholy task of going through their clothes and personal belongings. This poem grew from the act.

The Gift

I fold his clothes,

recognizing some,

like old acquaintances

not met for a while

that recall stories of the man.

∘

Checking jacket pockets,

my hand pulls out a program:

Westminster Presbyterian, 1996.

They spent most Sundays cooking,

bringing food to share,

left little time to collect

church programs.

∘

This pocket yields a wrapper,

the candy sucked, I’m guessing,

as he crossed a parking lot

keys in hand.

The toothpick’s in here too.

∘

This paperclip? Easy.

Bet he went to the bank that day,

took a deposit, kept the clip.

Waste not want not he’d say.

∘

Black comb, hip pocket.

He had such beautiful hair:

thick, wavy, bright white.

She liked to comb it.

He liked that too.

∘

A man of routine, keeper of receipts,

planner of pool shots,

pitcher of pennies;

ate out on Tuesday,

bowled on Friday,

attended high school reunions.

Organized his clothes front to back,

newest by the door transitioning

by age in a slow march toward the rear.

∘

These pants at the back say garden.

I can see him there,

behind the garage,

tilling his beloved soil,

scooping out rows

like doodlebug holes,

dripping in seeds,

soaking with that old green hose,

intent on the joys

of working alone in the sun.

∘

I fold his clothes,

fill boxes, make lists.

They’re just clothes, really,

without the man.

Whoever gets them

won’t get the stories.

∘

I kept nothing when he died

but now I know

I’ll keep these stories

like books from a library

checked out to cherish again.

∘

Life records it memories.

I fold his clothes

and give thanks.

Nearly anything we experience can blossom into a poem. It needs only to be pollinated by a poet’s imagination. I will always value the times I knelt at my mother’s feet, the day I found memories in my father-in-law’s jacket pockets. Those poems are good examples of why I write poetry.

For more information about David, visit his website at http://davidlharrison.com and daily blog at http://davidlharrison.wordpress.com .

This article originally appeared on Springfield News-Leader: Poetry from Daily Life: Sometimes, the words come uninvited, David Harrison says