Another long one that threw me off. I’m actually not negotiating for anything in particular right now, so I started thinking about St. Peter and the Pearly Gates and how I could negotiate my way into heaven when that time comes. As I am very much a human with the usual foibles, I can see how it might be a difficult sell, but maybe this fortune is telling me it’ll come out okay.
Photo and poem copyright 2024 Michelle Garren-Flye
Negotiations move along smoothly. The outcome is favorable!
A Conversation with St. Peter By Michelle Garren-Flye
Yes, I killed spiders and the occasional mouse. I couldn’t help it…they were in my house! But think of the turtles I stopped to save on the side of the road…the time I gave!
I guess you could say I drank too much wine in my vain attempt to make myself feel fine. The Sabbath was just a day to sleep late; I didn’t really think I was making God wait.
I did give to charity—when I was asked. Sometimes I volunteered without being tasked. I’m not craven or evil or bad or corrupt, so think about that as you measure me up.
Self Portrait in 30 Years
By Michelle Garren-Flye
She sits on her porch as people go past,
taking notice of what they bring into her past.
Little bits of their lives that pepper the now…
a tired mother…a crying child…now it’s all past.
Her son mows the lawn now every two weeks.
She likes it best when one week has passed,
when the grasses breathe rustles and chirps
echoing in her heart like songs from the past.
Those days when everything hurt so much—
if only she’d grasped that one day they’d be past.
Her daughter brings groceries, unpacks them inside:
“mom, come in, the summer’s heat is long past.
You’ll catch cold out there in the autumn breeze.
What keeps you outside when supper time is past?”
She smiles and takes her daughter’s dear hand,
hopes she’ll never know this longing for what’s past.
She could have dreamed up a magic spell back then
and stopped precious time before it had passed:
when she was a happy, tired mother of three…
now a lonely woman thinking only of the past.
She searches the stars for Orion’s sword belt,
Longs to fly to their light, leave this ache in the past.
Congratulations, it’s a ghazal (pronounced “guzzle” not “gu-ZAHL”, much to my disappointment).
Ghazals are hard to write due to their rhyme scheme, which involves repeating the same rhyme over and over. It can sound monotonous or forced. I’m just getting started playing with ghazals, so if it sounds monotonous or forced, I apologize.
The inspiration for this poem actually comes from a house. I used to walk by this house and see a little, old lady sitting on the front porch. I often wondered what her story was. I waved at her a few times, but before I got the nerve to stop and speak to her, I saw an ambulance there in the middle of the night. And then the little, old lady was gone.
I have no idea what happened to her, but her house is going through a major renovation. The porch is still there, though. I like to think she was lucky enough to spend her last days sitting on her front porch, maybe thinking of her loving children and eventually slipping away into her memories of past glories and loves.
Maybe that will be me someday. Because even if it’s painful to remember past sweet memories, it’s definitely better than not having them.
I first found out about the power of retrograde Mercury in 2021. Last night to celebrate the ending of the most recent Mercury retrograde, I went to the beach. It was the new moon, so the stars were bright. I laid on my back in the sand and looked up at the sky and after about half an hour, just as I was preparing to leave, I realized I could see the Milky Way, that elusive cloud of hundreds of billions of stars that is so seldom visible in the sky that I’ve never actually seen/noticed it before.
Part of me wanted to stay all night looking at that misty cloud, but at least a portion of this poem is somewhat true. And so I left. I did manage to (surprisingly) capture some of what I saw in a few pictures, though. And today I wrote a poem to go with one of them to share here.
Retrograde Mercury
By Michelle Garren-Flye
My first time seeing the Milky Way, Mercury was in retrograde.
Everything went wrong, and I couldn’t linger long—
the cat was sick, the car failed to start, the restaurant I picked
had a two-hour wait, so I gave up, surrendering to my fate.
As the sunset faded, the stars above me played,
and I only spared them a glance, in no mood for a dalliance.
Yet later when my belly was filled,
I thought about the way they spilled
through the sky…
down into the sea…
and wished
(oh wished)
that sight had held me
in place for a bit…
In the face of their beauty…
why couldn’t I just sit?
Milky Way during Mercury Retrograde by Michelle Garren-Flye
I’m sick today, so I’m late and the poem isn’t great. But it does rhyme.
See you tomorrow, hopefully with something better!
The Lovers
By Michelle Garren-Flye
Maybe I’m finally growing up,
looking at love the way I do.
Knowing it’s weakness to seek
such a thing (I always knew).
Love can be brittle and hard
or it can overflow your cup
with a sweetness that’s sure
and true in the build up.
Is it possible, you’ll plead,
though your heart is scarred,
Can I have it again, this love?
Is it really in my cards?
But love is risk I’d rather not take
it’s not really something I need
and I can easily avoid its reach.
Keep it out of my life’s creed.
Love is a risk. Photo and poem copyright 2023 Michelle Garren-Flye
I just sent my latest poetry book, Learning Curve, to the printer. This is the third poetry book in my Poietry Diaries series, my sixth poetry book overall. I think. If I counted them right…
Anyway, it’s done. I started this one in July. Now in mid November, almost exactly four months later, it’s done. And I’m proud of it. The poems are well written, edited and illustrated. The format of the book makes sense. I’ll be proud to have it on the shelf at my store. It’s a good addition to my repertoire.
Here’s the blurb for it:
Learning Curve is a contemporary collection of poetry written in the style of villanelle, originally a rustic Italian song, later developed into a French form of short poetry and then into a format with a rigid and demanding rhyme scheme and format. Award-winning poet Michelle Garren-Flye takes on this form in the latest volume of her Poetry Diaries, taking the reader along on not only an emotional journey but also one that promises to introduce the reader to a beautiful form of song-like poetry that will delight and enchant any poetry lover.
Let the reader beware, however. As the poet acknowledges, poetry is the most true of any form of literature. If the truth is anywhere, it’s definitely in these pages.
And finally, it took me a while to decide on how to format this book. It’s a little different from my others. For one thing, I went with black and white again. I was going to go with all simple line drawings, which is more my forte anyway, but I wound up adding shades of grey (lol) to many of them. Here’s one I particularly like that I thought I’d share with you. If you like it, stay tuned. Release date will be announced soon!
Poem and illustration copyright 2022 Michelle Garren-Flye
Do you ever just wish you could stop following all the rules?
I know I do. I see other people doing it. In the carpool lane when it’s obvious there’s a faster way than the long line of cars leading to the proper exit. Just make a left instead of a right. You’ll get out a lot faster.
Forget the rules.
Who’s gonna care?
Ah, but I’m a rule follower. It’s about honesty in my opinion. There are no shortcuts. No legal ones, anyway. No honest ones.
It’s like that in my writing as well. If I’m writing a haiku, it’s going to have the proper number of syllables in each line. I know even haiku master Matsuo Basho said if it’s better with the wrong number of syllables, it’s better to write it that way, but I’d rather write and rewrite and rethink and restructure until I’m happy with it. Because I have to follow the rules.
I was considering entering a poetry contest with some of my villanelles. (I’m that pleased with how they’re coming out.) This contest had a section for traditional rhyming poetry, something few editors have an appreciation for. I was encouraged, so I looked up some of their past winners. One of them was a “villanelle”. I pulled it up and read it.
It broke all the rules.
There were no rhymes where there were supposed to be rhymes.
There were no repeated lines or even words.
It was written in paragraph form.
What’s the fun of that? It’s like writing a short story and calling it a haiku. There’s no challenge. I remember my father saying something that has stuck with me for most of my life, “You can call it whatever you want, it doesn’t make it that.”
Hey judges, it’s not a villanelle if it doesn’t follow the rules.
I’m going to keep plugging along writing my haiku and villanelles and following rules. I have no idea why. I could break the rules and write a paragraph and call it a villanelle. I could write a novel and call it a haiku. I might even win some contests that way. But I won’t.
It’s just that I’m a rule follower.
Villanelle #21
Just make a left instead of right!
It'll get you there much faster,
and your schedule's really tight.
Nobody's gonna care if you take flight
and look for a greener pasture.
Just make a left instead of a right.
I don't mean to make light;
I'm certainly not your master,
and your schedule's really tight
No one can really know your plight.
It can't possibly lead to disaster
if you make a left instead of a right
Rules are not always right.
They're not molded in plaster,
and your schedule's really tight.
Perhaps you'll never feel Karma's bite
graze rear skin of alabaster.
Just make a left instead of a right—
after all, your schedule's really tight.
—Michelle Garren-Flye
Fall is around the corner. Photo by Michelle Garren-Flye
I just finished judging a poetry contest. It was fun. Nerve-wracking because I’ve been on the other end of the judging too often. I know how it feels to have so much faith in your little work of art, to send it out to be judged…and then to find out it failed.
I will say this about this contest. I was blown away by the entries. Mine would have been left in the dust by these, and I say that knowing full well I would have entered if I hadn’t been judging.
With that said, I think this one is pretty good. If you think I’m talking to you, I’m probably not.
Villanelle #16
By Michelle Garren-Flye
Whisper it to me when we are alone,
this (truth) secret you can’t seem to hold.
After it’s out we can decide to atone.
I can tell it eats you down to the bone,
aging you long before you are old.
Whisper it to me when we are alone.
I can’t believe this thing can’t be known
or that others will judge you or scold.
After it’s out we can decide to atone.
Just words, set them free to be blown
away by the wind, let the Truth be told!
Whisper it to me when we are alone.
Better to choose than to chance moan
a sentence you can’t take back—too bold!
After it’s out we can decide to atone.
Come, then, escape the chaperone
who’s kept you in a stranglehold.
Whisper Truth to me when we are alone—
after it’s out we can decide to atone.
Fallen Orchid Blossom with Cat Hair. Photo by Michelle Garren-Flye
I’ve been a bit directionless recently. No idea what to do with my creative energy, so I’ve been shoving it down and watching Netflix instead (I’m rewatching Longmire, and it’s better than I remember from the first time around). (Side note: I need a Lou Diamond Phillips in my life.)
Back to learning something new. I decided I needed a direction, so I posted on social media and Twitter (Twitter is not social media, imo), asking for suggestions for my next poetry challenge. I didn’t promise to write, illustrate and publish another poetry book in less than a month, but I did indicate I might try.
Well, the challenge I got and accepted after some thought was a bit more complex than I’d anticipated. I don’t think I’ll manage another book in 30 days. It’s a whole new form to me and I’m loving it, hating it, cursing it—and learning it.
A villanelle is a sort of song poem with a rigid rhyme scheme that utilizes repeating lines, unlike most poetry. The best known one is Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night.” I have always loved that poem. I love the rhythm of it. I love the passion in it. I love the way you can almost unconsciously sing it without even meaning to.
The one thing I never loved because I never even noticed it was the rhyme.
How is that possible?? In multiple places “night” literally rhymes with “night”, “light” with “light”. How the heck did Thomas make his rhyme so invisible? It’s awesome that he did, because a poem with too heavy a rhyme will be singsongy and irritating. It may sound contrived. How did Thomas manage a poem with such a rigid rhyme scheme and make it sound natural?
The answer, of course, is that so much of the rest of the poem is more important than the rhyme. The passion, the theme, the message, the rhythm. All the things I’ve noticed that I love.
So that’s my new challenge. Write villanelles that don’t sound like they have a rhyme scheme. Or at least write villanelles where the rigid rhyme scheme doesn’t interfere with the message and passion of the poem.
Random picture of a perfect mushroom. Photo by Michelle Garren-Flye
Like many I fell for a Facebook trend recently which consisted of posting your senior photo in support of this year’s graduating class. I don’t actually have my senior photo anymore because it was a few years ago, but I do have my old yearbook, so I pulled it out and took a pic of my old photo. And posted it with some encouraging words for this year’s seniors who are basically missing out on a pretty fun part of their lives while we take our corona break.
But I started thinking. Was that post more about me than it was the seniors? Probably. I mean, I looked good at 18. We all looked better than we do now, let’s be honest. I got a lot of nice comments on the photo, too, and those are always good. But how in the hell was it supposed to make today’s seniors feel better?
So, as an act of contrition, I wrote a poem, and not just any poem, either. An Italian sonnet, which is widely regarded as a difficult form. Here goes:
Lost Days (for the Seniors)
By Michelle Garren Flye
Just a worn out page in an old yearbook,
A memory captured in a photo.
Days gone by in years long past, but lo!
Posted here now for you to take a look—
To show you we know what you forsook.
Has anyone ever been dealt such a blow?
Taking your freedom, knocking you low.
But we’re here with you, do not be mistook.
Wait! Is it possible we are in the wrong?
What is an old photo but a memory kept,
An experience savored in celebration?
This is what you’re denied all along.
These lost days are what you have wept—
While we make posts of self-congratulation.
A more appropriate photo for quarantine. Enjoy the little things. Photo by Michelle Garren Flye
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 