You need to complete 5 of the prompts below. Choose any 5 that you would like.
PLEASE --> Use a Thesaurus!
PLEASE --> Use and follow the example poems!
PLEASE --> Have fun with your writing!
* - The prompts marked with this * asterisk work well as being poems about the live sporting events that we've attended. I'm hoping you'll choose at least 1 of these prompts.
#1 : Your Dream Sporting Events
#2 : A Prayer for Your Team
#3 : Why Play a Sport?
#4 : All About the Ball
#5 : I Remember...
#6 : Revision! Revision!
#7 : SportsCenter Haikus
#8 : Patchwork
#9 : Passions
#10 : The Sounds of Sport *
#11 : Playing as a Kid
#12 : "The" Poem *
#13 : Benchwarmers *
#14 : Description! Description! *
#15 : The Taste of Sport
#16 : Playing Alone
#17 : Playing Together
#18 : My Equipment and Me
#19 : Alliteration
Monday, January 14, 2013
Poetry Prompt: Playing Together
One of the joys of sports is that you get to play on a team. You make friends, you share experiences, both the joy of winning and the disappointment of defeat. Talk about the experience of being with friends and winning or losing. What do you remember about playing together?
"The Women’s Team at L. Bamberger & Co."
by Lillian Morrison
Our best forward
wasn’t very tall
but made up for it
in speed, spunk and
spring in the knees.
She could almost slam-dunk.
Proud, in our snazzy
silver shorts, maroon tops,
we ran and sweated
in those drafty gyms
(seats most empty)
somehow always playing
against bigger, rougher teams,
tough girls who shoved
and elbowed, but Maggie’s
fakes and pivots, charges
down the floor, layups,
jumpers, onehanders
would fire us up, and the
few times we did win,
the bare locker rooms,
and we showered and dressed,
rang with our rejoicing
and when we emerged, heading
for the bus, each of us
at least two inches taller,
the frosty air outside
seemed to greet us with kisses.
"The Women’s Team at L. Bamberger & Co."
by Lillian Morrison
wasn’t very tall
but made up for it
in speed, spunk and
spring in the knees.
She could almost slam-dunk.
Proud, in our snazzy
silver shorts, maroon tops,
we ran and sweated
in those drafty gyms
(seats most empty)
somehow always playing
against bigger, rougher teams,
tough girls who shoved
and elbowed, but Maggie’s
fakes and pivots, charges
down the floor, layups,
jumpers, onehanders
would fire us up, and the
few times we did win,
the bare locker rooms,
and we showered and dressed,
rang with our rejoicing
and when we emerged, heading
for the bus, each of us
at least two inches taller,
the frosty air outside
seemed to greet us with kisses.
Poetry Prompt: My Equipment and Me
Think about (or look at) your favorite piece of sporting equipment. Maybe it is a childhood baseball glove, a tennis racket, or a worn basketball. Describe your memories of playing with that piece of equipment as well as describing the actual equipment as well. Use metaphors and similes to make the poem more interesting and meaningful. Below is one example.
"My Racket"
by Matthew Miller
The rim chipped silver, like a handful of pebbles
clattering across the concrete court.
The sun has dyed the handle the color of a late September sky,
a light blue tattered with swirling leaves, fraying at the edge.
The black plastic guard curls back,
scraped in hurry, hustle, frustration.
The neck is dappled pink and green, like a outdated home,
sitting untouched since the early 80s.
The crossing white and yellow strings wear at each other,
gut shavings peeling back from repeated friction,
absorbing the impact of a million battles, fraying
but staying, a faithful marriage.
"My Racket"
by Matthew Miller
The rim chipped silver, like a handful of pebbles
clattering across the concrete court.
The sun has dyed the handle the color of a late September sky,
a light blue tattered with swirling leaves, fraying at the edge.
The black plastic guard curls back,
scraped in hurry, hustle, frustration.
The neck is dappled pink and green, like a outdated home,
sitting untouched since the early 80s.
The crossing white and yellow strings wear at each other,
gut shavings peeling back from repeated friction,
absorbing the impact of a million battles, fraying
but staying, a faithful marriage.
Poetry Prompt: Playing Alone
Go to the gym by yourself, and play your favorite sport. Shoot baskets by yourself, hit a volleyball off the wall, bang a tennis ball off the wall, kick free kicks in soccer, etc. As you do these things, concentrate on the sound and the feel of the sport. What does it sound like in an empty gym to bang a ball off the wall? What does it feel like when the ball comes off the inside of your foot? Below is an example of a "playing alone" poem.
"Shooting"
by B.H. Fairchild
Dusk was best. Searching
for the perfect shot,
I’d dribble, pivot, jump,
let go, and watch the ball
float full-moon across
a darkening sky, then sink
into the strings that hugged,
then dropped it to the ground.
Far into night
I stayed, moving through
the backyard gloom, a ghost
even to myself, shooting
where I couldn’t see.
The sounds of bounce and jump
echoed from the house,
followed by the silence
of the ball’s long flight.
Going up, each time
my body felt itself
curve evenly from toe
to shoulder, through arms
and fingertips that sensed
the arc the ball would take
before the quick whisper
somewhere in the dark.
"Shooting"
by B.H. Fairchild
Dusk was best. Searching
for the perfect shot,
I’d dribble, pivot, jump,
let go, and watch the ball
float full-moon across
a darkening sky, then sink
into the strings that hugged,
then dropped it to the ground.
Far into night
I stayed, moving through
the backyard gloom, a ghost
even to myself, shooting
where I couldn’t see.
The sounds of bounce and jump
echoed from the house,
followed by the silence
of the ball’s long flight.
Going up, each time
my body felt itself
curve evenly from toe
to shoulder, through arms
and fingertips that sensed
the arc the ball would take
before the quick whisper
somewhere in the dark.
Poetry Prompt: The Taste of Sport
Grab a handful of popcorn and sit back, relax and watch a game. Sit on the couch and I'll try to pull up a sporting event for you to watch, hopefully a live event. As you watch, think about the experience, especially the taste of the popcorn and how it relates to the sport that you are watching. Here's an example of some "tasty" poetry.
"Getting a Taste for It"
by Kory Kern
The basketball is like a big
cheddar cheese ball.
It’s sides like the skin of an orange,
peeled by little black lines.
Round as a pizza, as it spins
through the air.
Speckled like the scales of a fish,
sliced and sizzling over the fire.
Every basket is a bite,
tasting of victory.
"August"
by Mary Oliver
"Getting a Taste for It"
by Kory Kern
The basketball is like a big
cheddar cheese ball.
It’s sides like the skin of an orange,
peeled by little black lines.
Round as a pizza, as it spins
through the air.
Speckled like the scales of a fish,
sliced and sizzling over the fire.
Every basket is a bite,
tasting of victory.
"August"
by Mary Oliver
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking
of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
this happy tongue.
Poetry Prompt: Description! Description!
Write a poem in the style of "Basketball" by Louis
Jenkins, a prose poem that uses many details to describe the atmosphere of
playing basketball outside. Use as many concrete and specific details as you
can to describe the atmosphere and attitude at the game you are attending, and
write it as a prose poem.
"Basketball"
by Louis Jenkins
A
huge summer afternoon with no sign of rain.... Elm trees
in the farmyard bend and creak in the wind. The leaves are
dry and gray. In the driveway a boy shoots a basketball at a
goal above the garage door. Wind makes shooting difficult
and time after time he chases the loose ball. He shoots, re-
bounds, turns, shoots....on into the afternoon. In the silence
between the gust of wind the only sounds are the thump of
the ball on the ground and the rattle of the bare steel rim of
the goal. The gate bangs in the wind, the dog in the yard yawns,
stretches and goes back to sleep. A film of dust covers the
water in the trough. Great clouds of dust rise from open fields
that stretch thousand miles beyond the horizon.
in the farmyard bend and creak in the wind. The leaves are
dry and gray. In the driveway a boy shoots a basketball at a
goal above the garage door. Wind makes shooting difficult
and time after time he chases the loose ball. He shoots, re-
bounds, turns, shoots....on into the afternoon. In the silence
between the gust of wind the only sounds are the thump of
the ball on the ground and the rattle of the bare steel rim of
the goal. The gate bangs in the wind, the dog in the yard yawns,
stretches and goes back to sleep. A film of dust covers the
water in the trough. Great clouds of dust rise from open fields
that stretch thousand miles beyond the horizon.
Poetry Prompt: Benchwarmers
Using a similar form to "Stranger" by Thomas
Merton, think about what it is like to be in a spot that no one notices during
a sporting event. Write a description of what the players and coaches on the
bench are doing during the game, or what the lady sitting in the corner of the
gym alone is thinking, or perhaps even a cheerleader or mascot who isn't paid
attention to.
"Stranger"
by Thomas Merton
When no one listens
To the quiet trees
When no one notices
The sun in the pool.
Where no one feels
The first drop of rain
Or sees the last star
Or hails the first morning
Of a giant world
Where peace begins
And rages end:
One bird sits still
Watching the work of God:
One turning leaf,
Two falling blossoms,
Ten circles upon the pond.
To the quiet trees
When no one notices
The sun in the pool.
Where no one feels
The first drop of rain
Or sees the last star
Or hails the first morning
Of a giant world
Where peace begins
And rages end:
One bird sits still
Watching the work of God:
One turning leaf,
Two falling blossoms,
Ten circles upon the pond.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)