Writing in the Second Person

Some of the most effective poetry or prose that I’ve read is that written in the second person. The voice automatically becomes conversational and creates something of an intimate feeling.

Second person prose is often a challenge and tends to be confined to pieces of short fiction. Either prose or poetry can be addressed to a person, an object (ever say a few choice words to your laptop), God, a pet, or even yourself. There is no limit to span of emotions that you can express: anger, sadness, and quite often, love. The voice may be formal, informal, written in dialect. Grammar can be perfect or full of errors that will help to develop a character. Working with second person prose is a great asset for the fiction writer as he or she works to develop skills in writing dialogue

For today’s prompt, conjure up a person, place or thing–real or imaginary–and speak to it in poetry or prose. Consider the mood you wish to create and the voice in which you want to write.

To participate:

  • Write your short fiction, essay or poem and post it on your blog or website;
  • Access Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post and add your name and the direct URL of your post;
  • Take a few minutes to visit and comment on other participants’ work and return visits to those who’ve commented on your work.

For my poem, I chose an older one that celebrates Spring as the season of love. If it looks familiar, it’s been out there before. I will also link this to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets’ Pub, with apologies for not coming up with something new. If you’ve haven’t stopped by the Pub this week, you don’t know what you are missing! Come on down..

Garden with some tulips and narcissus

Spring

Do you remember the cloud
that looked like a white dog bounding
across the empty gray sky?

Or the coupling dragonflies,
their wings shaved slivers of
shimmering moonstone or fire opal?

Nearby, something moldered in dank earth.
Its smell mingled with
the scent of our sweat and sex.

A chorus of crickets undulated
in an outdoor theater,
unabashed by our nakedness.

You told me to get on top because
the grass beneath our blanket scratched me.
A breeze licked my body.

Do you think that it was love?
Or maybe because tomorrow would be spring.

 

Photo credit: Wikipedia

Old Folks at Play–Response to Monday Morning Writing Prompt

Truckee River Reno, Nevada

Image via Wikipedia

Old Folks at Play

“It’s been a while,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Don’t make me stop to think about it; I’ll find a reason not to.” I sat on the huge boulder along side the river and unlaced my tennis shoes. The rock was cold and hard, reminding me I was no longer young. My butt wouldn’t tolerate more than a couple of minutes of this.

“Remember when we used to sit here for hours, Chuck. Reading or dozing while we waited for the trout to bite?”

“Never did catch anything worth eating. C’mon, let’s do it.”

He reached for my hand, snuggled it securely in his calloused grip. Warmth and a sense of confidence settled in my old bones.

This is crazy. My rational self tossed out images: broken bones, snagged fish hooks, arthritic pain.

The rocks leading to the shore were rough. Grass and fox tails pricked my bare skin. Chuck tightened his grasp and I guessed he was toying with second thoughts too.

The first step into the Truckee startled  and I shrieked. Snow melt from the Sierra rushed over my feet then up the calves of my legs. The smooth stones soon gave way to muck that squished between my toes. A fish slithered against my ankles, its scales tickling my bare skin. I struggled to keep my footing.

Chuck turned to me and slipped his arms around my waist. I remembered how it used to be and then he pulled me to himself and blew softly into my ear.

“You’re not really thinking of…”

His mouth closed over mine to silence my doubts.

Two hours later, I helped him fold the blanket we’d spread out on the river bank. In my memory, I could still feel the crunching leaves beneath my body and the weight of my husband on top of me. Those little aches and pains that had been our constant companions for a good part of the last decade remained forgotten.

“You’re gorgeous, Agnes,” Chuck whispered.

I felt my pulse bounding in my head and caressed Chuck’s stubbly cheek. “Don’t let anyone tell us we’re too old, sweet stuff.”

That was when I noticed a gaggle of teenage boys, watching from a clump of bushes.

My response to the prompt for MMWP to write a poem or flash fiction that included texture. Check out other submissions at: https://liv2write2day.wordpress.com/2011/05/15/monday-morning-writing-prompt-texture/

NaPoWriMo Day 2–Sleepless

bedroom at night

Image by rachel in wonderland via Flickr

I’m happy to celebrate National Poetry Month by participating in a variety of challenges available to those who wish to write a poem a day during the month of April. I’ve decided to browse the various prompts, choose one that speaks to me and post it to my blog.

This prompt came from NaPoWriMo: http://www.napowrimo.net/ where the challenge for Day 2 is to write a poem incorporating the titles of three books you have in your library.

Sleepless

we have known both the agony
and the ecstasy of nights
held back from sleep

the sultry summer lust
our bodies wrapped in love’s
embrace and sweat

a random song that
cleaves the night but who would
dare to kill a mockingbird?

the soul’s raging war of
hearts betrayed or
guilt unburdened

yet in the morn we resurrect
we rise renewed, bodies sated
spirits unbroken

Monday Morning Writing Prompt–It’s Spring!!!

Spring Meadow in the Orchard Garden at Fenton ...

Image by Laura Nolte via Flickr

My calendar tells me that today, the 20th, is the Vernal Equinox, the first day of spring. The weather report indicates that back home, in Reno, snow is expected. Much of Southern California is experiencing rain and even here, in the desert, it’s (relatively) cool and overcast. But, it’s spring (in the Northern Hemispheres.)

For Monday’s prompt, write a poem or flash fiction in 100 words or less that celebrates spring. If your weather is not indicative of the season, dig back in the archives of your memories or imagination.

Here is mine (mild adult content):

Spring

Do you remember the cloud
that looked like a white dog bounding
across the empty gray sky?

Or the coupling dragonflies,
their wings shaved slivers of
shimmering moonstone or fire opal?

Nearby, something moldered in dank earth.
Its smell mingled with
the scent of our sweat and sex.

A chorus of crickets undulated
in an outdoor theater,
unabashed by our nakedness.

You told me to get on top because
the grass beneath our blanket scratched me.
A breeze licked my body.

Do you think that it was love?
Or maybe because tomorrow would be spring.