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A Shape Full of Thanksgiving

 Concrete poetry is not child's play but rather the intersection where typography and poetry meet to play. Sir Ken Robinson reminds us that “…imagination is the source of every form of human achievement.” Concrete poetry is an invitation to imagine possibility.

So how do you begin to craft a shape poem? Of course there are many wonderful resources online, but the best place to begin is to remember that what seperates all poetry from prose is, first and formost, its shape. Each and every poem has a very specific arrangement on the page because white space, to the poet, is an extension of punctuation, directing the reader's eye to pause, move, breathe. Concrete poetry takes shape a step further into the realm of representation. For example, if your poem is about a blooming garden, your poem might be flower shaped. If your poem is about sorrow, it might take the shape of a teardrop. What I love about Constance's poem below is that the simple window shape draws me, the reader, to come near, to peer through the panes and contemplate the complexities of thankfulness with each drop drop drop that fabricates the window frame. 

Concrete poetry is not child's play.

So here's my idea. This week, when I introduce shape poetry to my young writers, I'm going to begin by exploring Constance's poem with them—a single statement with repeated words to form a shape. I'll invite them to meet me at the intersection where typography and poetry play. And together we'll imagine the shape of thanksgiving. Imagine the possibilites.

Why not join the fun? After all, "…'tis the season to be thankful!" We'd love to hear from you. Feel free to post your poems in the comment section of this post.

 

                                     Thanksgiving

 

The first  rain of the year  announces its  presence by every thick

drop                                     drop                                            drop

drop                                     drop                                             drop

drop                                     drop                                             drop

drop                                     drop                                             drop

drop                                     drop                                             drop

drop                                     drop                                             drop

drop                                     drop                                             drop

drop                                     drop                                             drop

on the  glass  drum  of  our  kitchen  window:  a rain that, with kind

drops                                     drops                                         drops

drops                                     drops                                         drops

drops                                     drops                                         drops

drops                                     drops                                         drops

drops                                     drops                                         drops

drops                                     drops                                         drops

drops                                     drops                                         drops

drops                                     drops                                         drops

they say, is  mother to the  stale cracked  skin of godforsaken lands.

 

 

-Kim & Constance

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