L.R. Harvey Poetry

How to Build a Poem And how will it ever end, unless the day finally arrives when we have compared everything in the world to everything else in the world, and there is nothing left to do but quietly close our notebooks and sit with our hands folded on our desks. - Billy Collins, "The Trouble with Poetry." Step One: Experience something, it doesn't greatly matter what: The birth of a child, The way that fresh-baked bread loaves rise, The little morning surprise Of fresh-brewed coffee touching your upper lip At the breakfast-table sip: It doesn't greatly matter what. With time and effort and a little luck You'll soon discover that just by living you've compiled A store of good materials for use. Step Two: Take the supplies you've gathered and begin To stack and layer: Compare The steaming coffee surprise To the look in your newborn child's watery hazel gaze, Or look at how the rising yeast reminds You of that thing you did last we

A Writing Life "They say of vision that it is a deliberate gift, the revelation of a dancer who for my eyes only flings away her seven veils." - Annie Dilliard I find I’m writing all the time. With pen and pad and ink, a rhyme Or two a week, and that’s at most. But writing , (as a whole,)I’d boast I’m writing almost every hour Throughout the day:                                   In morning showers, When fingered strands of steam come curling Up and around the plastic curtain, Or when I sit to slightly singed Wheat toast with peanut butter, and begin To wander down the aimless road Of breakfast-table thoughts.                                                 I’ll go To work or to a bar with friends And find the writing never ends, The process never stops.                                          For part Of the work of writing is living: the art Of noticing, the art of seeing, And then of deftly transferring These life experie

The English Teacher "A silent lover is one who doesn't know his job." - Robert Farrar Capon “A silent lover is one who doesn’t know His job;” So I see it my duty to show The beauty in the way iambics move  A line, or how a poem's rhythm grooves Like a bassist hidden in the smoky corner, Laying down a subtle beat to form a Foundation for the saxophone-like words Of the poem, floating out and back and forth Across the page like music played in ink. It almost breaks my heart to pause and think Of those who never "find the time" to get lost Amidst a snowy wood with Robert Frost, Philosophize with Wallace Stevens, or mourn With Dylan Thomas for the coming morn. “A silent lover is one who doesn’t know His job,” and as a lover of words, I know That I must speak to help my students see The wonder of words, the power of poetry. 

Design I’ve yet to see a tree grow upside down, A bird that lives and flies beneath the ground, A flower that lacks a stem or any petals. Now I’m not one to pry and search and mettle The world's “why’s” and “where’s” and “what’s” and “who’s,” (Though if we’re honest that’s what poets do,) But it would take a man without his sight To deny that nature shows us wrong and right, That in the world’s fabric there’s design. Now if I’m being honest, I’ve half a mind To tell the reader what I think this means. But I’ll suffice to let the reader glean Whatever truth he will; but let me leave by saying: Whatever it may mean, I don’t think it means nothing.