When I was little, there were no media-linked toys, iPods, laptops, or cell phones. For many children of my era, the toys we loved best were little green plastic army men, Hula-Hoops, Slinkies, Ginny and Barbie dolls, Play-Doh, and Mr. Potato Head (played with real potatoes). However, any toy, from any era, will be great for this prompt.
First, think back to your childhood and recall a toy that was special to you. "Freewrite" about that toy for a few minutes. How is this toy the memory-trigger for a past experience and/or relationship? Write a poem about (1) the toy, (2) about a memory triggered by your recollection of the toy, or (3) about a person you associate with the toy. Alternatively, you might write about a toy that was special to your child or to a pet. You might enjoy writing a persona poem from the perspective of a toy. It's playtime!
First, think back to your childhood and recall a toy that was special to you. "Freewrite" about that toy for a few minutes. How is this toy the memory-trigger for a past experience and/or relationship? Write a poem about (1) the toy, (2) about a memory triggered by your recollection of the toy, or (3) about a person you associate with the toy. Alternatively, you might write about a toy that was special to your child or to a pet. You might enjoy writing a persona poem from the perspective of a toy. It's playtime!
Example:
Slinky
By Linda Radice
The kid in the commercial had straight stairs for the
coil to work its way down. The three-story staircase
in our house had landings that turned. My slinky
required a nudge around corners, but guided close
to the railing it went smoothly past Uncle Joe who
came to visit great-grandma every Thursday afternoon,
and slid by my grandfather in his gardening shoes at
sun up. I could make it glide with my father’s run
when the fire whistle called him to the station, and
work it around my mother – the constant between each
floor – who stepped quickly, my brother on her hip,
to check on my grandmother after her stroke.
The staircase and the house around it are for sale.
The rest of the people who walked there are gone –
sixty years of footsteps that wore the wood smooth.
I perfected Slinky’s twisted descent long ago –
the kid with the straight stairs has nothing on me.
Copyright © 2010 by Linda Radice. All rights reserved.
BUG JUICE
ReplyDeleteCowboys, Indians, horses, sailors, blue marines
and soldiers from almost every war that ever was
packed my toy box tins and cardboard toy boxes
in the bedroom I shared and the living room, too
On the open Singer was the ranch, high in the mountain
where I’d set up all the horses and block them in
using rows of spools of Mom’s colorful thread.
I’d post a lookout or two at the top of the round disk spinner
and another lookout atop the spout where the needle jigged
its thread through the hole to the hidden spool
I’d have a crowd of my favorite cowboys sitting nearby
in a circle telling tales around a fire by the chuck wagon
and oh, so slowly, I bring on either the Indians or the rustlers
climbing the drawer handles to sneak up and swipe the stallions
(For all those years of cowboys and Indians
I never actually had cattle or cows.)
A twig would snap and that would set the stage for the big fight
a free-for-all where the rustlers would fall
and my favorite cowboys only got winged
and afterward, as the last of the bad guys ran off
or were stacked in a pile of dead-for-now,
my guys, the heroes returned to the campfire
of black coffee, hard tack and tall tales.
Full poem appears in AMERICAN BOY: Pushing Sixty by Anthony Buccino
Poem first published in Poetryquarterly.com, edition no longer available.
Thanks for sharing, Anthony! This is great. I've got your book and plan to read the whole poem tonight.
ReplyDeleteFor interested readers ...
ReplyDeleteThe following aren't sweet reminders of childhood, but they do incorporate childhood toys and are powerful poems that you might like to read. Here are the URLs for you to copy and paste in your browser:
"The Paper Windmill" by Amy Lowell
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/amy_lowell/poems/20037
"Her Toys" by Robert Service
http://www.quotesandpoem.com/poems/SelectedPoemByTopic/Service/Children/%20%20%20%20Her%20Toys/286
"The Land of Counterpane" by Robert Louis Stevenson
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19965
By coincidence, this is a topic I've been dwellling on quite a bit recently, and this prompt made me sit down and do something other than dwell. I rarely post early drafts anywhere, but, well, that's what this space is for, no? So here goes.
ReplyDelete_Johnny West_
Under the stairs was the prairie,
the moss green paint perfecly
converting the unfinished concrete
into Johnny West's campground.
If my mind was his mind then
his favorite thing to hold was
the coffee pot as large as his
torso, solid as the black scraps
of asphalt that lined the corral
of his forever nameless horse.
Saddlebags held pennies playing
the part of the gold of the pecos
and footfalls on the stairs were
the thunder of the coming storm.
Johnny had no kung fu grip or
secret identity or stickered
van of flickering accessories;
he had the gift of staying power,
unbreakable through thousands
of hours of solitude, his
and mine, his body firm, his face
silent and wide-eyed, at mercy
of my wishful hands, my hands
telling stories I knew I'd never live.
Just so happense we've been kicking this topic around quite a bit at home lately, and I take your prompt as a direct guidance to do something other than kick. I rarely post early drafts, but then that's what prompts are for, no?
ReplyDelete_Johnny West_
Under the stairs was the prairie,
the moss green paint perfecly
converting the unfinished concrete
into Johnny West's campground.
If my mind was his mind then
his favorite thing to hold was
the coffee pot as large as his
torso, solid as the black scraps
of asphalt that lined the corral
of his forever nameless horse.
Saddlebags held pennies playing
the part of the gold of the pecos
and footfalls on the stairs were
the thunder of the coming storm.
Johnny had no kung fu grip or
secret identity or stickered
van of flickering accessories;
he had the gift of staying power,
unbreakable through thousands
of hours of solitude, his
and mine, him silent and wide-eyed,
faving a future firmly at mercy
of my wishful hands, my hands
telling stories I knew I'd never live.
Thanks, David! Two versions of your poem were posted – it's so interesting to see your process. Thanks so much for sharing!
ReplyDeleteHere is my favorite toy...
ReplyDeleteMY UNFORGETTABLE TOY
To avoid Nazi radio detecting equipment, some resourceful GIs found that a crude crystal set could be made from a coil made of salvaged wire, a rusty razor blade and a pencil lead for a diode. The sets were dubbed "foxhole receivers" by the popular press, and they became part of the folklore of World War II-From WIKIPEDIA.
Your blue metal
skin twinkles from
the street
lights
as I turn the room
light switch off
to enjoy a private
moment just between us…
You, a timeless piece
of grey shining ore, and
me, a
child of eleven.
And I connect you to
the metal needle
linked to my headset.
Magic happens --
I hear the world!
Copyright 2010 Basil Rouskas
Wonderful, Basil! Thanks so much for posting.
ReplyDeleteThe preface is a great idea – it gives the poem a very meaningful historical context.
Plastic Women
ReplyDeleteI knew from the moment I tore the
cellophane, it wasn’t the real Barbie.
Her eyes were painted -- no lashes;
her nose pointy; her smile -- a little
turned down; a simple cotton sun
suit, but no accessories. The package
said Tina; that was the obvious clue.
My sister had the real Barbie. She
saved her allowance – enough for
the doll and three outfits. I watched
her go off to play with the girls across
the street. Sometimes I followed. When
I approached, the Barbie nation emerged.
The black vinyl suitcase opened to a
three story dream house; Malibu Barbie
in the elevator; a blue convertible
and Ken’s jeep in the driveway,
the glamour camper off to the side;
matching outfits scattered everywhere.
But they always told me: No way –
not without your own Barbie. I
saw what my dad was up to that day.
He encouraged me to take the doll
over there, but I hesitated. He
motioned me back as he grabbed his
pliers, a few grommets, leftover
pink oil cloth from reupholstered
stools. In a moment he held up Tina,
dressed in a stunning strapless gown
that she would never take off.
Copyright © 2010 by Nancy Lubarsky. All rights reserved.
Thanks for posting, Nancy! I love this poem for it's memoir quality and all the rich detail; and what a great "dismount."
ReplyDelete