Saturday, August 28, 2010

Poetry Prompt #20 – Toys


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!

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.

10 comments:

  1. BUG JUICE

    Cowboys, 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.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks for sharing, Anthony! This is great. I've got your book and plan to read the whole poem tonight.

    ReplyDelete
  3. For interested readers ...

    The 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

    ReplyDelete
  4. 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.

    _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.

    ReplyDelete
  5. 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?

    _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.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Thanks, David! Two versions of your poem were posted – it's so interesting to see your process. Thanks so much for sharing!

    ReplyDelete
  7. Here is my favorite toy...



    MY 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

    ReplyDelete
  8. Wonderful, Basil! Thanks so much for posting.

    The preface is a great idea – it gives the poem a very meaningful historical context.

    ReplyDelete
  9. Plastic Women

    I 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.

    ReplyDelete
  10. Thanks for posting, Nancy! I love this poem for it's memoir quality and all the rich detail; and what a great "dismount."

    ReplyDelete