Write a Demi-Sonnet! — A Workshop with Erin Murphy

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

Write a Demi-Sonnet!
Instructor: Erin Murphy
Date: Wednesday, June 12, 2024
Time: 3:00-4:30pm (Eastern)
Price: $25

In this generative workshop, you will learn to write a demi-sonnet, a form invented by the instructor, Erin Murphy. Demi-sonnets are seven lines (half a sonnet!) and end with a full or slant rhyme. Poet Claire Bateman calls demi-sonnets “small but alarmingly penetrative,” while James Allen Hall says they “go by quickly but their staying power is immense.” Read sample demi-sonnets here and here. And here is a prize-winning demi-sonnet by Jennifer Wang written in response to a Rattle magazine prompt. During the workshop, you’ll read and discuss sample demi-sonnets, write one (or several) yourself, and learn how practicing the compressed form has applications for composing and editing both poetry and prose.

NOTE: Participants should bring to the workshop 3-5 original poems of 20-60 lines each.

Erin Murphy is the author or editor of fourteen books, chapbooks, and anthologies, most recently Fluent in Blue (Grayson Books, 2024) and Human Resources (forthcoming from Salmon Poetry). Her collections of demi-sonnets include Taxonomies (2022), Assisted Living (2018), and Word Problems (2011). She is poetry editor of The Summerset Review and professor of English at Penn State Altoona. Website: erin-murphy.com

Erin Murphy

Two Poems by Carson Wolfe

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

SIX HOURS OF DAYLIGHT

after Taylor Byas

I’ve brought this on myself. My butch swagger.
My thermal padded muscles. Why did I hold
all those doors for her? She drags me out of
bed, wraps my hand around the sharp tusk
of an animal I did not hunt. I heard a sound
outside, she whispers, shoving me toward
our deck view of Lake Salcha, where a pack
of slednecks saw her earlier, wearing nothing
but a winter scarf, cigarette hung between
ruby lips. I square my shoulders, pull back
the curtain. Aurora borealis performs her
usual show. The terror of my own breath
fogs the glass—surprise at this sudden
imposter, the reflection of my girlish face,
a stranger in this cabin.

* 

SONNET FOR THE SIDE PLATE

Miss Katherine eats dinner from a side plate
to control portions. The men’s, large and filled
with potatoes, earth-dug by my bare hands.
Each day, the same, but smaller. I sow seeds,
collect eggs, nurture the soil. Once, I reached
for seconds of cornbread but Miss Katherine
sucked in her stomach, so I grabbed the salt.
Then, coffee for breakfast, Pabst Blue for lunch.
I feel myself shrinking out in the field
spreading mulch in southern heat. Miss Katherine
guts a catfish she won’t eat. Her son chops
off the head of a snake with his shovel,
we watch its thin body wriggle in dirt.
Now, my side plate, collard greens. I say grace.

*

Carson Wolfe (they/she) is a Mancunian poet and winner of New Writing North’s Debut Poetry Prize (2023). Their work has appeared or is forthcoming with Rattle, The Rumpus, The North, New Welsh Review, and Evergreen Review. They are an MFA student of Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University and currently serve as a teaching assistant on the online writing course Poems That Don’t Suck. Carson lives in Manchester with their wife and three daughters. You can find them at carsonwolfe.co.uk.

For My Daughter, on Her First Birthday by Svetlana Litvinchuk

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

For My Daughter, on Her First Birthday

When my baby was born she had
an extra short umbilical cord

we were extra connected extra close
the doctor’s only choices were to

either cut it immediately or to place her
back in my belly where she could

drink milk from the starry inside
every day I think about how to do that

how it would have been

we could develop our own language
knock twice for yes and once for no

I would describe everything so she
wouldn’t miss a thing. I wouldn’t tell her

about the warplanes flying overhead or
about the ice caps melting around us

I could digest all the world’s pain
for her and let only the sugar pass

when the time comes for her wedding
I can dance on my husband’s feet

the way only daughters do and when
she knocks twice for “I Do”

I will cry tears of joy, my waters
breaking, causing a great flood

*

Svetlana Litvinchuk is a permaculturist who holds BAs from the University of New Mexico. She is the author of a Season (Bottlecap Features, 2024). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sky Island Journal, Apocalypse Confidential, Littoral Magazine, Black Coffee Review, Eunoia Review, Big Windows Review, and Longhouse Press. Originally from Kyiv, Ukraine, she now lives with her husband and daughter on their farm in the Arkansas Ozarks.

Second Drowning by Michael Northen

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

Second Drowning

This was not like the time before when I almost drowned
when the water lay above like a thick ceiling I could not reach.
Then I saw the sunlight diffuse though the water
leaning back in that golden acceptance, I closed my eyes.

This time it was like a Japanese painting.
The anesthesiologist said, count to three
I was only a plum branch sketch on canvas
white disappearing into white.

The problem was only mechanical I told my mother
through a phone in her nursing home room
a valve in the heart that needed repair
I’d tell you to come home, she said, but I don’t have one.

This time it was whiteness. No gold water calling.
“Our Father” my mother said, as she fingered the beads,
her prayers traveling in a circle. We knelt on the floor.
Our fingers circulating again through the old design.

*

Michael Northen is the founder and past editor of Wordgathering (2070-2019). He was co-editor of two previous anthologies of disability writing Beauty is a Verb (2011) and The Right Way to Be Crippled and Naked (2011) both from Cinco Puntos.

Two Poems by Ellen Rowland

~ ONE ART ~ 4 Comments

Brothers

My uncle dies in his favorite armchair
while watching football, having just eaten
dinner, a martini in hand. His alma mater
scores a goal and he hoots as though he himself
has carried the ball across the finish line,
winning the game for his team. He slips away then
like the ice from his sweating glass
onto the avocado carpet, a sheen of utter
content on his face. My father battles lung cancer
for five slow years, taking so much longer to
reach the end, a pain crawl really, his bone-deep pride
brittle on the field. No shoulder pads or heroic knees,
knocked around mercilessly, he is unwilling
to relinquish the fight. Their friends applaud
and mourn them equally, flock like fans
to their lilied caskets, then file their way out
into blessed sunlight, fingering the ticket stubs
in their pockets.


* 

Origami

Is it strange that I don’t have a bucket list,
that all I want already fits in my life? And
what if I told you that I look forward to the
crossword after lunch, smoked Lapsang Souchong
at 4:30? That I cherish the sound of the dog’s
leash as it comes off its hook, the ecstatic leaps
she makes when that jangle tricks her arthritic
bones into believing she is agile and ageless
for half an hour a day? Would you think me
boring if I claim more than small satisfaction
at the pleasure of opening that great book
next to that great man I’ve shared a bed with
for 23 years? Japan calls, of course it does.
A singular want that fits in a cup: the haiku of
its vermillion Torii gates and blossomed benches,
the quiet bathing trees. The golden trails of
kintsugi cracks and blood-red lanterns, swaying.
The idea is wonderful, yes. But so is the now
of thick salty feta on a slice of toasted sourdough
eaten at the counter off of paper plates. So is
stepping outside in his flannel shirt to hear
a pair of koukouvagia preening each other under
a salt spill of stars, the constant creek running
to where? and where? and where? until the cold
and dark remind me the covers are still thrown back,
each fold waiting to be shaped again into something beautiful.

*

Ellen Rowland is the author of two collections of haiku/senryu, Light, Come Gather Me and Blue Seasons, as well as the book Everything I Thought I Knew, essays on living, learning and parenting outside the status quo. Her writing has appeared in numerous literary journals and in several poetry anthologies, most recently The Wonder of Small Things, edited by James Crews. Her debut collection of full-length poems, No Small Thing, was published by Fernwood Press in 2023. She lives off the grid with her family on an island in Greece. Connect with her on Instagram and Facebook

What We Hold Onto by Eileen Moeller

~ ONE ART ~ 3 Comments

What We Hold Onto

Not the high-heeled shoe Mother.

The barefoot Mother soaking her
aching feet at night after work.

Mother who did what she had to do.

Not the diet thin Mother.

The cushiony plump Mother
you squeezed from behind
as she stood at the stove.

Mother whose body was beautiful.

Not the whiskey sour Mother.

The coffee cup Mother who
laughed at her own jokes,
so hard it made you laugh,
whether you got them or not.

Mother who skirted depression.

Not the Chrysler Imperial Mother,
helped by mysterious men.

The feisty Mother who told
creditors, Listen, you can’t
get blood from a stone.

Mother who cut deals.

Not the screaming Mother
who could have been in
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.

The singing mother, who made
long rides, looking out the window,
something we begged for.

Mother who taught transcendence

Not the fast asleep Mother,
when you were getting ready for school.

The sewing Halloween costumes Mother,
who made you a Dutch girl, a Gibson girl,
Mary in blue and white robes,
the sewing Easter outfits Mother,
who got dressed up and took us
to mass once a year.

Mother who took breaks from herself.

Not the tell-you-too-much Mother.

The aproned Mother who seemed
to be without secrets, who told
funny stories about the neighbors
as if that was all she cared about.

Mother big as a moon, waxing and waning.

Not the breast cancer Mother
who froze like a deer in the headlights.

The survivor Mother who fought for
a longer life, the hopeful Mother
who could see her burdens lifting.

Mother of need, who needed mothering.

*

Eileen Moeller lives in Medford, New Jersey with her husband Charlie. Originally from Paterson NJ, she has lived in many places, including Central NY, where she earned an M.A. in Creative Writing from Syracuse University. Her poems have appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies. She has four books: Firefly, Brightly Burning, Grayson Books 2015; The Girls In Their Iron Shoes, Finishing Line Press, 2017; Silk City Sparrow, Read Furiously Inc. 2020; and Waterlings, Word Tech Communications Inc. 2023. A fifth book, Still Life with Towel and Sand, will be released later this year by Kelsey Books. Her blog is: And So I Sing: Poems and Iconography.

Two Poems by Betsy Mars

~ ONE ART ~ 5 Comments

Mid-morning in a Strange Bed Again

I hear the sirens and I think
the birds have stopped
their wake-up call, but then
I listen and there it is, insistent,
the constant repetition,
the bird-clock chiming,
an undercurrent of time, three notes—
and if I really pay attention, another
answering through the noise
and swish of fronds brushing
each other in the soft breeze.

*

Muffler

I wake up, neck tight,
dream’s scarf
still encircling my throat.
I unwind it, feel my heart
breath returning,
dream receding, stepping back
into the alley of the night.

*

Betsy Mars is a prize-winning poet, photographer, and assistant editor at Gyroscope Review. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals and anthologies. Recent poems can be found in Minyan, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily. Her photos have appeared online and in print, including one which served as the Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge prompt in 2019. She has two books, Alinea, and her most recent, co-written with Alan Walowitz, In the Muddle of the Night. In addition, she also frequently collaborates with San Diego artist Judith Christensen, most recently on an installation entitled “Mapping Our Future Selves.”

Chime by Robin Turner

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

Chime

Birds as the wars wear on.
They return to us each day.

A piteousness of doves.
A scold of jays.

         A chime
                  a chime

of tiny wrens. Each tender
morning.

*

Robin Turner has recent work in DMQ Review, Rattle, Rust + Moth, The Texas Observer, and elsewhere. Currently a poetry reader for Sugared Water, she lives with her husband near White Rock Lake in Dallas, Texas.

Two Poems by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

HERE’S THE THING

I have been trying to love myself.
It’s not a big deal—it’s a minor thing really.
But until now, I haven’t.
I’ve hated the gruff voice in the morning
before I’ve had a drink of water
and the soft half-moons on my fingertips,
shadows of guitar callouses.
I would look at myself
in the bathroom mirror
and drink a pint of self-pity
telling my reflection
she’d never amount to anything.
I was making myself a ghost, a place
where a person used to live.
Why not love the soft downy fur
on the back of my neck
and the fibrillating minutes
between sleep and wakefulness
when I don’t know if I’m dead or alive?
There are certain impossibilities
but I don’t think falling in love
with myself
feels insurmountable.
We put humans in space
and grow watermelons without seeds.
Here’s the thing: you have to find out
how to do a thing
before it seems possible.
Love myself?
I decided to try.
A small turkey sandwich with the crusts
cut off. A foolish dance
in the shower. Whatever I want
it’s mine—it’s magic.
The dim hours before bed,
putting things where they go.
Letting the dishes pile up
then cleaning them all at once
on an early Saturday
the windows open
the birds looking in at me
the whole world in love
or at least, me.

*

WHEN I DIE NOBODY WILL REMEMBER MY ZODIAC SIGN

When I keel over from a heart attack
in the Costco parking lot, nobody will say
“what a Pisces.” No one will care that I crossed
my arms too much in conversation—a nervous
habit—or that I I gave up on Catholicism
in the tenth grade (except maybe the Catholics).
When I die, nobody will care
that I was the one who let her gas tank
run until it got past the E line. Or that I thought
peanuts were the poor man’s nut.
When you die, as long as you weren’t a horrible
person, there will always be something
good to keep in your pocket. The way
your forgetfulness was a calling card—
the scarf you left in the backseat
of your friend’s car, or the hat that’s still
in your ex-lover’s attic. Everybody has a secret
and here’s mine: I want there to be more things
about me that are forgotten
than remembered. I want the way
I buttered my toast to remain a mystery.
My sugarsick days alone in bed, a mystery.
I want the small moment I sat
watching a heron swoop low and hard
with its beak to be known only to me,
a box of dust. A used-to-be. A thing
that was here and then was not.

*

Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives and writes in Fort Wayne, Indiana. She is the author of the book Brilliant Little Body (Riot in Your Throat, 2024).

I Did Not Do It by Susan Cossette

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

I Did Not Do It

That cheap leather belt
tossed on the floor is yours,
not mine.

Those angry wounds
wrapped around my neck,
that guilt is yours.

I had the new books for homeschooling,
hand-sewn turquoise and pink ribbon dresses for my girls,
herbs and pine nuts gathered from the desert.

The purple Nevada sky hides no lies.
You know the truth, as do I.

And three tiny dark-eyed girls gaze
at a freshly filled grave,
plump earth adorned with pink flowers
that will wither in a day.

My Paiute mother tells me

         don’t come back,
         there is nothing here for you,
         don’t visit anyone in their dreams,
         your work here is done.

But I tell you—
I did not do it.

*

About this poem:
A month ago, a family member of mine perished under suspicious circumstances at the too-young age of 28. Initially thought to be a suicide, investigators now believe it was an incidence of domestic partner violence. The case remains open and is being actively investigated by law enforcement. Our family demands answers and justice.

*

Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, The New York Quarterly, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Amethyst Review, Crow & Cross Keys, Loch Raven Review, and in the anthologies Fast Fallen Women (Woodhall Press) and Tuesdays at Curley’s (Yuganta Press).

*