Think hot potato. Then think poetry.
That’s right, a really fun and probably terrible poem is about to burst into existence.
Here’s a writing exercise I did with my sister for funsies, and it was really really fun.
What you need:
- 2+ people
- 2 different colored pens
- 1 or 2 pieces of paper
- A timer (you can Google “timer” and get a really simple one)
- A dash of imagination and adventure
Here’s the rules:
- You put the timer on for 30 seconds at a time.
- Start the timer! You each start writing a poem on your page. Hopefully you have legible handwriting.
- For 30 seconds, you write and write and write. When the timer goes off, finish the word you’re on. (Or don’t! You can cut off in the middle of a word if you want!)
- Trade papers! Start the timer again!
- Go back and forth like this until you’re about half way down the page. Now might be a good time to change the timer from every 30 seconds to every 45 seconds (or longer).
- When you get to the bottom of the page, stop! Or if you think the poem has ended or needs more space, feel free to keep going or stop early.
- Your poems are done!
- You each get to add a title to one of the poems!
Here are some helpful hints:
- Leave an inch or two at the top of the page so you can add a title once it’s finished.
- Leave an inch or so margin on the left side of the page in case you want to go through and add doodles or art or something later!
- Use pens that have a different enough color so you can tell who wrote what.
- Don’t forget to sign and date it! Sign it in the color you wrote with.
- If you finish it and want to share it with us!
- Twitter: tag us (@McRebecky and @MelAnn1313) with the tag #campfirepoetry
- Instagram: @MelAnn1313
- If you just want to let us know if this was helpful or fun, leave a comment here and share your experience!
Here’s what one of ours looked like!
The final version, typed:
the aroma of damp, decaying leaves
and crisp fall air with nothing,
nothing on the skyline except
maybe that’s just it — Nothing.
Does it frighten you?
You, who has spent time frolicking in fields
of death — graveyard flowers, cracking headstones,
trash left by those who couldn’t forget
the emptiness of horizons, the loneliness of what
once was, now only a void.
This is you.
Or it was. At least. Once. It was. I promise.
Death. You are Death. Right? Or have you
abdicated that title in exchange for a
new one. Are you Angel? My angel?
I almost feel the decay of winter
chilled against my fingernails, my toes. Is this–
this– the sky you’ve left for me?
Bleak, gray, unyielding to my cries and prayers?
It is not empty. I am not empty. I am Death, too.