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Welcome to
But Does it Rhyme?
We're a small, but
hopefully growing, band of poets who like to
talk about our craft and share what we've
written. We'll highlight favorite poets, review
new books, and explore the process of writing
poetry from inspiration to conclusion. (We might
venture into essays and short fiction, too.) We
hope you'll like our blog — and contribute your
own thought and poems.
Sally Zakariya, Poetry Editor
Richer Resources Publications
Charan Sue Wollard
(LivermoreLit)
Kevin Taylor
(Poet-ch'i)
Sherry Weaver Smith
(SherrysKnowledgeQuest)
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| ARCHIVES |
Company of Poets
One of
the best things about writing poetry is getting
to know other people who do. The Northern
Virginia Poetry Salon, a regional venture by
members of the Poetry Society of Virginia, gives
poets a chance to get together informally each
month to read and critique each others’ work.
We’re a diverse and lively bunch, and I think
our work is strengthened by the feedback. Here’s
a poem by one member that resonated with all of
us:
Eleanor
She could pull a hockey stop
Yet in that school day rite of Spring,
A native of Massachusetts, Eric Forsbergh wrote
poetry in high school and college. After a 25
year hiatus, he resumed in 2010, and is
currently an active member of the Poetry Society
of Virginia. He lives in Reston, and is a
Vietnam veteran.
Let us know what you think,
and what you’re writing.—S.Z.
Poetry Prompt
Write a poem about something you lost. Write a
poem using these words: cheese, bird, navy.
Write a poem about a dream. Write a poem
about yourself in which nothing is true. A
negligible
example:
I lost my youth
None of this is true except the lost youth.—S.Z.
What Are You Writing?
Why should we get all the bylines? Submit your
latest poem—just one for now—and we’ll publish
the poems we like best in an upcoming blog post.
Simultaneous submissions are fine, but please
let us know if the poem is accepted or published
elsewhere. Send your poem, plus a few lines
about yourself, in the body of an e-mail message
to:
poetryeditor@RicherResourcesPublications.com
By Eric Forsbergh
before the age of nine,
an airborne girlish glitter off her blades
spraying ice at me.
Our winter snow was surely eight kids
deep.
She gripped her stick, a four boy
hand-me-down,
with certainty,
flicking at the puck.
What could I learn from Eleanor,
my torso loose, my face drawn out in
fascination?
Someone very different: Girl – I thought –
out on miles of vacant ice edging town,
a chunk of Maine.
My feet splayed. My ankles bent.
I could have done as well in shackles,
not knowing how to skate.
I watched her jump the groaning cracks.
I thought the puck would skitter out of
sight.
when polio might sprinkle around
a share of shriveled limbs,
nurses stood starched upright,
with trays of syringes,
as realization jostled down the fourth
grade line.
Stepping up to get the swab and jab,
Eleanor passed out,
thunk echoing in the gym.
Hockey crumpled in me when she did.
Darting out of line, I leaned over her,
drawn, even today,
to a softness in the restless freckles
now adrift on her unconscious face,
to the shining corona of her long brown
hair
fanned out upon the polished floor.
I dreamed I found it
in my
dream a navy blue bird
offered me blue cheese