A poem-a-day for National Poetry Month

Prompt #27: Still Life

Today’s photos and prompt brought to you by Shanna Germain:



Using one of the photos above or below, write a ‘still-life’ poem. The goal is to recreate the image(s) with your own filter while still keeping some of the essence of the original. It’s a good time to think about objects and what significance they have on their own versus the significance that is given to them by the viewer/artist/poet.




Reminders for Participants: You can post your poem below in the comments, offer a link back to your site where the poem is posted, or comment about the experience of writing the poem (without actually posting the poem). If you’re going to comment on other participant’s poems, please remember that this is not a critique space — comments should be kept thoughtful and supportive. Lastly, remember you don’t have to use the prompt to write your poem — they’re here for your inspiration but they’re certainly not a requirement.

Let the Wild Poeming Being!

20 responses

  1. who might depend

    a red bi-

    sunk in wood

    against the white

    Sorry, couldn’t resist it 🙂

    April 26, 2011 at 11:20 pm

  2. That is a handsome bicycle. I’ve gone offprompt again:


    April 27, 2011 at 3:21 am

  3. Forgive the slightly lame play on words in the title, but I thought it fit nicely.


    April 27, 2011 at 4:37 am

  4. b_y

    I actually have some of those bottles.


    April 27, 2011 at 8:03 am

  5. Pingback: Poem #27 « Black Satin

  6. Wonderful prompts, Shanna. Here’s my take on the glass photo:

    April 27, 2011 at 8:52 am

  7. -blush-

    Couldn’t even follow my own prompt. Whoops.



    April 27, 2011 at 9:56 am

  8. dorlamoorehouse

    I did another 7 Deadly Sins poem. I’m quite happy with this one!!


    April 27, 2011 at 12:41 pm

  9. Pingback: Old shed « Tony Linde

  10. Poem at http://wp.me/pbg4K-5z. Didn’t really work but it’s late so will have to do.

    April 27, 2011 at 2:18 pm

  11. Kam Leitner

    Blue death
    or red
    soul stealing mirror
    False window
    false god
    yet we pray to you
    and perish

    April 27, 2011 at 5:58 pm

  12. Not quite a still life, but an oh-so American sentence popped into my head with the first photo:

    Red, white, and blue rests in leaves, tattering seat over sprouted green.

    (also at http://lovesgoodfood.com/jason/posts/Day_27_2011/ )

    April 27, 2011 at 6:45 pm

  13. (I’m trying out a 10-line form called a tritina.)

    In the Weeds of the Yard

    The weeds in the yard grow between the spokes,
    the rust red bicycle, basket planted
    with bright red geraniums, lush green leaves

    show up the flaking paint, and so we leave
    when we think there is no hope, no one spoke,
    there was no protest, and nothing planted

    in the spring, the time lost. Who will plant it
    if there is no courage? Instead we leave.
    All the empty bottles in the window spoke,

    spoke of roots planted, so we did not leave.

    April 27, 2011 at 7:10 pm

  14. We gave away as much as we could after she died
    Driving to Hood River twice a week to sort out the belongings
    While my brother lingered in the barn smoking cigarillos and burning trash in the iron stove

    I dealt with the bottles and jars last
    As they were everywhere, 87 years’ worth of sentimentality
    Some were hers, some she bought
    There were tags and notes on about half and I knew most were worthless

    Once containing medicine, hair tonic, oils, and elixers, they stood in rows and stacked in boxes in all shades of green, brown and yellow, aged opacity in depression glass and colonial shapes, pre- and post-war

    It took two and a half months to sort it all out, give it all away
    And my brother, still stoking the fire in the barn, having idly camped out all this time
    While snuffing out his cigar butt
    Looks up at me and says, “Looks like we finally did it”

    April 27, 2011 at 7:10 pm

  15. Day 27

    27 days
    scraping syllables off wall
    making poetry

    I don’t know where ideas come from
    I don’t know what art is, or why
    this thing is and this thing isn’t.
    I’m quite sure I don’t want to know
    why this one makes money
    and that one starved.
    And if you push me on it
    push me to explain my own work
    I’ll just give you seventeen syllables
    and let you reassemble
    your own thoughts

    April 27, 2011 at 7:45 pm

  16. Somewhat of a dare from a co-worker. (it was an interesting day)


    April 27, 2011 at 8:16 pm

  17. Jennifer P-W

    To the Women

    Some writing is too heavy
    to carry: pin it on
    the blank white wall
    wearing nothing
    but your faith–
    do you know this place?

    Wounded women who can’t
    quit dying–
    don’t be one of them.

    Don’t let words
    be your coffin.

    J. Pratt-Walter

    April 27, 2011 at 9:37 pm

  18. Bill Noble

    Here I am, for the first time in the month, a day behind (and no sure inspiration for the 28th in hand).


    Inscribing the words costs so much
    per word, depending on the font

    and whether they reside on scruff
    or slick (workmen’s terms of art).

    Nothing less than granite is the stone
    of choice, pink or gray, but a month

    before installation, it is necessary
    to dig and form and pour the footing,

    which goes safely below winter cold.
    Stone is testament to your enduring

    sentiment. The words mean “dead.”

    April 28, 2011 at 5:33 pm

  19. Still Life With Bottles

    Output of the glass man’s art
    Fallout of the interface of human breath
    That calls the dance of molten silica
    And steel

    Soldiers stand, attentive, tall and slim or otherwise
    Crystal lattice calls the tune this time,
    Iron laws of physics twisting photons

    Bend the rays, reflect the waves,
    Reveal the emptiness within,
    The sunlit prairie, warm without

    April 29, 2011 at 12:31 am