Poetry: What’s new? How about origami poems
The Origami Poem Project began a couple of years ago when 2nd Story Theater cofounder Pat Hegnauer shared with friends the technique she had...
The Origami Poem Project began a couple of years ago when 2nd Story Theater cofounder Pat Hegnauer shared with friends the technique she had learned of making a complete book of tiny poems out of a single sheet of paper.
Like the ancient art for which it is named, the beauty of origami books is in their smallness, their charm, their hyper-efficient use of space and language, and their clever way of teasing readers into their tiny world. As any origami artist will attest, it’s all in the folding.
Poet Barbara Schweitzer, who facilitates writing workshops for the Poetry Loft, decided to pass the idea along as a kind of prompt to the 15 or so poets in the group. The form has certain demands, and Barbara’s prompt, specifically, was to write a poem 16 lines long or less, with line lengths of only 47 characters each, including spaces. Then write four more in the same format.
For maximum impact, an origami book should contain five poems.
As Barbara says: “After the poems were written, the hands-on demonstration of folding a single piece of paper into a book took place. We were pretty sure we had all fallen into a hole between time and space and were back in kindergarten (where the most important things seem hidden).”
The idea of being able to create a personal book of poems caught fire. Group members built Plexiglas box containers for the poems, and designed various graphics to catch the eye. Soon the boxes of tiny books were distributed around South County, and soon after that could be found in libraries, bookstores, art centers, and coffee shops throughout the state, from Westerly to the East Side of Providence to Cumberland. So far, 19 poets are involved, and 47 books have been published.
And here’s the best part: Origami books are free. They can be read on the spot or saved for later. Their size is perfect for a pocket. In fact, the project was highlighted by The Academy of American Poets during National Poem-in-a-Pocket Week.
This is clearly an idea with serious legs. To make poetry a free gift benefits the reader, the writer, and the fact of poetry itself. The group recently displayed their efforts at the Block Island Art Festival, where the tiny books, each a different color, were strung out across clotheslines. Free for the taking.
I’ve selected a random sampling as a taste. More information can be found at origamipoems.com.
Spiritual Weight
Father, I am at the table
knife & fork for one;
your spirit in the kitchen
cries & breaks my bread.
Father, I am eating rice
not wanting to be home;
my bowl is cracked & yellow
your spoon cuts my tongue.
Father, I am frying a fish
needing to eat its dream;
mine got drowned in the river
when autumn turned me gray.
Father, I am laying our plates
dull from dried-up tears;
grief seasons the meat
I swallow at every meal.
Selvedge
between the sloping turf
and the quiet cove
lies the salt marsh
there rushes grow
and the water bird dwells
neither land nor sea
but a joining of the two
and in floodtide
the swans rest
on images of themselves.
I Manage . . .
I manage to remind myself
to wind the stars and set them
so they return at night.
I manage to try on my life
so it’s always atop the jars
filled with long ago and maybe.
I manage to pick up my smile
where I last left it,
on the doorstep of twilight.
I manage to find the street of you
and others where you might be,
hiding the map from everyone else.
Spiritual Weight
Father, I am at the table
knife & fork for one;
your spirit in the kitchen
cries & breaks my bread.
Father, I am eating rice
not wanting to be home;
my bowl is cracked & yellow
your spoon cuts my tongue.
Father, I am frying a fish
needing to eat its dream;
mine got drowned in the river
when autumn turned me gray.
Father, I am laying our plates
dull from dried-up tears;
grief seasons the meat
I swallow at every meal.
Selvedge
between the sloping turf
and the quiet cove
lies the salt marsh
there rushes grow
and the water bird dwells
neither land nor sea
but a joining of the two
and in floodtide
the swans rest
on images of themselves.
I Manage …
I manage to remind myself
to wind the stars and set them
so they return at night.
I manage to try on my life
so it’s always atop the jars
filled with long ago and maybe.
I manage to pick up my smile
where I last left it,
on the doorstep of twilight.
I manage to find the street of you
and others where you might be,
hiding the map from everyone else.
