Incantation poetry – a simple way to write every day

“We wake in the morning, buy yellow cheese, and hope we have enough money to pay for it.” Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones.

For me, good writing is more than a great plot and gripping characters, it’s the details that bring vitality. Ordinary moments tell you so much; a chip in a china teacup for example, a frayed edge on a blanket, whether an elderly gentleman’s shirt has been pressed, the way a character folds their hands neatly in their lap as they wait for a train. Small, specific details can lift a story off the page. I think it can be so useful to get into the habit of recording these specifics as part of your writing practise. You develop a keener eye for minutiae. It’s like exercising any muscle, it becomes part of your process, ingrained.

“Attention is the beginning of devotion.” Mary Oliver.

There are lots of excellent ways to polish your skills. A journal is an obvious start, but diaries are often quite self-reflective. It’s important to look outwards too, to pay attention to everyday details around you. One of my favourite exercises for this comes from author and creator of the Writing in the Dark newsletter, Jeannine Ouellette who practises so-called daily incantations. The idea is to spend five minutes each day in pure observation and note down what you see, in simple, clear language, in fragments rather than complete sentences, no metaphors, no flowery descriptors. I choose a spot and set my alarm, so it’s focused.

When you’re done, choose five observations that resonate with you for any reason, and put them in sentences in the form of a poem, starting each fragment with I am …. or You are….

It’s an easy, fun way to write without any pressure. It’s mindful, it sharpens your observational skills and encourages plain, clean prose, which is the cornerstone of good writing in any genre. Give it a go. And, do check out Jeannine’s website or sign up for her newsletter. It’s full of tiny diamonds that will stir your creative soul and remind you that sometimes the process of creation is more important than the outcome.

Here’re a couple of mine.

From the Window on the Bus to Eaton

I am a green-striped silver train.

I am a distant city, obscured by smoke.

I am a small grove of trees, burnt black by fire.

I am a clear, high blue sky.

I am a yellow car, from another era.

Hospital Waiting Room

You are a bear sitting in a paper plane, travelling across a night sky.

You are a neatly folded pile of crocheted blankets.

You are light falling on a beige formica side table.

You are a silver teaspoon, coffee stained.

You are an exit sign, green man running on a white background.