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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)

books
Richer Resources Publications

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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
By Eric Forsbergh

She could pull a hockey stop
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.

Yet in that school day rite of Spring,
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.

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.

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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
I dreamed I found it
in my dream a navy blue bird
offered me blue cheese

None of this is true except the lost youth.—S.Z.

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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