Poetry Retreat in Phoenix

Enjoy our amazing winter sunsets in Phoenix, along with this amazing retreat. "John Fox is the most sensitive and effective teacher of poetic medicine I know. He listens to both poem and person deeply, and he is a master as guiding others." --Courney Davis, NP Redding, CT

Enjoy our amazing winter sunsets in Phoenix, along with this amazing retreat. “John Fox is the most sensitive and effective teacher of poetic medicine I know. He listens to both poem and person deeply, and he is a master as guiding others.” –Courney Davis, NP Redding, CT

Most of you know I am studying to become a poetry therapist. The work is deep and rich and wonderful. If you have ever wanted to get closer to poetry, to attend a poetry retreat, this is your opportunity.

The retreat is being held on February 24 to 26 (Friday evening through Sunday at noon) in central Phoenix, Arizona. It’s being presented by John Fox, the head of the Institute for Poetic Medicine.

Retreat Title: The Seven Gifts of Poetry: Poetry as a Pathway to Renewal
When: February 24-26 (Friday evening through Sunday noon.)
Where: Villa Del Coronado, Phoenix (Mid-Town), walking distance from the Phoenix  Art Museum light rail stop
Price: $130, does not include hotel or meals.

For more information or to make your reservation, contact me via the comments or the contact page on this website.

The intention is to serve as encouragement and catalyst for poem making in your personal journey. The retreat will include gentle, evocative and poignant writing prompts, writing and sharing of your own writing. No prior experience is necessary.

I’ve attended John’s retreats and they are a wonderful break from the frantic world of to-do lists and endless work. You’ll work deeply and leave refreshed. You’ll spend a few days with new friends, no one is a stranger for long in John’s retreats.

Give the retreat as a gift of renewal for the holidays!

 

The Night Balcony

Inside my house,
Inside my mind
the lights are on.
The books shift, wanting to be read.

Night lightning in Phoenix. © Quinn McDonald, 2016. All rights reserved.

Night lightning in Phoenix. © Quinn McDonald, 2016. All rights reserved.

My to-do list stretches, reaching for another ream of paper.
My phone buzzes, chirps, and rattles with impatience.
My cat sinks his claws into my thigh, hungry for attention.

Dear God, it’s like being nibbled to death by ducks.
All this quiet, so I can work.

I push the heavy slider wide,
and step onto the night balcony.
The light rail leaves a station, clanging on its way.
Cars honk, people laughing, cursing, singing, 14 floors below.
Lights shimmer, blink and fuss, directing traffic,
calling for attention.

On the night balcony
all that noise is someone else’s
And I can fade into the stillness,
and be gone.

—Quinn McDonald is a practitioner of poetic healing.

Poems and Collage

© Forgotten Memories, Quinn McDonald. 2016, All rights reserved.

© Forgotten Memories, Quinn McDonald. 2016, All rights reserved. Monsoon paper, walnut ink, alcohol inks on Yupo.

Art doesn’t have to be just one thing. I like to combine writing and collage. But I don’t like tearing words out of a magazine and using that. It’s great for vision boards, but I like collage to be more coordinated.

In this collage, I used writing as a background. I also stylized the writing so it is not readable. I didn’t want the viewer to be distracted or to feel that reading was part of experiencing the art.

The collage was part of creating an assignment for my grad school program in poetic medicine. We were to create the collage first, then the poem. I tried to do that, but it’s not how I work. At least not successfully. So I wrote the poem below, then created the collage.

Forgotten Memories
The brick building had been extended
(twice already),
a poured foundation ready for this,
the third expansion.

Three different weathered shades of brick,
a muddled patchwork marking time.

“Memory Center”—clearly, a lie.
The memories have long faded
from this center’s rooms,
bleached into shadows
like the rising wings of birds
migrating
against the moon
during a break in the clouds.

–Quinn McDonald is studying poetic medicine. She is also a trainer in business writing.

Taxi Story 516

From airport to hotel
it’s 45 minutes of dark freeway.
I’m hoping for one memorable taxi story.

One time the driver was drunk
and screaming.
I screamed louder and he
set me out in the middle of the road
and left me there.

But not tonight.
Tonight the driver wrapped me in his easy smile
and used his musical voice to stash my bag
confidently into his cab’s back seat.

Five minutes later, my taxi story started
with him telling me about his life
driving strangers
through rain and fog and life uncertain.

His dream, he sighed, was med school, “But it’s so expensive,”
so he works a double shift on weekends,
stoking his mojo to clear the path ahead.

He asked me what I did for work.
“I”m a writer,” I said,
speaking my big truth into the dark,
hoping it was still true.

He had a book in him, he said,
and I thought, “More than one, for sure.”
He asked if I wrote poetry,
and I held my breath before I said,
“I do.”
It sounded like a vow.

“I do not understand poetry so much,” he said,
and when I asked, “What poets do you read?” he said,
“Rabelais and Rimbaud,” I thought, “Well, no wonder.”
“Try Billy Collins,” I suggested,
and wrote it down for him.

“Tonight is like an adventure with you,” he said,
handing me my bag and receipt.
“What’s your name?” I asked
and was not surprised when he replied,
with solemn, formal, introduction,
“Call me Ishmael.”

— © Quinn McDonald, All rights reserved. 2016

Learning to Laugh at Yourself

Yes, the old site is being put back into service. It makes sense to post my poetry and artwork here. I wanted to have one site, but I cover a lot of ground, from art to poetry, to business writing and development. It’s a lot to expect people to understand. I needed a home for poetry, and as I move toward becoming a practitioner of poetic medicine, a place to talk about the power of poetry.

I’m also making my alcohol ink artwork available for sale, on the Art Gallery page.

For today, a poem about love and the importance of laughing at yourself instead of focusing on your love’s shortcomings.

Life Skating
It’s easier to fall in love than stay in love.
Much like skating requires learning to fall
Before you master gliding steadily ahead;
Easily, without windmilling arms
And grasping fingers.

Fall-in-love behaviors, (labeled dreamily, “exotic,”)
Slowly morph to “just annoying.”
The trick, just like in skating,
Is adjusting my Center of Gravity.

Squinting to find a polished patch of long-term love
under all those randomly-strewn shortcomings,
heading for that, jumping over unstable, glistening failures,
finding the direction by listening for
The really rich, full-throated laughing at myself.

© Quinn McDonald, 2016. All rights reserved. Quinn McDonald is a writer and creativity coach.

 

Email Agony (Sorry J. Kilmer)

I think that I shall never see
an email answered thoroughly.

Replies that answer questions asked
instead of adding to my task.

Concise with information needed
Instead of three-times asked and pleadedsadtree2

And then forgotten with a Huh?
A smiley face, a shrug, a “Doh!”

I hunger for a sentence rich
with information, scratch my itch!

It isn’t hard, first read, then write
Answer the question, end the plight!

-Quinn McDonald hopes Joyce Kilmer will forgive her. He never had to deal with emails that don’t get answered, or get partially answered.

Build Your Day

Some days need just a poem to get you started.

The Journey

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.

It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

–Quinn McDonald loves the spare power of poetry.