NOR Blogger Carnival!!

Seeing as I recently found out that it's National Poetry Month (thanks Holly!), I'd like to challenge you, dear readers. I'm not even a huge fan of poetry myself but I do firmly believe that poetry is like music (or even blogging): you won't like every artist and of those you do like, you won't like every track, but there's something out there for everyone.

No, I won't be posting poems every day (although I stand by my decision to post the last one). And no, I won't make you read/analyze/or otherwise consume straight-up poetry. Instead, I'd like to take the intimidation factor out of poetic language.

But how?? Let me show you through bloggers that you're already reading and enjoying (if you're not, you should be). Without further delay, welcome to the first ever Handpicked-Without-Telling-You-NOR-Blogger-Carnival!

Subtlety in conveying emotion from Speak On It:

Every time, we end up sharing a bed. I wonder if he realizes I have a hard time breathing when his hand grazes my back or his leg finds itself wound up in my own.

I wonder if he knows how much I smiled when he wrapped his fingers around mine, guiding me up the staircase so I wouldn't fall. It was the light squeeze he gave, right before we let go, that really did it.

I wonder if he knows that I look him in the eyes as often as possible, because I want to memorize them better than anything else. Yet, when conversation starts to veer a bit, I have to look away.

I'm afraid he might see what I'm feeling.

My eyes, like his, are a dead give away for what's going on inside our heads.

Controlling pace, timing and emphasis from Surviving Myself:

We had drinks at a rooftop bar near my office. I actually drank wine because I was with a Beautiful Woman, which made me feel better about drinking something Not So Manly.

On our way out to go to dinner, a guy who we had to squeeze by, looked me up and down and said, “Where are you going???”

I ignored him and kept walking.

As we headed down the steps, Ari told me, “That guy loved you!”

She then told me that as we passed he checked out my ass and said, “Don’t leave!”

This kind of thing happens to me all the time.

Men like me.

They really do.

Getting readers thinking without telling them what to think from Stylish Handwriting:

There was a framed needlepoint note hanging on the burgundy wall of the bathroom at the restaurant we ate at last night.

Its final line was the one that struck me as I was waiting in line.

“Love is the answer, no matter what the question is.”

Painting a picture from Half Deserted Streets:

I know the exact moment when I realized that I loved him. We were in a pizzaria in Gainesville, waiting for our food. My hands were in front of me on the table and I was carelessly tearing apart a napkin. We were talking about something far from monumental, the weather, a film, a book, and I was sucked into our conversation. The waitress came by with our food and I jumped. So absorbed in the moment, I never realized that the pizzaria was crowded, that a stereo was playing some 80's songs and that this waitress was asking us questions.

This just had to be included from Coming Home:

The hatred I felt was like a sieve, sucking me inward, breaking me apart, piece by piece, so that when I fell with a thud in my own personal hell, my scattered parts were so far gone that I could not be put back together so easily.

Remember, get your pieces published by submitting them to the All Rights Reserved Literary Journal. You folks have got more talent than you realize.