Announcing One Gigantic Collaborative Poetry Event

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The Quatrain Project

Welcome to our Quatrain Project in honor of the fourth anniversary issue of Gyroscope Review, which will be released in April 2019.

The Quatrain Project is a collaborative effort in which we invite you to take part. How do you do that? Simply add a line to the ongoing poem by typing it into a comment below and make sure that your full name is shown in the comment so we know who you are. 

One comment per person, please. We want to give as many people as possible a chance to participate during the month of February. On February 28, we will close the comments and see what we have. All the lines will be divided into quatrains, in the order in which they appear, because a fourth anniversary issue deserves a poem that honors things in fours, right? Editors will round out the end of the poem to complete a final quatrain if necessary.

Then what will happen with this giant collaborative poem? We will publish the final result in our fourth anniversary issue! (That’s why we need your name.) 

To get things rolling, the editors of Gyroscope Review have collaborated on the first quatrain, shown below:

Your obituary in the NY Times twice mentioned rhododendrons

as if to tell the world that you too planted roots in the Appalachian rust

and found ways to bloom over and over again, made your own luck

hard as the gritty dirt encrusting ten year old boots and new laces

(now you, readers and poets, take it forward!)

UPDATE AS OF FEBRUARY 28: COMMENTS HAVE NOW BEEN CLOSED. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATED IN OUR GIANT COLLABORATIVE POETRY EVENT! WATCH FOR THE RELEASE OF OUR APRIL 2019 ISSUE ON APRIL 1.

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31 responses to “Announcing One Gigantic Collaborative Poetry Event”

  1. Oonah Joslin says:

    you were budding, bright, brash but ultimately delicate

  2. Marissa Glover says:

    Spring is a sad gift to those still living, a reminder

  3. Carmen Maldonado says:

    sitting on the shoulders, growing heavy with the rain

  4. and as the rain falls, you were left wondering—

  5. Sarah Carey says:

    that tending, we revisit all we might amend, if past were prologue

  6. or future a hidden refrain, as if every fruit-bearing flower you glimpse

  7. that escaped the seasonal respiration of transitional frost could be

  8. Jacqueline Bogatek says:

    a trivial seed that had once fractured enormous boulders

  9. Myla Grier says:

    Containing heart memories, stories of love unleashed

  10. And in angel tongue, in grief language, bargaining in plastic sonic

  11. the future ain’t so far away with bullets at any moment

  12. Richard Archer says:

    We will all jerk and dance briefly but with such energy and fire

  13. Caron Freeborn says:

    A double-basket, then, of long-named flowers

  14. Cathy Bryant says:

    With colours in many languages, as you grew

  15. Helen Rose says:

    Hearts full, whilst souls ache among fallen petals

  16. That pillow breath against barbed blades of grass

  17. Like violet fire burning something with pulses on

  18. Zola Hardwick says:

    Your memory gives me solace throughout my toughest times.

  19. Bobby Sheldone says:

    But memory if fleeting, like wind through blades of grass

  20. Unless we anchor it with love amidst the sea of sorrow

  21. JC Sulzenko says:

    Unravelling now, we forget the double-knot grandma showed us how to tie

  22. Toti O'Brien says:

    fingers dripping with honey, nails rimmed with moons of gold

  23. R. Joyce Heon says:

    That Celtic marvel designed to keep the cord rubbing against itself

  24. Marcy McNally says:

    as the fragrant petals descend into your boot print etched with falling, windswept tears

  25. Donetta says:

    rain may muddy your print on Earth but my memory firmly holds

  26. Of your backbone holding my mountain rockslide, our feet in the rhododendrons

  27. Megha Sood says:

    your crow’s feet neatly carrying the pain of those times

  28. Thylias Moss says:

    eager to spilt in to bouquet possibilities

  29. born and raised in the mountains of the east

  30. Dick Hagen says:

    passing through and entangling these vines and wishes

  31. where does death take its boot heavy grief