My friend Becky found this exercise via Stan Carey’s book spine poem.
“We’ve got to do this,” she said, and she did, and hers is beautiful.
Roman fever in the house of mirth.
a backward glance among the pond people.
Midnight magic: stuff of sleep and dreams.
The wound and the bow eats, shoots,
Children of the new forest,
to the summit!
A rumor of angels.
. . .
Writing a book spine poem can inspire even the deadest poet. I know, as I had a certain form of writer’s block for about three years.
Writing a book spine poem is like writing any poem, but easier, because the Muse is the books you love.
The Muse is not elusive in this exercise, because your books are there. They call to you as they always do, and they come together almost on their own as you collect them based on title, emotion, and tactual feel.
It’s an architecture as you build with books like stones.
Try one and let me know how it goes!