Warning: Sensitive topic broached.
Björn at dVerse: MTB asks us to write a cadralor, which poetic form consists of "5, unrelated, numbered stanzaic images, each of which can stand alone as a poem, is fewer than 10 lines, and ideally constrains all stanzas to the same number of lines. Imagery is crucial to cadralore: each stanza should be a whole, imagist poem, almost like a scene from a film, or a photograph. The fifth stanza acts as the crucible, alchemically pulling the unrelated stanzas together into a love poem. By “love poem,” we mean that your fifth stanza illuminates a gleaming thread that runs obliquely through the unrelated stanzas and answers the compelling question: 'For what do you yearn?'" Click on Mr. Linky to join us.
A bird cries over the tele- phone wire, is it you? is it done? over black shrouded head
Shiny pruning shears in her gloved hands, methodically apply to de- locate dead heads, snip, snip
There once was a small torso in a womb severally dislodged by forceps into medical waste
If death comes in slippered feet, will they curl at the ends or just your lips? Mother?
All the ghosts have left, barren in winter, the autumn leaves twist the sea breezes rustle in her mind.
Now I know that poetry is a razor blade slipped into a caramel dipped apple of eve’s desire sharp and tangy . . .
is as love’s wounding rigor mortis of bites ennui-soaked languid post-mortem of shamanic rites . . .
is a coroner’s tableau of victims bodies stretched out on gurneys for the inquest after the serial killer slips free of the electric chair because the judge knew his brother cain at harvard law . . .
is hummingbirds and bats dandelions, a lover’s hand broken stalks, memories . . .
is my heart laid out across the sky a constellation charted out of unknown algorithms multiplied to infinity dove’s wings rapidly beating now.
Today Victoria is guest-hosting at dVerse: Meeting the Bar and asks us to write a "Solilo-Quoi?", paying extra attention to form or other poetic devices in our self-talk. Click Mr. Linky for more and join in.
The ginkgo fans green Spring blows soft upon your face Sleep has come too soon In a place where leaves open To dream under the full moon
My thoughts go to a friend who lost his mother a year ago this month. This same month a friend died at the age of 91 who had been as a second father to me. Yet May is a merry month, reminding us that a new life awaits us where death no more reigns.
For Cee's Flower of the Day Challenge (FOTD): "Don’t forget that my FOTD challenge accepts leaves and berries as well as flowers."
Laura at dVerse asks us to reinterpret one of several Chinese poems. I’ve chosen to reimagine “Stopping at Incense Storing Temple” by Wang Wei.
When in the concatenation of bells that toll I stop at dusty pools of ghost-bearing scents The rains having come and gone, ashes remain The acrid smoke of the dead stings my eyes Choking the young, ridiculing the old I turn away to the bowers of forest glades Where You await storing love’s incense And I like a wanderer home at last Stand strong in Your warm embrace Escaping the dragon of the past To rise with You to eternal joy.
In November the sunlight dapples over dead leaves wind rustles memories free storms sweep tombs, unearth bones beleaguer dead valleys to awaken an exiled Ezekiel’s breath: “The end is not night Sleep is not death Your seed-borne husk betokens Jerusalem’s dawn is nigh.”
For dVerse’s MTB this week, Frank asks us to write a Jisei (Japanese Death Poem) in either a haikai or haikai-esque form of ten lines or less.Click on Mr. Linky to join in!
Broken shadows across the cracked ground your grave day lost in flurried words like September leaves across yesterday’s hallowed ground grief yet uninterred: you six years gone from my sight till Day breaks.
Awakened to an eerie self-examination of the soul
on the steel-cold surface under surgically precise lights
unentombing cancers, contagion-carrying arteries, dismembered
corruption to the dispassionate gaze of an Enemy brooding,
Still sweating under the administered fumes seeping
through pores, guilt-driven language of parents driven
from home to carnage of children preying on children, warfare
of wretched depravity in the eyes of a man, a woman seething,
Cannot speak, cannot hear, cannot see, cannot feel anything
but the weight of irreversible fate, the darts of the Enemy
injections of delirious oblivion only to awaken to endless night
where no refuge lies from grief and fear and the hate pursuing,
Helpless, my tongue dry, the light dims, darkness closes in,
but a voice is heard, a minister to prophesy over the bitter
collocation of bones, unholy, “O dry bones, hear the word of the LORD!”-
prophesy!- in the body and the blood a Life that is not mine breathes,
It can’t be smoke that drives you here like a leaf
Caught in a funeral pyre or a sinner fleeing in shame!
What fell blast of Hell’s eternal fire brings you, cruel shade
Upon my porch, and feeds the tendrils of your fiery flame?
Begone, you ghost of the foul-mouthed past that stalks
The children of men, to warn of never-ending death
And griefs that ne’er can mend! Begone upon your walks
Of doom and leave me to life’s revelry and vice
Until its trinkets be a dream and I a shadow like you.