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.
flowers from seeds, and seeds from flowers, the ground tills itself as the seasons roll forward in time’s span
the wind cannot hold back the changes, no matter when changes make beauty shine brighter in being
Written in Badger Hexastitch (2-4-6-6-4-2) for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday (prompt: use synonyms for “life” and “move”); photo challenge entry for Cee’s Flower of the Day (FOTD)
I’ve dotted my ‘i’s and crossed my ‘t’s restless for a spot of afternoon tea in my garden retreat
Disclaimer: This photo’s from my neighbor’s garden. So many of my neighbors are dedicated gardeners and it’s a pleasure to admire their lovely gardens on my walks. I have no garden, but a lovely balcony.It’s good for a spot of tea too!
For Cee’s Flower of the Day challenge: “Don’t forget that my FOTD challenge accepts leaves and berries as well as flowers.“ And Sammi’s 19-words-only challenge using “restless.”
Mish at dVerse’s “Poetics” asks us to take on the persona of a color, “imagine what they see . . . . slip out of our human bodies and become nothing but a color.” So it is written, so it is done, but in the voice of one particular color, Vincent van Gogh’s yellow.
Van Gogh died in July 1890 from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest.
Vincent Van Gogh, Wheatfield with Crows (July 1890)
When you turn to me away from Rachel For whom you sheared your face of an ear Isn’t the world brighter, like sunflowers? And the walls of your house in Arles Lavishly canvased, as the awnings As cafés, bedframes, straw hats, sunsets I am the light running before you Swirling you up to starry nights and moons Away from the blackness of eyes That never see you like I have seen you Radiant in the waving fields of wheat Until the day you clasp your hands Round the ochred skin of despair.
Vincent Van Gogh, Sorrowing Old Man (‘At Eternity’s Gate’), 1890
Lisa at dVerse asks us to write a quadrille (poem of 44 words) using the word “way.” Here’s my drowsy offering as midnight creeps closer. Click on Mr. Linky to join in!
Photo by Steve Johnson from Pexels
When sleep comes my way darkness warm like mother’s milk lulls my hungry wakeful eyes, I sink at last in ocean light to caverns deep where you await a Prospero’s Ariel caught betwixt reflections of the world above and the mirrors of my mind.
Common-Place or “Locus Communis” — a place to remember
Anglo-American poet W. H. Auden wrote “September 1, 1939” at the outbreak of World War II in Europe. It’s a poem that’s often quoted during times of crises such as ours, and only seems to highlight the recurring cycles of political dissimulation and media exacerbated fury that escalates into tragedy. While battling a virus, we’ve “cancelled” each other and branded each other racists and bigots. We’ve listened to politicians and oligopolies wildlydenounce opponents of their agendas as terrorists. We’ve been witness to unchecked brutality this past year as our cities burned with mob violence during which thirty people were murdered, and neighborhoods and livelihoods went up in smokewhile governors and mayors watched.
Auden began the poem with these words:
I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night.
In the penultimate stanza he cautions: “We must love one another or die.” The same holds true today.
All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.
excerpt from W. H. Auden’s September 1, 1939
Read the complete poem at poets.org. And hear the poet Dylan Thomas read it below.
Time rebounds in dabs of paint Watery sun soaks through space Sensations blur Colors seep Diminishing lines Reflections slur Your hands, your face Gaze untendered Unbristled, still A warm attention Encompassing all Formidable will Probing memory Dark sublime Time rebounds in dabs of paint.
It’s the weekend, right? Let’s relax and party, maybe do a little rap for Michelle’s #JanuaryWritingPrompts (“space juice”), Sammi’s #WWP (100 words, “crucible”), and Linda’s #JusJoJan & #SOC (“limitless”). Hope you enjoy it! ❤️
Today, Michelle’s writing prompt (“pregnant guppies”) had me flummoxed. Seemed impossible to fit it in with summertime and roses for Cee’s FOTD challenge. Tried anyway. 😉
Here I am in winter mourning Yearning for summer’s golden rays When fertile gardens bloom blushing roses And pregnant guppies swim moonlit pools.
