Okay, the weekend was a little wild and unpredictable–from wiping out comments to not letting me post any prompts (and then eventually posting multiple prompts). Hopefully, we can get back to a little normalcy for the final week or so of poeming. Time to make a stand.
No, really, the prompt today is to write a poem that takes a stand. This could be a political stand, religious stand, personal stand, or I guess a poem about the ability to stand–or setting up a stand (think vegetable stand or newspaper stand, etc.). Whatever your thing, be sure to take a poetic stand today.
My own personal stand: Please play nice–everyone has their own stands, so please try not to stand on anyone’s toes just because your stand is different than their stand. Remember: We’re all poets here.
Here’s my attempt:
“Handstand”
I never could do a handstand.
First, my body was always built
for running. It wasn’t until
high school that I could do pull ups,
not until college I perform
dips with my triceps, and by then,
I wasn’t properly balanced
to try lifting my inverted
body off the ground and holding–
fingers first and feet last. Not all
is lost. There’s something to be said
for keeping my feet on the ground
and viewing the world right side up.
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Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
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Cover your nightstand in poetic instruction with these titles:
- Writing the Life Poetic, by Sage Cohen
- The Poetry Dictionary, by John Drury
- 2011 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer
- Writing Metrical Poetry, by William Baer
Outstanding
A cold August day
When the sun shines
Only in broken shards
I go fishing.
You need a rod, line,
A few flies and pants that
You won’t get in trouble
For if you get them wet
Or muddy or maybe even
Rip a little just on the top
Of the calf. (That can hurt
If barb wire causes the tear.)
Can you say blood?
This wet wading requires
Little equipment beyond
Your own two feet (maybe
A felt sole to keep your
Legs from going rubbery
On moss covered stones.)
Water too cold?
Bah! after a few minutes
Your extremities numb
Sufficiently that you don’t
Mind what kind of obsene
Things the current-drug
rocks do to your ankles.
Life requires this kind of day
Occasionally, proving the
Exception to the point that
If you aren’t good for something
Then you are good for nothing.
So give me a good-for-nothing
Day to shiver wet and attempt
To coax a few less educated
Fish into biting where they
Hadn’t ought to.
How to Understand?
I saw you on a Chicago street,
and my mind stood up
as if until then it had taken
a seat on a bus with windows
that held pale distances.
My heart, buried in a 10,000
page history book, looked up
as its personal stand leaned in.
Taking a stand
her hands on her hips
she glares
as the men clean up the mess
from their weekly poker night
(a Tanka)
Taking a Stand
Soldiers stand at attention.
We stand quietly watching the guard.
Twenty one steps, click, pause twenty one seconds.
Return twenty one steps, again, and again.
Even eighty year olds stand during
the ceremony of changing of the guard.
Thousands of white crosses mark the
resting place of those who took a stand.
poetic stand
by juanita lewison-snyder
a poet since nine when she
waxed a two minute crown
about her poor dead mother
and brought the whole house down.
she realized the potential
of a well chosen verse
then set about careering it
with ‘nuf words to fill her purse.
she wanted to be famous
she wanted to be loved
she craved the adoration
she wished on stars above,
her ticket out of poverty
her ticket out of shame
her way out of the barrios
her way to make a name.
like her father before her
a man with an underground press
manipulating mass opinion
with anti-government stress
she vowed to change the world by
exercising her father’s pawns
in rhyme, in rhythm, in free verse
to the uniform she now dons.
i see my mother peeking
overtop an wooden podium,
hair combed back in silver,
words as pure as sodium.
© 2010 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
I look down at you
from my pedestal
and ask you to let me off
I never asked to be placed there
on display, held to some
high esteem that I could
never hope to live up to
I cannot reach you
from this lofty position
So, please let me place
my feet upon the earth
and walk among those
who are allowed to fail
Stand By Me
In time we read of the death
of the man who was still known
as the last Rajah of Denpasar,
though he never ruled.
We called him Bapah.
As his family did. It was a word
for Father, and he was Patriarch.
He and Bill talked philosophy, sang
old Dutch songs together. (Amazing
to us, how many Indonesians
had fond memories of the Dutch.)
When Bapah went to hospital,
Bill found him in pain on a thin mattress.
‘We’re not putting up with this!’ he said,
went back to the hotel and ripped
the comfortable one off his own bed.
He marched back into the hospital,
carrying it on his shoulder, lifted Bapah
on to a chair and remade the bed.
The old man recovered, and went on
visiting in turn each of his five wives
allotting equal time to keep the peace.
‘Have one wife only!’ he advised BIll.
What Bapah really wanted
in his old age, was to be a priest.
It was years later we read
of his cremation, and the tale
of how he was found as a baby,
only survivor of the mass suicide
of his conquered family…. A gentle man.
Re taking a stand, there are several in this poem.
Note: The word for father is properly spelt Bapak, but we pronounced it as written here.
THUS I TAKE a STAND
I take a stand,
a pain-filled one–
a stand elemental
and very, very basic.
From sitting at the dining table,
my hand grasping the crook
of my cane, feverishly white-knuckled–
crazily shaking as if Parkinson’s
rather than Rheumatoid Arthritis
grips me, I put weight
on the cane and with
great care and concentration,
I rise to my feet.
This simplest of actions for most
can be the greatest feat of my day–
a miracle of true consequence.
Thus I take a stand.
I Agree
I agree with the weeds,
Growing through cracks,
Appearing so naturally,
In my blue stone walk.
I stand on the walk.
Bottle of spray.
And trying so diligently,
To get them to leave.
As the years go by,
Bottles will come.
I spray so persistently.
Yet they do not leave.
I agree with the weeds,
In my blue stone walk.
E-Mail Rebellion
I’ve asked for no more
political e-mails, no more
cutting unpleasantries,
sent to me to tell of
their direction, their
agreements with things
I don’t believe, their
opinions, which is what
they all are: opinions,
that I would not, could
not believe in.
So there. It’s done.
To the spam filter you go.
NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER
Grace and poise,
amidst the noise.
The others Palin
comparison. Beauty
and courage nurtured.
Stepping and strutting
not letting up for nothing.
Dancing through the strain
in pain, but determined
to honor her partner unseen,
but not forgotten.
Patrick was smiling down as
she accepted the crown.
Nothing Dirty about her.
Jennifer Grey takes the day.
Nobody puts Baby in the corner.