Today’s prompt is from Carol Stephen, and it’s a doozy.
Here’s Carol’s prompt: Write a glosa. This involves an epigram of 4 consecutive lines from a favorite poet that the challenge participant believes they can write successfully to. Then, write a poem consisting of four 10-line stanzas where the final line of each stanza is a line from the epigram, in order. Within each stanza, lines 6, 9 and 10 must rhyme.
Robert’s attempt at a Glosa Poem:
“Scientist”
“The time has come to reconsider my careen;
what good has come from bouncing away fast?
They say time is a thing that runs out,
that my buzz is nothing more than a flash.”
-Nate Pritts, “The Fastest Man Alive”
In the beginning, there was a problem waiting
to be recognized. Then, how to form
the question, how to prove the problem
exists. Each word another puzzle piece
closer to expressing what everyone feels
even if nobody is certain what it means.
After the expression, there is the problem
of considering an array of solutions before
choosing the one that seems the most pristine.
The time has come to reconsider my careen,
my slow departure from what once made sense
into this new hypothesis, this fresh
perspective. Hand clap, toe tap, and what
data will best prove my empty case. I chase
the correlation fantastic! And pray for causation
ecstatic! My proof-worthy theory is cast
into the sea of observation and experimentation
as I fight the allure of pushing conclusions
before proving the power of every blast.
What good has come from bouncing away fast?
The holes left behind throw all work into doubt,
which is why I hold out. And then it happens,
the lightning bolt and chemicals with only me
present to receive them. How do I explain
what no one else can see? How do I refute
what I feel should be accepted without doubt?
Is someone ready to observe my future?
My past? I won’t fade quietly into the night,
I won’t race from school like some dumb trout.
They say time is a thing that runs out,
but what happens when one can travel here
and there? My heart, a drum machine, beats
past infinite Earths. I give birth to a new
type of method, one hidden in the covers
of a silver age. My hypothesis, a twist
on yet another death, some spectacular crash!
I will save the planet and the universe,
if it comes to that, but don’t stand there
and try to explain that all science is trash,
that my buzz is nothing more than a flash.
*****
Thank you, Carol, for the challenging prompt! Click here to learn more about Carol.
Click here to share your glosa on the WD Forum, if that’s your preference.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
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I just came back again to see what I had missed. Sorry for being so late to it! I am impressed by all the great glosas here! I hope some of you liked the form enough to keep it in your repertoire! I’ve just ordered a book called Holograms, by noted late Canadian poet, P.K. Page. It is ALL glosas.
I am intrigued by the form and want to write more of these myself. And yes, it is certainly challenging. Most of my poems weigh in under 30 lines and not in form or using constraints. So it was a challenge for me too!
Carol A. Stephen
Day 18
Prompt: Write a glosa–using epigram of 4 consecutive lines from a favorite poet, with 4 10-line stanzas, where the final line of each is from the epigram, in order. Within each stanza, lines 6, 9, and 10 must rhyme.)
From E.E. Cummings’ Adult Nursery Rhymes #3, final lines:
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
–time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough
i dreamed the days away
thinking i knew i wanted what
i didn’t know i did
your particular face never an option
a list that might not include
someone exactly you
yet steps led me your way
to treasure the day
we met and the day we knew
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
my conflicted self of engagement broken
ring returned to another man
time past another era another beau
stomach whirling like leaves caught in wind
couldn’t live with you or without
pushing you away caused pain and relief
time and prescription healed ambivalence
fear of my leaving you or you me
then revealed to me to be without you equalled grief
–time is a tree (this life one leaf)
summers winters springs falls thirty-three
since vows we made sacred sweet
pungent plunge into commit
perilous waters of parenthood
survival of family feuds (not between you and me)
eye of God and sky watching over me and you
blanket protective of all we hold dear
though infinite and blue bright
sky appears taut stretched over us two
but love is the sky and I am for you
how long we have to live and love we do
not know but we know our love stays
till death parts us
we won’t part ways because
that is what it means to commit
our love is tough
time-in-bottle treasure
what life is made of
God gives us the stuff
just so long and long enough
Epigram -
Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool,
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet
Coleridge
EVERY POET
(Day 18)
It appears that people often call
a simple man another fool
who plays with words
throughout the days
until the evening sun no longer stays,
then plays some more until
he’s found a rhyme or maybe
reason to tell the world what
all believe is cool,
Sir, I admit your general rule.
I don’t believe it to be so
for blessed with reason, I do know
that rhyming words
can often be a man’s salvation,
bringing liberty, freedom
for those who do not fuel
the harm within a gentle verse,
do not seek to speak, be cruel,
be spiteful, voice those words,
That every poet is a fool.
Do you not sometimes play with words
striving hard to make them rhyme,
words that dance within your head
until wrote down before it’s time
for bed, and with sleep comes dreams
wherein you repeat with increasing whit
the one you seek but cannot find, until it
seems that every day is full of
words that jump and stray, and split,
But you yourself may serve to show it,
Oh listen, I will tell you this
a poem is like a gentle kiss,
light as thistledown yet with words
one simply can’t forget, so try,
try and try again keep trying
with all your mind, do not flit
until you find those certain words
to write your poem, maybe then you will
admit, for truthfully, although you know it,
That every fool is not a poet.
Happiness by Jane Kenyon
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
Commitment
Saw you and switched rooms to where critical
thoughts are stored. Had to observe from
a stark window once stained with colored
glass and frilly treatments. Had to take you in
with only the tint of my eyes and translucent
mind. Like the caterpillar’s enclosed business,
faith tapped on the case little by little. Light
filtered in; beauty with wings unfurled.
In the unpredictable breath of hopefulness,
there’s just no accounting for happiness.
Your first two words revealed left feet.
The conversation buckled, even so, trinkets
from the heart spilled. The dread of rejection
was tall but stumbling away from the dance
would be Goliath. We became birds of paradise.
The atmosphere developed a case of tropical
rash. Notions had to mate. Contentment
rose up from among thorns. There is no
fugitive like barefooted love in the paradoxical,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal.
And so we sliced the moon, buttered
it with the sun, fed it to our dreams.
The horizon smiled when we whisked
by. We devoured manna, until praise
waned and complaints dulled our
carriage. We eschewed tasty sweets
once reserved for each other. But history
turned around and tapped our languor,
like the dancer on a sun-dressed street
who comes back to the dust at your feet.
I still watch you from a remote room
where pictures of us emerge in all ranks
of natural light. There’s a chair. Only you
make it rock. A crow’s nest sits high and
stable like the memory when serendipitously
you appeared to me on that blessed day.
Devotion changed the forecast within
and conserved the cerulean sky. Long ago
I pictured love roaming without a place to stay,
having squandered a fortune far away.
okay thought I posted this wonder what day I posted it to?
November 18
Gregory Orr
Listening to Bach’s solo suites
For cello, you know
He’s found the poem
But not the words
In music night
Echoes of the solo day
Finds its way into my pages.
Each crystal thought
Falls down into ink
And still the note beats
Free from stringed time
To fringe my down time
Into dreams streets
Listening to Bach’s solo suites.
Listening to Bach’s solo suites
I watch the passing moon
Flash the rising stars.
As Jupiter ascends
And Venus sinks
Night winds blow
I hear leaves
Scuttle away
And my down times ebbs and flows
For the cello you know
Is the dark cousin
Of light violin
Summer strings and sangria
Afternoons when memories
Were sharp bright and soft
Now sunken under dreams ocean
Waves tumbling fragments
Frayed threads
Unable to be woven
Find the poem
In the rubble
As the waters ebb
Search the shore
Sift the sand
Look through clouded glass
While the birds
Song is silent
And the night air calm
And time silent shorn to thirds
I am muted but for the words.
Finally getting back to this one. Love the prompt, Carol!
From “Days” by Philip Larkin
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
The shepherds on the trolley
A girl gave birth in Goshen
on the trolley yesterday
right outside the courthouse.
She said nothing like this
had ever happened to her before.
and to be fair, it was unusual
for all the other passengers as well.
But why on earth was she giving birth alone
in front of that grand governmental bastion?
Ah, solving that question
could drag a friendly conversation
into politics or sociology
all of the dark arts broken free from
anchors in reality. She must have been
on drugs or didn’t use protection.
We raise the dreaded specter
of the welfare state to put her in her place.
But really any proper telling of this holy story
Of the bus-born child and the girl who rocked her
Brings the priest and the doctor
long before the yard signs and the
focus groups. For here’s the miracle:
we have a child not left behind.
A host of ordinary saints embrace
with great compassion the miracle
before their eyes, this fellow-traveler who dotes
upon her newborn, nestled in a crèche
between the seats. These put to shame
the glad-handing talking heads still chasing votes
in their long coats
with talk of census numbers, tax adjustments,
of sacrifice for everyone except themselves.
Ask the children now, and the neighbors,
with their noses pressed against
the glass – ask them if it matters
even slightly if some
stuffed up suit wields
the sword of morality. They’ll tell you:
every life is sacred, every fresh beginning,
every wave of hope a baby’s first cry yields
running over the fields.
HAH!! i think i nailed it.
i let myself get caught up in not feeling on a par with all of you who actually know poetry/forms/poets. So after i tried to find something by someone like Plath or Poe or Whitman, i went with what i know, a favorite from childhood, A.A. Milne’s “Halfway Down.”
HALFWAY HOUSE.
(or, The Devolving of a Mood.)
“I’m not at the bottom,
I’m not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where I always stop.”
Moods are funny things
affected by so much
but health and wealth and diamond rings
don’t even always touch
your inner Pollyanna (as
I know I’m seen by some)
for even when my mood declines
I try to think of happy times,
so as most moods come,
I’m not at the bottom.
Moods are funny things
affected oft by little
“My tea is cold” “my socks don’t match”
I couldn’t give a fiddle.
But when it comes to cleaning
I’m not the housework cop,
but there’s dust on the railing
and I’m very nearly paling
As my good moods stop,
I’m not at the top.
Moods are funny things
affected by minute
beings doings happenings
of children being “cute”
and whether they’re intentional
or merely unaware
I’ve got to put a stop to it,
the time-out step, you little sh**!
now place your bottom there–
so THIS is the stair!
Moods are funny things
affected by vermouth
it really helped the other day
when I lost my tooth.
But the children, they were screaming
so before their heads I’d lop
I had to put a stop to it
or else I’d be a wasted git.
Before my mistakes plentiful
yield a bumper crop
‘s where I (mostly) always stop.
Of course after trying to post other ‘catch up” poems from this week’s challenge over and over and over again and giving up – this poem posts on the first time without the introduction. Murphy’s Law lives!
I see about me the fields and cities the
desolation, destruction and dancing
of this whirling cerulean marble we share
oceans, lakes, mountains and deserts
forests and plains winding merging
each and all connected as a threaded Oneself *
shimmering in a sparkling panoply of vibrancy
each texture, taste, sight and lyric sound
connecting each to each within a collective sunself
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself
I feel about me the pain and joy the anguish and
pleasure of each, from newborn
blinking eye to shuttered lash of ended time
blazing, blurring, blotting, bleeding, bolstering
this cerulean marble we share
the essence floating of all exhaled exhume
pulses within each corpuscle pounding
particles of light within the ray of my being
illuminate all, beyond imagined flash of sonic blasted boom
and what I assume, you shall assume
I taste and hear and touch
each blade of grass, each droplet of the diamond
rain, burn the bottom of my feet on the scorching sand
freeze my skin in the avalanche of ice
burst eardrums to the screams of hungry children
sleep lulled by the sweet song of mothers’ succulent love
the sweet nectar of honey glosses my lips
as bitter herbs rest in the cradle of my gut
each to each and all to all converge in one unfathomed melodious hue
for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you
For self in the collective tapestry
is lone, but a dull thread
dangling in the stratosphere
a filamented figment of what could be, dropped as a stitch
in the grand design of each shout, scream, sigh, touch, taste,
and emerald blade of dew wet grass rising from earth damped hole
desolate, striving, wretched until recognition relaxes melting
self into reconciled, reverenced, reconnoitered remembered role
I loafe and invite my soul
“Song of Myself”
Walt Whitman
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul
“‘Out with the torches, they have flared too long,
And bid the harpers go.
Wind and warfare have but one song–
‘Woe to the weaker — woe!’”
- Rudyard Kipling
He’s a warrior first,
his blade a white burst,
standing on the burial ground.
His helmet sits heavy,
his soul has been levied,
and now he stands heaven bound.
His heart, a beat away from blackness;
his mind, a thought away from madness;
his breath, his body shall be remembered in song.
“Out with the torches, they have flared too long.”
When he falls to the bells
he knows it’s his knell,
Hell, he thinks, must be better than this.
He’s now an orphan soul,
who’s life fits in a bowl,
Truly, ignorance must be better than bliss.
And now he feels his knees weaken,
all the while his horizons bleaken.
He has no strength left to show,
“And bid the harpers go.”
When he wakes, he wakes in dark.
Death has left its mark
planted firmly on his pallid cheek.
His eyes are glass,
his soul shall pass,
to the land where no one speaks.
As he stares, blank faced, at the skies aloft
she comes in a cloak, her skin so soft.
She picks him up in her arms so strong,
“Wind and warfare have but one song-”
Which she sang to him there,
on the battlefield bare,
while his brothers in arms bled red.
She carried him there,
to the Pearlescent Where,
where his soul now may make its bed.
He longs for sleep, glorious sleep,
when his eyes no longer weep,
on the pillow under his mighty brow,
“Woe to the weak- woe.”
Only When
“it is like a silk fan beginning to open
and howling after midnight has passed
when that one is almost closed,
another fan is opening far to the east”
from “Thinking of Tu Fu on a Summer Evening”
by Tom Sexton
Each night
is a promise
of daylight.
When closed
a fan is a promise
of a soft breezed unspoken
in the noonday sun.
What opens
in the morning is broken
“it is like a silk fan beginning to open”
upon the folds of an ocean.
Closure, and then rest.
Not summoned
east or west
but north to south
flocks of robins have massed
to seek a warmer moment
where even tears disappear
as sentiments are gassed.
“And how long after midnight has passed”
will you hear that silent gasp?
Tu Fu brings his bamboo
brush to ink a line or two.
You only see his shadow
behind a silver moon.
Fishermen rowed
behind that silver disc.
The wink is not yet open.
The night is only wooed
“when that one is almost closed.”
Fans become abundant
in the summer skies.
Never leave
altogether
but with wickersham
and nieces
scrimmage
through the fog.
Only when the rose finds her creases
“another fan is opening far to the east.”
WOW. I am truly amazed at all the ones posted.
as for me: Imma gonna have to get back to ya on this one.
Wildflowers
“Where the mist was burning off
one red, three yellow, and several
white trillium were observed
at the edge of a stand of ancient pines”
from “Arnprior, Ontario”
by Tom Sexton
Each year
the loom of spring
weaves wildflowers
through woodlands
and fields.
There are soft
lady’s slippers
dancing in light.
Merry daisies would only flock
“where the mist was burning off.”
Primroses nod approval
when duckling swim
in line behind
their mother.
A billion blossoms
swaying in spring ephemeral.
We reconcile our
souls to wildflowers
to hold us temporal.
“One red, three yellow, and several”
wildflowers stand apart.
Wait for final passage
as spring departs.
Each blossom sighs,
reaches for the earth.
They reserved
the right to bloom
where planted
on earth and be conserved
“where white trillium were observed”
at the root of every hill.
A long nod
to each petal
a sign
of life
as the moon blinds
the far night
as it reaches for tomorrow
and acknowledges each sign
“at the edge of a stand of ancient pines.”
“Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,”
- William Wordsworth, “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”
Tears in the Wild
The dullness of the city sky
Is drab enough to make me cry.
The endless stretch of pavement hums
With mechanic, buzzing tones -
On and on and on it drones -
Like so many corporate bees.
I wish with all I have within
To leave behind the grinding din
And take some gentle, quiet ease
Beside the lake, beneath the trees.
When I think of the countryside,
I have sometimes stopped and cried
Because my longing is so great
To leave the busy place I hate
And cease to care if I am late.
My longing brings me to my knees
In silent, mournful prayer of heart
That soon enough my days will start
With wildflowers, by degrees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
When I arrive out in the wild,
Tears form as though I were a child.
The sky, it seems, is infinite,
A tapestry of clouds well knit
Against the blue that will not quit.
I see the sky and I feel fine,
Because it stretches without end
And smiles like a gentle friend
Who, I know, is always mine,
Continuous as the stars that shine.
As evening falls over the hills,
I take out parchment, ink, and quills
To write my tears in poetry,
Loosing all the pain in me
And setting all my bound joy free.
I know that I will miss this day
As time ticks on with steady pace,
But its memories will grace
The stars that shine in twilight’s gray
And twinkle on the milky way.
From Woman Work
by Maya Angelou
Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You’re all that I can call my own.
I want to run and just pretend
that I have suddenly become a child
again. I want to carelessly leave my
belongings scattered, and never turn off
a light. I want to stay out playing ‘til
dark, and pretend I cannot hear you cry
my name into the dew speckled darkness,
until I am too tired to play tag,
and, guilty, finally, tell my friends goodbye.
My day complete with sun, rain, curving sky.
I want to live that carefree life once more
To have my mother or father tuck me
safely into bed, checking carefully
for monsters underneath the springs or in
the closet, tinkling the hangars with
their frightful claws or teeth of sharpened bone.
I want the whole scenario, complete
with bedtime story and glass of water
and on to dreams of Neverland and mer-
maids, lost boys, mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
And then I want to waken when I want
with no alarms or overly-cheerful
morning show on the local radio
station. I want to wake when I am no
longer sleepy, to stretch, luxuriate.
To hop up out of bed as spry as though
I really were a child again, no aches
or stiffness. And to breakfast where I eat
a meal like a Norman Rockwell tableau,
and our faces beam like star shine, moon glow
I want to be that child again, if just
to more completely recall how it was,
to see my folks as their younger, joyful
selves, before the pain and anger and loss,
before the agony of the divorce,
before the love that we had known was flown.
Regret and loss aren’t all I have left,
You, memories, I have a few of you.
You, lost memories are what I bemoan
Yet you’re all that I can call my own.
Diana Terrill Clark
Diana, I commented on your site as well, but just wanted to say here that I.LOVE.This.
Tall order for a quiet sunday
uneven steven–I’m also on the Hirshfield train!
*
“Birthday”
“But today, cut deep in last plums, in yellow pears,
in second flush of roses, in the warmth of an hour, now late,
as drunk on heat as the girl who long ago vanished into green trees,
fold that loneliness, one moment, two, love, back into your arms.”
—Jane Hirshfield, from “A Sweetening All Around Me As It Falls”
.
Summer’s pistil stops the clock and starts time running
and dancing May to September in a stun of bee-bring.
Through upside-down summer we buzz bay to Brooklyn,
pale-pink shore blooms to the red breast feathers
of that rare American bird that nests under the waterfall.
I can’t recall, between the pies, if there were cares.
We tanned by accident, got lean and innocently vain,
and fell asleep by falling into stars between branches.
One day we denied the cooler air; now there’s
but today, cut deep in last plums, in yellow pears.
I peeled a mottled, spuddy apple and sucked
starchy sugar, sharing it with Baby Finnegan.
He threatened, with a smile, every precious thing
while I danced the corner-sweep and the tidy-up.
The sun, gold tooth of vagabond October, bit my work
raking up the alder leaves and re-sealing the gate.
We fell back to opening and closing, back to
our reckoning habits. And this sudden seary glow
is a sideways grin at a sarcastic apple’s feint,
in second flush of roses, in the warmth of an hour, now late.
When I was born, the farmers checked the tar paper,
and the retailers made final welcoming adjustments
and rubbed their hands together. When I count my years now
I feel as though something “out there” is grateful for me,
in the way a tree might throw a pageant for its roots
and leaves. I bow my head like an over-ripening strawberry
and the words in me attempt to make an echo.
We named our seasons as though they were discreet states,
yet harvest time flirts with travel, departing breeze by breeze
as drunk on heat as the girl who long ago vanished into green trees.
And spring breaks like baby teeth, the innate continuum
that one morning wakes you with: “Hey! Orange!”
Time stops as usual—but my favorite part always in jazz
is just after the solo ends. The soul’s siphoning tide
sucks in the resolve and the new stillness in the trembling reed.
It’s one of the heart’s greatest recurring charms,
how it continues to grasp after the vanishing forms,
breaking itself like a finger sprout emerging from a seed shell.
The phase change, last autumnal farewell, all without fire alarms—
fold that loneliness, one moment, two, love, back into your arms.
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 18
Write a Glosa – epigram of consecutive lines from a favorite poet
that the challenge participant believes they can write successfully to.
Write a poem of 4 ten-line stanzas where the final line of each is a line
from the epigram, in the same order. For each stanza, lines 6,9, and 10 must rhyme.
On Aging
“When you see me sitting quietly
Like a sack left on a shelf
Don’t think I need your chattering
I’m listening to myself.”
Maya Angelou
Old does not mean I’m lonely
or sad. Think of all
those memories I have
to call up–good and bad–
with free time on my hands
and bluesy music playing lightly
as a scenic background,
helping make vivid old friends.
so, please, pass by silently
when you see me sitting quietly.
Years pass by quickly, well
of course, I no longer look bright-
eyed; I have had cataracts,
or thick-haired; strands have thinned.
Perhaps my hair is silver,
you thinking gold is wealth,
but inside I’m still twenty,
if I do not regard my image
in a mirror. One never sees one’s self
like a sack left on a shelf.
Still a woman, hangin’ in there,
old enough to have no woes
over what others think I should
or should not be doing,
what to say or how to say it,
`cause I know I am top-shelf.
I like my age, wouldn’t want
to trade places with a young girl.
Don’t worry if you see a grinning old elf,
I’m listening to myself.
‘Clothed in sunlight
restless in wanting
dying of fear
Changed shapes of an empire’
from “Lamerica” by Jim Morrison
Before it is Too Late
Rest your weary arm,
the machine will wait awhile;
think past yourself,
to your children,
and the way you leave them.
Indulge not in worldly delight,
but lay your soul bare
to reason, exposed to doubt,
free from the night,
clothed in sunlight
See the world
through youthful eyes,
with hope and wonder,
where choice still exists.
Open the door for better-
leave them with something
more than your sentence;
a slave to desire,
forever hunting,
restless in wanting
Your weathered body,
your tortured mind,
are relics of a society
determined by this moment.
Prepare for their future,
for their future is near;
do not condemn them
to your life
living without cheer,
dying of fear
Give them wisdom
of your mistakes.
Whether they take it
is not your concern,
only that your faults
survive to inspire
a new generation
evaluating how you
chased shades of desire,
changed shapes of an empire
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
Eating Poetry
by Mark Strand
A starving artist,
once young and thinner;
I devour books for dinner.
In the food arena,
No one beats me;
I no longer fit in my dungarees.
I am a tad overweight.
Must be all the books I ate.
No one knows; it’s a mystery…
I have been eating poetry.
The staff is at a loss:
Dickinson, Hughes, Robert Frost.
One by one, the books disappear.
What is going on in here?
Call the police, the board of trustees,
someone with book expertise.
Such is the anguish! Such is the grief!
They must catch the thief!
When all of a sudden, quite ill at ease,
the librarian does not believe what she sees.
Me in the corner by the vending machine
doing away with Shel Silverstein.
She must tell the others but she’s in a shock.
She attempts the words but she simply can’t talk.
She starts to approach me, she looks pretty mad.
Her sudden demeanor reminds me of my dad.
Why do you eat books? – she asks me quite serious
trying to hide the fact that she’s furious.
I look up from my dinner feeling quite bad…
her eyes are sad.
I go on to explain that I’m not malicious.
I can’t help myself; these poems are delicious.
From Shakespeare to Collins to a young Sarah Kay,
their fabulous words chase my hunger away.
I tell her to try some to get out of this mess.
I stick one in her pocket with utter finesse.
She finally understands and she lets me off the hook.
The following morning there are even fewer books.
She covers for me, she lies to the press…
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
ECCLESIASTES WAS WRONG
Life is too short
to dance and cavort,
Time is fleeting
and we’re beating our head
against the walls of reason, coming
to the realization that amidst all of our strife
it is our responsibility to live as we should,
to aid others in works of charity
having clarity to accept challenges with which we are rife.
A man doesn’t have time in his life
to do what he needs to do.
But his ambition is fueled by the need
to succeed; a personal greed for acceptance.
So he strives to fit his flights of fancy
into little adventures meant to satisfy.
“Mission accomplished” has a nice ring,
but the whole gist of his life’s bucket list
is to try and fit all he can into it.
It feels good; makes a heart sing
to have time for everything.
He will never know the time or place
and this rat race is an all out chase
to the finish line, knowing that life was meant
to be a marathon and not a sprint. But all he is allotted
is today. He should live life as if it is his first day; his last day.
The only day to get things right and save
the good fight for battles that matter.
To every turn there is a thing and reason
and to this one thought he is a slave -
he doesn’t have seasons enough. To have
time enough is to hold the grail,
and he will fail if no attempt is even made.
Every drummer marches to his own parade,
and if he can juggle his desires
his life will fire on all cylinders.
It can be all be had for a song,
as long as he carries the right tune.
But, it will be over too soon, so seize life.
He’ll need to take it as it comes along;
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes was wrong
This is indeed a difficult form–very challenging. Here’s my first attempt:
I Knew a Woman
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
–Theodore Roethke
Beauty’s only skin deep, he quipped
but ugly runs clean to the bone,
thinking himself clever, unaware
of eyes, closing like shades at night.
His tactless humor at the expense
of some poor homely girl brought groans
from friends who could bear to tell him
how he came across to pretty girls.
He learned his lesson, though, and now atones:
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
he says now, to anyone who’ll stop
and listen. Sometimes, he’ll grab the arm
of passersby to compel them to stop
and hear his self-incriminating tale,
like some poor ancient mariner,
how, he sidled up to her on a whim,
thinking his attention was a gift,
expecting her gratitude, not even
gaining her attention. She hardly notice him.
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
So there he stood under the stars, alone with only her.
who just as soon swat him away.
And not a single clever thing to say
came to his mind. He stood, slackjawed,
tranfixed by this ordinary girl, no single
attribute he could inventory, none
he could quit put his finger on, and yet
he could not take his eyes off her face.
She captivated him, standing stone still, but
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
Not knowing where she might go next, he stood
unmoving, waiting, trying not to scare away
this rarest bird, just out of reach. She’d heard
his thoughtless patter, not at her expense
but often he had injured some dear friend
she chose to champion. Now his pain
failed to move her. So he offered up his heart,
unbroken, since til then he’d never given it away.
His penance—her tokens of forgiveness–
The shapes a bright container can contain!
From Emily Dickinson’s “In the Garden”
A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
My Rendition
I took a stroll one day
to see what I could see.
Some things familiar,
others strange;
A small child
dressed only in one sock
and a diaper.
I paused to ponder
and to talk;
A bird came down the walk.
I said not a word
but watched the child
observe the bird.
Unafraid, the robin stood steady
I drew out a pencil
and began to draw
the scene before me.
In a flash,
the robin beaked a piece of straw.
He did not know I saw.
The child and I watched
as the bird flew out of sight.
I thought him gone,
but in an instant he was back
looking for new straw pieces
on zig-zaggy paths.
He became desperate as he looked
under leaves, over twigs,
pecked at the babies calves.
He bit an angle-worm in halves.
With a wild look in his eye,
the bird began to caw like a crow,
and flop about as if he had a broken wing;
the look in his eye frightened me
and made me want to run
at what I saw.
He took a giant leap
toward the babe,
let out one more “caw”
and ate the fellow raw!
-from, I’ll Rise by Maya Angelou-
***
I Rise as One
Some things in life drift
With the changing tide
Back and forth
Going with the flow
A watercraft
Whipping from one
Wave to the next, then
Buried in the sand
A hiding place, these
Twists and turns of mine–
Just like moons and like suns
I found solace there
Buried in the sand
Waves lapping
Back and forth
Across my legs
Meditative rides
Rhythmic ecstasy
Going with the flow
No favored sides
With the certainty of tides
Seagulls flying low
Crying out
Up and down
Diving in the sea, while
At the water’s edge
I watch them fly
They offer peace
Symphonic tunes
Deep breath, a peaceful sigh
Just like hopes springing high
The salty air
Slaps my cheeks alive
Grits between my teeth
As I speak to the wind
Stand up, spread my arms
Separate my thighs
And spin, spin, spin
A whirlybird
Newfound hopes, no surprise
Still I rise
I was considering this one too, but I couldn’t handle Ms. Maya. Glad you gave it a go.
WOW. i am so impressed with everyone who posted their glosas. And i love that your individual styles show clearly even in this insanely different form. i’ve learned much today. i may even attempt one when it doesn’t have to appear the same day.
All right, I just got home (where all my books are!), and have found some lines I think I can work with. So NOW I am starting in on this prompt… I do like a challenge though, and I have never done a glosa. It appears to be something like a cascade on steroids.
From Emily Dickinson’s poem “There is another sky”
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum
……….
Outside the fence, life’s
moving forward, keeping up,
yet lost all the same
accumulating rusty dreams,
soon-to-be-expired totems.
There, wind and rain harden
and worries fill each breath.
Time too often gets bartered.
Request for a pardon,
here, is a brighter garden.
Inside this vine-covered cove
words flow like downhill streams,
ideas bud freely as thorned roses,
and thoughts form daisy chains.
Stealing over the fence, that lurking kin
weaves wild runners of guilt, obligation
into the tributary’s vein
choking and chilling with sin
where not a frost has been.
Escaping under the canopy,
the drips of jarring rain
cannot penetrate the skin
or shake the cocooned muse
from its wrinkled seed pod.
Foxglove’s freckled spire towers
along the fence’s catwalk
like a periscope watch
with crystal ball powers
in its unfading flowers.
In the garden there’s endless nectar.
Nature itself supports the leggy,
lifting each wayward branch
and nurturing new shoots
alongside the weeds.
Away from the foliage, I’m numb,
a feeling of being stripped
until again the sun returns
and home, all’s plumb.
I hear the bright bee hum.
Being utterly ignorant of this form and too tired at this point in the day to try something this far out of my league, i guess i’m gonna GLOSA over this one…..
I LOVE this prompt!! I’m so happy with what resulted and the perfect excuse to break my haiku habit, (even if for a day)!
Thank you Carol, Robert…all!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/18/day-eighteen-remember-us-again/
Oh, yes and Mary Oliver…thank you to her as well!!
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
(William Carlos Williams)
snow clouds drift
over
our valley
after
stair-step summer
ends
bitter winter
comes
weather bends
so much depends
on fickle
sun
swinging south
along
with bird flights
begun
weeks ago,
wedging
over lakes spun
upon
with visual
echoes
of industry
withdrawn,
a dormancy
deal
of last flash
gold
to mold-meal
a red wheel
turning through
eons
in coursing blood
and genes
in water and
marrow
cycles shifting in
farmer’s
slicing harrow;
barrow
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
Wow!!! You worked magic of this form and this poem!!! Well done!!
Thanks, Hannah! I wasn’t sure it made sense. This was really hard. It also shows you how much of the meaning and formal proposition of a poem is implicit in those first four lines, I knew that, but, wow!
Oh. My. Word. I finally got over here to pick up the prompt and … whoa … This makes Sestina look like a walk in the park. Okay, maybe a very long, winding walk in the park, but , you know …
Hi, Marie *waves-warm-smiles* I think this is my favorite prompt so far!!! So fun! ♥’s
A better — or at least, more stylistically accurate! — second attempt.
Reflections
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
— Yusef Komunyakaa, “Facing It”
I have no love for graveyards,
which is what I try to tell my
mother on our way to visit the
hideous headstone that covers
the man I almost, once, called
father. More determined, she
fixes her eyes on the wet black
road that stretches long before
us. I turn away. In rain, I see
my clouded reflection eyes me
with something like my mother’s
sadness. At the graveyard—my
mother shushes me and tells me,
quite firmly, that the damn thing
is a cemetary, and would I please,
just once, for her sake, use the right
word?—I climb out of the car and
stare at the gates through the rain,
swallowed in dark without any light.
Like a bird of prey, the profile of night
creeps between the trees, and the
stillness of the place sends the cold
down the back of my blouse, and for
once, it isn’t rain in my shirt with me.
Why tonight, of all times? What in
hell possesses sane people to yearn
for their loved ones some days and
not others? I study my mother and long
for sunlight, its warmth, its biting burn
Slanted against morning. I turn
to follow my ghost-mother, something
like my constant companion, and yet,
nothing like the woman I knew once,
as she sidles between the wet graveside
markers and kneels in front of a cross.
I stare instead—I can’t think that I owe
this nameless person anything, not
now. When I’m done being in prison,
I walk back by way of another row.
This way—the stone lets me go.
Tinman – A Glosa Poem
“There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,”
- Jane Hirschfield – “For What Binds Us”
ax dragging the ground
furrows lining all his days and tomorrows
blade quickly dulled by such a lax arm
where does the strength come
to swing what we were born with
is there any need to discuss
that we are all more than we carry
the inevitable horrors of rust
that actions and their consequences define us
there are names for what binds us
Hidden behind and facing away from
the screen, life flickers black and white
against the shadows
of blank cottage walls,
the message is indistinguishable
from the light that courses
from downed trees, licking flames of wood
cut to exacting lengths despite varying thicknesses,
such is the way, he thinks, of primary sources
strong forces, weak forces
choices, we all have choices, she said,
smug executioner or hard woodsmanship,
sleep the sleep of the dead
or be a sleepless eye feasting, never
filling, empty chest echoing, heaving
cold metal glittering always cutting the hem
of the soft flesh you so long for,
the beasts trees and birds of the forest
treating you no more than a polished gem,
look around, you can see them
tin man is his own reflection
a sun glinting surface
no breath steaming his polished mirror
the only distortion oily tears
real or contrived by a distant maker
always on the cusp
of knowing from whence comes
this desire, this inevitable longing,
to be what fills you up,
the skin that forms in a half empty cup
AGAIN YOUR MUSE HAS INFECTED MY HEART
~Edna St. Vincent Millay – “Elegy”
In the passage of time, life finds the breath to survive
the loss and ache of the pained heart.
Where you start depends on how quickly
the wound of death mends and brings peace
to one so loved and never forgotten. It is not
that your vision has burned itself through the eyes
of this poet’s heart, nor the lack of memory
that you have crossed the bar,
it is that your unbridled spirit fills the skies.
Let them bury your big eyes
the color of chocolate compassion,
and let silence seal lips so long denied.
Do not allow the coldness of your touch extinguish
The eternal flame that love had ignited,
Unconditionally and requited; love lives
In the depth of a buried heart purely.
Although we have been long since started,
Conjoined hearts retain their synchronicity
And it is in this complexity you are sequestered surely
in the secret earth securely.
You will live always, in the words my muse chooses,
Thoughts will bring to bear the heavy burden
Of your passing. You are the lasting impression
That seeds my intercession; an obstacle to overcome.
Each hurdle brings me to an understanding that
Love is less demanding over time, and it is there
That the pain is eased. It pleases my sensibilities
That I can keep you close, yet mostly hidden
In a loving mind and heart; an accepted dare.
Your thin fingers, and your fair,
Complexion had captured me,
They had been your attraction
That precipitated the action that lead
to our coming together. And now that life has given me
the reprieve of reconciliation, my celebration becomes
the mantle you have taught me to share.
And all tender moments hence commence
In the part of your soul that remains in my heart
In the mists of memory I will recognize you there,
your soft, indefinite-colored hair–
Nurple
“After the dandelions had spread like
marmalade over the lawns, after
the lilacs had come white and purple
and gone, then it was blueberrying”
—Thomas R. Moore, “Sex, Cousins, and Blueberrying”
In summer that year, we were nine
and ten, composed almost entirely
of mosquito bites and moxie, with
a quiver of sadness somewhere in
the middle, where we were still as
soft as children are. So we’d strike
each other’s biceps to show that
we weren’t soft at all, didn’t care
about broken things, a stolen bike,
after the dandelions had spread like
butter or the blood of all those bugs,
ladybugs, that we squashed, almost
always on accident. We just wanted
to look at them, hold them on blades
of grass that began to dry, shrivel in
the sun, our sweaty hands. Laughter
was almost not allowed; as we ate
fancy sandwiches our mothers made,
we were as silent as roof and rafter.
Marmalade over the lawns, after
we were done, stuck to the grass as
proof that we’d been there. We liked
to leave our mark. When we weren’t
quiet, we made noise, running down
the morning streets, discovering how
something as small as a loud burp will
disturb the great drift of silence behind
every closed window. We would lift our
shirts sometimes, check for a nurple.
The lilacs had come, white and purple;
we loved the word purple, and spent
all summer rhyming it as close as we
could, arriving at nurple also because
we couldn’t say the real word. It was
too much like health class, ridiculous
and scary, when we were tarrying
a while longer as girls, girls never
knowing how few the years were
before we’d both end up marrying
and gone. Then it was blueberrying.
This is really wonderful, love the imagery. I can’t believe you pulled off those rhymes.
The last four lines of
NATURE
by Mary Carolyn Davies
(pre 1960’s)
I sat on a broad stone
And sang to the birds.
The tune was God’s making
But I made the words.
* * *
I met a Little Man
who told me of a trip
he set upon one day
along a forest way.
“Seeking the unknown,
I set out all alone
to go on an adventure,
to find and see new things.
When, just past a giant pinecone,
I sat on a broad stone.
“Under the towering pines,
I felt a cooling breeze
and caught the lingering scent
of springtime in the trees
then marveled as some butterflies
flittered by in rainbow herds,
and bright birds winged overhead
bearing straw to line their beds.
I sought to find the words,
and sang to the birds.
“I rose to follow a
shrouded path so filled
to overflowing with
needles from the trees
they cushioned all footsteps.
I bent my head seeking
to hear the bird songs
echo through the air.
The gentle silence breaking
the tune was God’s making.
“I stopped by a cooling brook
flowing from a hidden spring.
Hopping rocks, I crossed to a field
of giant white mushrooms,
reminding me of a rhyme
Of a girl sitting on a toad’s
(stool), but I wondered on
still seeking ‘til I found
the melody sung by the birds,
but I made the words.”
By Marjory M Thompson
I had to ease in to the prompt today — my first attempt, here, is a slightly modified version of the glosa format, without the formal rhyme scheme.
Bitterness: A Glosa
And that scamper of feeling in my chest,
As if the day, the night, wherever it is
I am by then, has been only a whir
Of something other than waiting.
— Tracy K. Smith, “I Don’t Miss It”
All I ever wanted, or expected, from
what we once had—could we call it
a relationship, or not, do you think?
—was more than the way we finally
disintegrated, there toward the end,
and began playing innocent when we
both knew better, that neither of us
could ever be innocent again, and I
missed your sidelong look at my hands,
and that scamper of feeling in my chest
when your eyes told me that you wanted
whatever it was you thought I had to
offer you. I always doubted that I could
be what you wanted me to be. I guess we
proved me right, after all. You never
wore innocence very well, not with your
devilish eyebrows and the demonic way
you could touch me and send me sparkling
like stars, or bubbles in a champagne glass,
as if the day, the night, wherever it is
or was, by the time you finished with me,
was only worth as much to you as your
hands on my body, smooth with scented
oil, and the way you manipulated me,
there at the end. I remember telling you,
once, that I never wanted to play games,
and I remember, too, how you smiled at
me like I was your child instead of your
lover. I told you once, that whatever
I am by then, has only been a whir
in twisted bedclothes to you, never more
than just exactly that, and you stared at
me and your demonic touch came hard
and quick that night, punishing, full of
the jealousy you never wanted to admit
to my face, but I knew it was there,
anyway. I always knew. Dreams come
too late, so I perch here, sipping a too-dry
martini, and wait for the slightest glimpse
of something other than waiting.
Nov. 18
Rough attempt – today was baptism Sunday at our local church – Awesome to witness
This verse carried me through a very difficult time in my life.
Isaiah 46:4
Even to your old age and grey hairs
I am He, I am He who will sustain you
I have made you and I will carry you
I will sustain you and I will rescue you
There’s a stirring power in the wind
Calling, calling all that have sinned
Reverberating the channels of memories
Gathering faults, and mercy pleas
Denied too long may force eternal regret
Eternally lament not walking up those stairs
It’s never to early, definitely never too late
Just a simple prayer, and a trust of fate
Forget your past, forget their stares
Even to your old age and grey hairs
What you have done makes none the matter
The decision chooses direction of the ladder
Screams of forgotten, burning yet not consuming
Or shouts of joy, forgiveness, full atoning
Those were the choices placed before souls in view
They gladly partook, got up from their pew
Considered what of their life to be at loss
If they surrendered it all up to the cross
For us attending a blessing so ultimate true
I am He, I am He who will sustain you
Each spoke their life and shared their grief
How the world stole their trust a devious thief
Choices made and the consequence carried
Burdens so heavy some wished just be buried
Then discovering a love always and only true
Brief consideration left one thing to do
Regardless of what or who caused their fall
One by one accepted His promising call
With My hands and My feet pierced through
I have made you and I will carry you
As the congregation wept in tears of joy
Boxes of tissues and handkerchiefs deploy
As we wept we smiled; our lips our hearts
Heaven was in reach, this was the start
Not a place to spare left in a pew
Friends and family watched all they knew
Pastor soaked in the baptismal fount
Souls the devil no longer could count
They hearken these words of God I know to be true
I will sustain you and I will rescue you
rustydude,
Great sentiment! Well done! Very true!
UNMAPPED
I don’t know
Yet. I too have walked down there
In that place where the green
Acacias get dark before your eyes.
James Wright, “What Does the Bobwhite Mean?”
Someone left
a trail of footprints
in the sand of dry arroyo,
a place where
no one walks, no
one’s ever thought to go.
What brought me
this way – what subtle
elemental glow –
I don’t know.
The mystery
of unfamiliar landscape,
how it holds
a history of stone
made tessera by time
and weather; laid bare
as consequence.
A footprint giving back
the sky’s stare.
Yet, I too have walked down there
when no one’s watching,
into deserted spaces
always searching
for what?
Like remembrance,
the winds lean
into a wordless monody
or animal howl –
a voice of plaint and keen
in that place where the green
binds to water underground.
A landscape
tough and scrubby,
scoured by sun that plays
mirage tricks, wind
makes earth-spirits rise
out of sand arroyo.
They say, where an ancient
secret lies,
acacias get dark before your eyes.
Generations
“The generations standing at our bed.
And when our bodies sleep, the road is drawn
Upon the walls again, where our souls float.
Our souls are passing by and, see: they’re gone.”
“At Night” by Yehuda Amichai
We take a thread from me
and a thread from you
and entwine them into one.
We become the start of our history,
making a new generation:
our story to long be read,
forming and growing
as we weave through time;
We are watched by those long dead,
the generations standing at our bed.
We make choices
and more than a few mistakes
as we journey forward
creating, blending with you
until what we make
is new, like the rising dawn
with rainbows and storms
shuddering our hold
until we fold with a mighty yawn
and when our bodies sleep, the road is drawn.
Ah, the things we learn,
the things we teach
some things feel out of reach but
really all is within our grasp
we just need to stretch
to see what it is they wrote,
to forge our own path;
walking on with memories
whispered like a quote
upon the walls again, where our souls float.
As the generations look down on us
let’s hope we are not lacking
we tried our best
to ascend in their hallowed shoes
treading not lightly
never wanting to abuse, not be a pawn
for the taking but a knight in the making
to aspire to more, reaching full potential before
seeing our lives unfold like the wings of a swan
our souls are passing by and, see: they’re gone
I successfully found scores of opening quatrains from poets I love. The rest was, um, challenging. Thanks for helping me dust the cobwebs from my brain with this one, Carol.
Adaptation
“When the Great Bird soars
His wingbeats rattle the world,
But even he cannot save himself—
He is broken in the sky.”
Li Po, “The Great Bird”
The binoculars on my table
grow dusty from disuse
so long a time has passed
since I sought the kinship
of winged things. Dog-eared
from thumbing to name visitors,
the small field guide catalogs
hopes for sighting, hopes for survival,
hopes for being out of doors
when the Great Bird soars.
Once I went out to them,
chasing a flutter of wing,
a flash of color, red or indigo,
holding my breath in birdsong,
poised unmoving on a crackling leaf.
Now, like a tree trunk burled,
I keep close to home, invite them
all to dine, waiting for the great one
to find me, his wings unfurled—
his wingbeats rattle the world.
We know a little of the ones we’ve lost,
the Carolina parakeets, vast flocks
like flowers falling from the skies,
magical realism twittering in the cherries;
how they were slaughtered winging
in circles back to their dead. Our health
and theirs are linked to wilderness, forests,
swamps, and mountain peaks. We vow
to change our ways, but lazy, forgetful, we are
shocked at great bird stuffed and on a shelf.
But even he cannot save himself—
even when he travels far and wide
into unknown habitats–his avian radar
turned from his nesting zones
hot-wired into him by ancestors–
to new clumps of trees, man-made lakes,
he proves that he is willing to try
to save his own life, willing to adapt.
If We cannot cling to wings’ mystery,
make of our hearts a coterie, ask Why,
he is broken in the sky.
Searching
“When on my goodly charger borne
Thro’ dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.”
“Sir Galahad” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Passing each task and test
marks him the better,
earns him a spot on a table round
a vacant seat filled at last.
Receiving a fair welcome, for
he has slayed all thoughts of scorn
and now on his shoulders lays a quest.
With music and fanfare he is prepared,
his journey starts when the heralds blow the horn,
when on my goodly charger borne.
Traveling through changing seasons
his mission to complete,
he travels mostly alone
rescuing fair women in distress,
assisting others when needed.
He never shows any woe
nor lapses in judgment,
his quest his only bride…
never to be a beau,
thro’ dreaming towns I go.
His quest he does complete
and on his journey to the table round
angels descend and take him home.
Now many men have tried to fill his shoes,
to test their courage
but none with his skills have yet been born.
What they seek has never been found
and still they search as eras pass
and the story becomes more worn,
the cock crows ere the Christmas morn.
We are all seeking
a grail of our own,
holy or otherwise.
Searching for that something
to make our life complete,
to make the days flow
but I think we will still be searching
when death descends, and
only then will we know,
the streets are dumb with snow.
Wow, this is a doozy all right – quite a contrast from yesterday’s “how-to” poem, and especially since most of my poems this month have been relatively short. I rarely write one of 40 lines or more, but here goes – still a work in progress:
Flame
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!
- Edna St. Vincent Millay
This life can be so exhausting –
bills and renovations, chores and children
who have needed, demanded, succeeded -
a career winding down, and days that
I just go through the motions.
How I feel by evening depends
on how much stress has worn me down,
abraded just my skin, or bitten into muscle,
or struck a nerve, the knife of pain it sends.
My candle burns at both ends,
I know I never get much sleep.
Some of that is due to worry, some
is things to do, but much of it wanting
quiet time, the aging evening when
everyone’s in bed, and I unwind
with a book, or sitting down to write,
or maybe music or a movie, as I echo
through the house. But in the smaller hours
the flame of my attention burns less bright –
it will not last the night.
Still, this evening I recall my youth – we thought
ourselves immortal, till a car hit a neighbor kid
on his bike. Even then, we thought of death
as some remote land as far away as Mars.
When we played “World War II”, each casualty
sprang up again – a brand new man extends
his life until the next mishap.
We wish our lives could blaze forever, yet
our plans don’t always fit what life intends.
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends,
so many of you have gone before me -
the school bully, dead in a car crash
at seventeen; my best friend just this year -
cancer snuffed his wick. I should be grateful
walking past so many milestones
with a good woman on my right –
we still hold hands and kiss goodnight
and watch our children build their lives.
Today, a grandchild’s birth’s in sight –
it gives a lovely light.
Grown-Up
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?
Grown-Up, by Edna St. Vincent Millay
When I was young I hated naps.
I’d rather stay up late. Perhaps
if I knew then what I know now
there would have been no sob, no scowl.
See, now I would not put on airs
or curse my folks or kick the stairs.
Instead, I’d welcome ‘time-for-bed,’
where I could rest my weary head.
But will night’s dreams rehash day’s cares?
Was it for this I uttered prayers?
All through the day, I problem-solve
‘though worries somehow still evolve.
The kids, the house, the job and school:
too late I’ve learnt this golden rule.
But here’s the thing, it is what scares
me. How was I caught unawares?
When did I go from kid to grown?
Is there a middle-aged postpone
button somewhere that makes repairs?
I sob and curse and kick the stairs
for in my younger days, I thought
I’m bulletproof. I won’t get caught
just like those ‘burby soccer moms
who dream of backrubs, scented balms
and sweet escapes, which would be great –
but oh right now, they’ll have to wait.
There’s other things: priority
is my premiere authority.
Shape up! Get going! And, lose weight!
I’m now domestic as a plate.
And at the end of each long day
I tell myself I am okay
(or try, at least. It sometimes works.)
Despite it all, there are some perks.
My kids (sometimes) say, “Mom, you’re great!”
My husband takes me on a date
to places where I’m not the cook
and don’t need my appointment book.
But generally, mid-yawn, I’ll state,
I should retire at half-past eight.
###
Seamless blending… and very funny, RJ!
Carol Stephen here:
I too was feeling that I could not write a glosa, and resisted a long time. But once I tried it, I really loved this form. I’ve enjoyed reading the efforts here and find that you’ve done a great job on your glosas! Glad you gave it a go.
For those who used a different form, well, that’s okay too. But don’t let it scare you. Give it a try when you are not under pressure of one-a-day. I found the hardest thing was to find the right four lines to use. You have to really connect to the lines you choose.
Cheers! And thanks as always to Robert for coordinating these challenges, and for the examples!
Yes, once I leaned on four lines I already loved, I found this a little easier. Still felt a bit like Poetry CrossFit, but I enjoyed the challenge. Thanks, Carol.
From T.S. Eliot
“The Naming of Cats”
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
“Of Nieces and Sneezes”
When they give me that look, like a knife in my heart,
And they see all the couples, their questioning starts,
Such an awful confluence, is what I would say,
But they’re kids so I’ll have to stay simple today,
How to address it? There’s only one way.
“Uncle Dave, Uncle Dave!” (I can feel my deflation),
And here comes the question, no getting past that,
”Do you really think ALL single girls own a cat?”
For sneezing can certainly end your elation,
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
When they give me that look, like I might be insane,
To live life alone, oh, it gives me such pain,
I could cynically tell them I don’t earn enough,
To attract a woman who’d show me true love,
But I know their mother would just call my bluff.
I could say I’m too busy to get in the game,
Another half-truth, or a quarter at best,
I just gripe about cats, and I leave out the rest,
And so, my dear nieces, the cats get the blame,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same.
When they give me that look, what a lonely old man,
“Go find your true love,” is the obvious plan,
I could tell them I’ve just gotten set in my ways,
An eighth truth at best and a lie never pays,
Am I meant to be single for all of my days?
“Take a cruise!” Mom suggests, a seaside vacation,
But the single girls still have cats waiting at home,
The nieces dig in. Must I write them a tome?
They see my distress, their Uncle’s frustration,
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
What about Becky? She doesn’t own pets.
“She’s just not my type,” is as far as I get.
And Pamela’s nice, but she owns a grey tabby,
At last my excuses aren’t sounding too shabby,
For I hate when my eyes get all itchy and scabby,
I wonder how felines have earned so much fame,
I find them amusing, but also aloof,
“Pamela’s pet is a dog, I have proof!”
“No, Fido’s a cat!” I say, head hung in the shame,
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
Too.Much.Fun. Love this, DA.
I think I’ll live off that compliment for another three weeks. This was HARD!
It WAS hard, and you made it LOOK easy!
And I loooove Eliot’s Cats.
De – I very nearly did The Naming of Cats too! (Great minds…) Awesome Glosa!
This is the perfect glosa, the perfect pastiche, and delightful fun tinged with sympathy.
I tweaked the rules a bit, so it would work with haiku.
rowing through
out of the mist
the wide sea
–- Shiki
Mine:
only the sound
of oars in water
rowing through
so far away
mountains rise
out of the mist
alone
with my thoughts
the wide sea
Love this ku’d variation, Cara.
Divining Rod
I’ve walked since then with no one but the ghosts…
I found the water.
And I wept for everything.
And I learned to tell the world how gorgeous it is to be alone.
- Patrick Rosal “Finding Water”
See, here’s the thing –
I didn’t know how long it would take
just to get out the door. I had to
abandon the maps, and watch the windows
rise and fall, collect my steamy self
up off the floor and coax her most
of all to wear less sunscreen. But I did
it, with the help of a stray shoehorn. Reborn, and
claiming the calm that only freedom boasts,
I’ve walked since then with no one but the ghosts
and held the beat of tree limbs in my palms
pricked along these trickled trails
stretched and etched with fears and failures.
Their withered, weathered bark told tales and
lies of less tumbled times,
and I, their dissident daughter.
Two paths arose, sun-dimpled, shaded
in solitude, song and sway.
Begging my breath, and taking the broader,
I found the water.
Today, you rang a bell from some far
-off distant leaf, and I tried to follow
its whisper, but I lost the scent
somewhere after that giant oak
that bridges these shadows to sky. I gathered
twigs and tied them loose with crimson string
and made a ship to seize this borrowed breeze
as this rattled river rose too high,
steeled its soul and sold its sting.
And I wept for everything
we knew, uncaught, forgot.
I scattered my shed salt along the banks,
hoping others might follow its snow
even as my echo met with silence.
I wept, and wrapped my tired feet in all
the strangest sorrows these streams have ever known.
A flashlight moon laddered the falls
and lit the last unlittered edge.
Here I spilled my heart, a small and quiet stone,
and I learned to tell the world how gorgeous it is to be alone.
.
Your poem is a positive symphony of all the poetic devices I ever learned about in college — alliteration, internal rhyme, consonance . . . all things I wish I could be more vigilant to include in my own work. Beautiful!
glossa
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
_____Anecdote of the Jar
______by Wallace Stevens
once
some god
or mischief maker
drew a grand grid
over the void-laced universe
picking
an intersection
scratched an X
bent down, and laughing,
placed a jar in Tennessee
on a hill the ants despised as small
on a hill cars drove over, passengers unaware of rising
on a dandelion hill, a bermuda grass hill
on a hill too close to flat to shake a god-jar off
so it stayed on a hill and filled with rain
and mosquito larvae, on a hill, and dandelion seeds
and whirlygig maple seeds upon a hill
and sunlight and spiders
and self-awareness
And round it was, upon a hill.
how over-full
how afraid how weak how fragile
how suddenly responsible
how awake and turning all night
how worried over tide and storm surge
and the cost of education and band-aids
how knotty, tangled, unprepared
how puzzled
how proud
It made the slovenly wilderness
all the hallelujah choruses and funeral home fan jesuses
all the pietas and pita breads and well-bred children
all the all the starry nights nightjars and mason jars
all the swimming pools and pool tables
all the bars
all the hayfields
all the beaches
and oceans
all the mountains of the earth
Surround that hill.
barbara, I LOVE your use of repetition here, expounding on the original poem so well. Such strong visuals. I also love that you were a rebel about the rhyme rule of the form.
Good for you!
Thanks, De. I kinda hoped the repetition would serve in place of rhyme (which I don’t do well). Need to fix the first stanza. I left out the “I” in line 10: big oops.
I write for the joy of writing. I am too old to figure out things like line count, word count, ect.
I will read what everyone has written. I will also write a “wordle” using today’s words
which I consider fun. Happy “glosas” to you all who are able to figure them outl
Words by Robert William Service
For though I love life’s scene,
It seems absurd,
My greatest joy has been
The printed word.
_____________________________
Language
Since childhood, I’ve been bewitched
by words – their sounds and meaning -
I often sit, rolling a word around on my tongue
as if it was the last tasty morsel of a favorite dish.
Words like rutabaga or peregrine -
what joy learning what they mean -
then saying them over and over again
in different voices – high and low -
as if a pauper, as if a queen.
For though I love life’s scene,
The joys of running in the wood
or sitting by the shore
my greatest joy is language –
the meaning and the sounds.
Such a love consumes a soul -
an obsession for the word.
Daydreams consist of poetry
and the lyric sounds of letters
sung in harmony – a mere word -
It seems absurd!
Now add to the this obsession,
Careers where words were necessary –
in fact, required every day.
As a writer, I ate daily from dictionary
and thesaurus stew.
Words got under my skin!
The best was yet to come, however -
As I learned to teach my craft.
Opening the minds of children,
my greatest joy has been.
Now, my joy increases,
as daily, I go to share
my love for language with others,
who have come from distant lands
in hopes of finding freedom
in a place where their voice is heard.
With great passion, I teach
the love that consumes my soul.
A gift – spoken, uttered -
The printed word.
Perfect, Linda. I especially love:
“I ate daily from dictionary
and thesaurus stew.”
Me, too.
You write my life story, too! A gorgeous poem.
From Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass
A child said, What is the grass?
fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is any more than he.
From Andrea Heiberg’s Leaves of Grass
Every day in the morning at eight
you came to learn,
took your seats,
reluctantly fetched your books,
opened them.
Good morning class.
You looked up,
you replied nothing.
I let that pass.
A child said, What is the grass?
Here in this classroom at 8.05
I sat down,
took my seat,
reluctantly got my Ipad,
opened it,
I’ve had completely different plans.
I looked up when ready
but here was this boy
with grass out from the Wester lands
fetching it to me with full hands;
now spreading it on my desk.
I thought of Doris Lessing,
the riots in South Africa,
I thought of Somne,
Verdun, Arlington
and looking through what’s filed
on teachers’ pages on the internet,
I gave up
and looked up and smiled:
How could I answer the child?
And in this classroom way past 8.05
filled with this particular smell
of fresh grass
just cut right out here
somewhere in this morning
I felt so happy to be
just this other teacher
who loves this kind of wisdom
and loves to see:
I do not know what it is any more than he.
Bravo, Andrea! I love, love this poem! Yes, I, too, love “this kind of wisdom.” Marvelous work!
Andrea, this is fantastic. LOVE it.
breathtaking in the beauty of its simplicity.
Hmm…excellent example, Robert, and Connie…a quick first entrant. But a “glosa” doesn’t fit my theme of posting shadormas this month. :-\ I made a “slight” modification to today’s challenge:
IMPROVISING
(a shadorma)
A glosa
is today’s challenge.
The form goes
against my
penchant for writing short forms.
Today, I’m cheating.
Wow, what a poetic workout! And this is entirely fiction.
He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew
we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head
which is fitted around the brim with candle holders,
a device that allowed him to work into the night.
-Billy Collins, “Candle Hat”
The Hats
I remember him well, our neighbor,
puttering about in his garden
humming to himself, wearing that ridiculous hat.
Some said he was crazy,
others called him eccentric.
The hat was rhinestone studded and blue,
wide rimmed, which shaded him, while he worked.
His photo was still in the entryway of his house.
We wondered about him, what he was up to.
He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew.
They say when his wife was alive,
they took a cruise to some exotic place
and had the time of their lives
dancing, eating their fill, going a little wild.
And they bought those matching hats.
Hers was rhinestone studded and red.
They worked and chatted in the garden,
until one Indian summer evening she passed.
So he must have thought, though she was dead,
we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head.
So we went into the house as prospective buyers.
It would be a little rental we could care for from next door.
I hadn’t been in the house since I was a child.
It brought back memories of a flowered apron,
a smiling woman and a tray of cookies.
The realtor lady impatiently tapped her folders.
I asked if I could see the attic
and that’s when I found the old trunk,
(I remember him carrying it up on his shoulders)
which is fitted around the brim with candle holders.
The wax had dripped down the sides.
It appeared to be some kind of memorial.
I gingerly opened it, breaking some of the wax.
Tucked inside was the red hat
and underneath, a pink baby dress
and a photo of a baby in white.
And then I remember watching him
make a small wooden box up there in the attic
wearing a hat, like a miner’s hat with a light,
a device that allowed him to work into the night.
Well done, Connie! The reader is not ready for the sad ending…brought tears to my eyes.
Oh, Connie. You have made this form look effortless, and stunned and stung my heart with this ending. Well done.
Wow, Connie! Watta woman!