For today’s prompt, pick a direction on the compass, make it the title of your poem, and write that poem. North, South, West, and East are easy directions. Then, there’s Southwest, Northeast, and so on. Then, there are the directions that are completely invented.
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Today Is Seriously Your Last Chance to Enter!
Writer’s Digest has extended the deadline to their Writer’s Digest Poetry Awards competition to November 21. And the winner will receive $1,000 cash!
The winning poem will also be published in a future issue of Writer’s Digest magazine. And the winning poet will receive a copy of the 2015 Poet’s Market.
Even poets who don’t win can win, because there are prizes for 2nd through 25th place as well, though only if you enter.
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Here’s my attempt at a Direction on the Compass poem:
“North”
i was born in an ice fort
guarded by snow men
without the luxury of
a princess to let it go
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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of the poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He edits Poet’s Market, Writer’s Market, and Guide to Self-Publishing, in addition to writing a free weekly WritersMarket.com newsletter and poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine.
He loves all the directions on his compass, but one his all-time favorite moments was when one of his boys said, “Daddy is my compass.” That thought guides him to this day.
Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.
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Due West
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
My father’s line were from the old country,
Scandinavians from the upper Midwest states
(Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa)
proud, stoic, salt of the earth Protestants
with farming and dairy in their blood.
Grandpa’s branch broke off and left
the cold winters, humid summers of
America’s Heartland for the milder
temperate climate of the Pacific NW
(Oregon, Idaho)
where he settled down to a life
of dairy farming not far from
an dormant volcano boasting of
the deepest lake in the Americas
(Crater Lake @ nearly 2000 ft).
Years later his internal compass
would point East again, leading
he and his brother back across
the Idaho russet border,
and back ultimately to
the family fold.
© 2014 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Due West
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
My father’s line were from the old country,
Scandinavians from the upper Midwest states
(Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa)
proud, stoic, salt of the earth Protestants
with farming and dairy in their blood.
Grandpa’s branch broke off and left
the cold winters, humid summers of
America’s Heartland for the milder
temperate climate of the Pacific NW
(Oregon, Idaho)
where he settled down to a life
of dairy farming not far from
an dormant volcano boasting of
the deepest lake in the Americas
(Crater Lake @ nearly 2000 ft).
Years later his internal compass
would point East again, leading
he and his brother back across
the Idaho russet border,
and back ultimately to
the family fold.
© 2014 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
RADAR
Remembering summer road trips
with my father, short trips
to the next town over,
running errands for his job.
We’d talk about school,
the news, what I might
do If I’d ever grow up.
But the part I liked best
was when he would get
us lost, heading south
when he was sure we
were going east.
But Dad would never admit
to his directional challenges,
instead he’d say,
“My radar is a little off.”
Then he’d adjust some
imaginary antenna
with the sweep of one hand.
We’d eventually find
our way, grateful
for the unplanned
detour and the
extra time together.
THE MOON, THE SUN, AND HER RAISON D’ETRE
The gibbous moon fled the sky flinging clouds farther
than would be thought possible on most nights
But this moon, this deadly cream-coloured orb, had
risen in the south – no moon had ever risen there
No wonder it hurried to depart the heavens before
too many realized its mistaken presence
North by northeast, that would be one way to get
there, she thought, staring at her compass
But only if she hurried and took the wind into account
and if it didn’t change direction
She knew the wind was as fickle as sunshine and could
change on a whim
But she also knew her whole reason for living was to
get there, no matter what it took
Before anything else happened…
Northwest
The Northwest attracts
him. “Resistance is futile.”
A tiny iron
filing, he twists, turns, without
control. Laws of physics win.
West
I was born
in a city
clinging
for all its life
to the western
verge of the
most western
of western
worlds, and,
were that not
enough, beyond
our cliffs and sands,
source of mysterious
glass fishing
floats that decorated
beaches after storms,
lay lands long labeled
the Far East. On
sandy lots and quiet
canyons among
the foothills, the Wild
West, of goldrush
desperado fame,
lived again on silvered
film and old
rodeo riders came
to sing to the stars.
East, then, I guess.
East then.
It was to be north.
So far north you couldn’t believe.
I couldn’t believe.
Why, even?
And then it was
straight into the dark, molten center of the earth
and I held my mother’s hand there
in the Trauma ICU as we, miraculously,
kept living through
the night
but the girl
– Heather –
behind the curtain did not,
even though all her family was there,
certainly all of them, their bodies
making funny lumps in the curtain, their conversation
at three and at four thirty keeping us awake or alive.
And then, we found ourselves more consistently alive,
okay, for a time,
okay, so
too late to go North – so far North –
I go east.
She now, therefore, is west.
We both, at this moment, still live.
And everyday I can consider–
do I paint my way back to the center of the
earth or of to the center of the sky or
do I go west, or east,
north or south
– what is it to be near
or far –
or do I just
breathe
and hear the wind
and have no way of knowing
what direction it comes from?
Sometimes it seems evident
that I will die next.
Finding A New Direction
for long I have traveled without compass map or instructions
picking a direction each day
does the past give a clue to each day’s new direction
is it in the bird’s song the one at the feeder
does the direction of the wind that moves the wind chime hold a clue
where is one to get the answer
perhaps travel along the river listen to her whisper as she lies in her bed
…or follow some dusty trail long forgotten
…or watch a dust devil as he tears across the mesa
perhaps one can get along without a compass map or instructions
November 21, 2014
East by West
From humble beginnings
I learned a way of life
Much different than you
A slower pace to my day
Respect for others
An appreciation for grammar
An understanding of manners
An acceptance of the toil
That leads us to success
The eastern shore runs
Through my bloodlines
The winds of time
Carried me to the Pacific
A new world
A new life
A new beginning
With ethics engrained
A world without pause
A sense of self over community
Now an anomaly
For a “traditional” mindset
Enjoying an alternate ending
After such a trying start
Love what you have written, I also grew up in the South, and miss the lightening bugs or fireflies, which ever you prefer.
Snapshot
Red gingham curtain,
twirls in the open window
Summer in the South.
Lightning bugs glowing,
wee lanterns in the night sky.
Summer in the South.
Bare feet in the grass,
toes spread out in happiness.
Summer in the South.
Oh….your journey is so beautiful!
Thank you so much, annell.
The Four Directions
I have followed the four directions.
West across the shadowing plains
Guarded by mountain sentinels
To the ocean there,
Where I sank my feet in the cool wet sand
And knew I would go on.
I have followed the four directions.
East across the mighty river,
crossing the lands my ancestors
knew as a trail of tears.
I did not die, nor was I born anew,
but the sun did rise
when I thought it might never, again.
I have followed the four directions.
North beyond the wide Great Plains,
where winter wind cuts to the heart
of all things great and small.
I did not lose my soul there,
but found the courage to carry on,
when I did not want to do so.
I have followed the four directions.
South along the border lands,
where the sun is warm and spirit glows.
You learn of yourself in the land of shadow,
and you embrace it, or you die of thirst,
while staring at your own reflection
in a pool of clear blue water.
I met my shadow and we embraced.
There is yet above and below
and I follow these in dreamtime.
I live now to learn
what lessons await me there.
11/21/14
South South West
Wind blows melting snow
like a glass blower
into a mirror of ice,
making me wish
I had not moved
south east
and wishing
I had moved
instead
south south west.
East
My inner compass fails me
as I second guess old familiar turns,
and long before I knew the word
feng shui,
I failed to take to heart advice
my mother gave
about the best direction
for my marriage bed.
North to south?
East to west?
But every morning,
I feel a tug toward the eastern sky
as I drive south,
turn west,
head north
and fight the urge
to pull over to the side of the road
and watch the sun rise,
painting the clouds.
Mine is at http://miskmask.wordpress.com/2014/11/22/pad-21/
Weather Vanes, Which Direction Is the Wind Blowing?
Put some
folks atop your
barn to spin, they’d just turn
to the hottest air from the big
puffers.
Others
would just sit, pleased,
smirk puffily, and nod
knowingly: the wind always blows
their way.
You do
remember ones
who yelled “You don’t need a
weatherman to know which way the
wind blows”?
And me?
Put me up there,
maybe I’d show you which
way the wind was blowing last it
went past.
Unlike
The Rev. Alger-
non Sidney Crapsey, priest
(Episcopal), “Last Heretic,”
hinge of
an age,
opening us forward to see
what our eyes had closed to,
because he loved
The Wind.
[With thanks to PressOn for mentioning Adelaide Crapsey in his comment to me on Day 20 — I was inspired to learn a bit more about her family background.]
West to East
She was Shaman, come out of the sinking sun, red with fury. Her, the sun, does it matter? Rags and the torn feathers of crows, a crooked stick more like antlers than wood. I might have knelt if not the maggots crawling from her eyes. You think you need no help. Call it fortune, I’m here. Made everything sounds like hissing. This is not Buffalo, prayer of abundance. I whispered thief. The air reeked of decay. You are chosen, cannot claim it yourself. I gambled, high in the hills, and Mountain Lion brought his problems, the problems of others. No, your own tricks fool you, this is your magic. Am I a trick of your eyes? No, I said, dreamer of auroras. She was Shaman, darker than the night sky, stars piercing through her skin. She was invisible in her ragged shawl of snakes, shaking her head. Seductress. Coyote. A trail of blood, do you see entrails? The antlers are mine. But it was bones sucked of marrow she rolled. The dinging of the slots, starlight the gltiz of casinos. I crossed the desert at night, the eyes of scorpions my guide. Rivers, the flashing of scales. Rain in the maples. Shaman, she could not touch my hooves when I leapt through the blackberry brambles into the sky at dawn.
This piece evokes a camp fire, preferably high in the mountains, and a storyteller there with hushed listeners all around. So compelling in its use of images and associations. Wonderful.
Agree, amazing images and great storytelling! Powerful piece!
Thank you, Janet and William. I’ve been experimenting here and there with prose poems, this one cobbled from a dream, recent travel, a conversation with a former colleague (part Native American), and the Coyote Medicine card.
BLIND FATE
by John Yeo
Blind fate spins the arrow on the compass,
The needle spins and twists and turns
We head in the direction of the result.
South West across a burning desert,
Sand as far as the eye can see.
We have money to buy our direction
The North star is in position.
We continue to follow the blind fate compass
Until we reach a rough salty sea.
South West is over an ocean of dreams.
.
We fearlessly follow the fateful compass
Searching for the answers to life
South West on a blind fate compass.
The North star is in position.
Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved
The tone of this was, for me, set on the image of a twisting compass needle. Very thoughtful piece, in my view.
North
by Patrick J. Walsh
my compass points North
toward the magnetic pole
while unexpectedly delayed
in the warmth of the woods
summer shuffles
somehow into autumn
the path seems strange
in the gray of twilight
but at ease with the night
the seasons pass secrets
as Polaris blinks into place
in the soft canvas of sky
the streetlamp scatters
the uncertainty of the trail
and at first hint of coolness
the wistful season retreats
ambling off true north
with only stars to light the way
Oh, this arouses deep emotions for me. Its wistful and mystical altogether. Thanks for posting it.
Thank you, PressOn. This one took me awhile to pull together, so I especially appreciate your support and kind comments.
Lovely!
Thank you, James!
_South_
Summers
down south
Going in and
out the house
Georgia peaches
in my mouth
Country boys
hanging about
Grandma tells me,
“button your blouse.”
Delightful!
Love it!
Nice evocation of a season, time, and place.
You got it all just right!
North by Northwest
Be careful if you’re headed in that direction
(almost due north, but not quite),
especially if you’re a handsome guy,
innocent but wrongly accused.
Not everyone is who they seem.
Be wary of that sexy blonde on the train,
look out for evil crop-dusters
in the middle of nowhere,
and watch your step if you’re being chased
by baddies on a stone president’s face.
This sounds like Alfred talking. Wonderful.
Agree with William, great evocation of the movie as advice.
Rhe Fifth Direction
North, South, East, West,
a modern compass has no room
for the fifth direction, the great axis on which
the universe spins, but
The World Tree still stands,
ancient roots twisted deep around
the foundations of skyscrapers and fracking pits,
its branches scraped by satellites.
I like this idea very much
Directions
When northern winter winds blow
cold waves under my threshold,
I think I hear soothing south breezes whispering
her siren song in my frigid ears.
At last, I yield to the temped temptress,
call my travel agent,
and book a western Caribbean cruise.
Right-ho.
South
and east of here lives
the pink-throated twinspot
in Mozambique
It is pretty and shy.
Like me.
I don’t dig cages
but part of me wants to
hold one for a few moments
caress my cheek with its feathers
and have its song ring in my ears.
Wonderful imagery and associations thereof.
Beautiful. And being a birder unfamiliar with the birds of Mozambique, I just had to look this one up. A darling!
Gone South
Strong sun, wet warmth
Slowly decomposing
Deteriorating, falling down
Around hunched shoulders
Weary brown eyes searching
Blue for salvation
North, South, East, West
I’d much rather lefts and rights
than north, south, east, or west
Just base it on the local sights
I’d much rather lefts and rights
Turn left at gym, than right at Dwight’s–
that place where burgers are the best
I’d much rather lefts and rights
than north, south, east, or west.
What a transporting triolet! Love it.
“CompassRose”
and we did fly
so far above
on Moonlit Skies
CompassBlew
and we did Sing
of better things
to Bloom in Spring
CompassLily
Sacred White
Fleur de lis
in Pure Delight
These Three Wild and Sacred things
Are Deep Within, not Earthly Rings
They Bloom as One
From Heaven they grow
and Blossom Bright for Earth Below
Both of these are so evocative of longing, or so they seem to me. Wonderful.
I’ve sewn myself up
the spine
of the east coast,
dipping my toes
into the ocean stations:
St. Augustine
Fernandina
Savannah
Hilton Head
Norfolk.
Going forward,
doubling back,
to make sure the thread
is anchored tight.
That leaves nothing
but the braille of canyons
peaks and desert dash
waiting to be felt
north and west,
as I spread myself wide
to inherit the earth,
my father worked
his whole life
to teach me to read.
I think this is majestic, both in scope and connotations. The final lines are intimate and expanding at the same time. Marvellous.
agreed!
And agreed again!
Thank you!
Thanks!
That’s kind of you to say, thank you.
Ah, I think we’ve traveled the same path, starting in the same place, always returning, remembering where we began. Beautiful.
It is impossible to forget, even though I’ve moved 1500 miles away. <3
“I Took Direction From My Parents’ Attic”
Its stairway widened to my dormered nest.
The schoolyard stretched due north beyond a stand
of hipped white pine. Up high, I’d tiptoe-spin
to peer past slanting roofs both east and west.
South windows spilled upon a switch grass ditch
entwined with cattail puffs my eyes would scan
across, and there, an infield spread an outfield fan.
I spied on games from t-ball to fast pitch.
At first, no males allowed, but soon came Pooh.
I graduated to Rapunzel’s rope
then Carroll’s looking-glass—tales changed through grades.
I practiced kissing on my arm in hopes
of boyfriend, moved to scary novels, grew
past them, and left for college, unafraid.
–Barb Peters
Wow. A whole childhood in ripe images and associations. I think this is superb.
Succinct, powerful, and compelling. Beautiful, moving compression of time, too, and lovely, quick sketches of your vistas.
North
Considered barren
inhospitable
inhabitable
impenetrable
the white winter
wonderland
hides secrets
beneath the
frozen surface.
Ancient layers
built up over
endless cycles
freeze
thaw
freeze
thaw
pressures from
wind, soil and water
fold into a harsh
impassable landscape.
The perfect place
for privacy.
~also published at http://heatherbutton.com/2014/11/21/north-a-poem/
Spot on!
Spinning Compass
They wagered, the drunks of the town
One fellow spoke, his money down
The north souse eats, wets
Who knows which is bets?
We’ll smell him or see him aroun’
by gpr crane
Pure delight, and that middle line is a side-splitter.
I. North Star
Constellations spin
full of whimsy, compass lost
let the North Star speak
II. East of Midnight
Just east of midnight
mist lingers on calm waters
pale light before dawn
Love to think of spinning constellations full of whimsy . . . will need the ‘calm waters’ to help me sleep tonight with all that cosmic whimsy going on! 🙂 Truly, nicely done!
I’ve had the word “constellation” written in my journal since the first week of the challenge. I was so excited to finally get a chance to use it! It’s like it was sitting there waiting to play with “whimsy.” 🙂
Thanks!
These are little movies, in my view. Beautiful.
Thank you. 🙂
Oh, these are both elegantly balanced, cb…I love the idea of the North star speaking…actually speaking! 🙂
I’ve always been intrigued by the North Star. It’s been around so long, it surely must have something to say!
North Pole Santa
As I watched and waited at the mall,
in the food court, taking in all,
across from Santa’s village,
At 6, munching on fries,
The parents lined up,
with children of all ages,
anticipating the close up,
with the man and his beard,
Some were shy,
He coaxed them in with his grin,
some cried, the parents sadly said good bye,
all were dressed in their Sunday best,
The first Christmas, a special moment,
my grand daughter in his arms,
there were warnings, but I snapped away,
Picture perfect, special day,
He winked at me, gave a thumbs up,
so I approached, to thank him,
his smile warm as he asked,
“did you get some good pictures”
My eyes filled with tears,
I softly said, “this was so special to me”
He whispered back for me to hear,
“that’s the magic of love, caring and sharing”
North Star
(Quatern)
This closest bright, visible star
with virtually fixed position,
our stellar navigator leads
the lost, trustier than compass.
Ending Little Dipper’s handle,
this closest bright, visible star
only looks serene and peaceful
from our far away perspective.
Up close, it’s wild and dangerous,
a pulsing, plasmic burst of awe,
this closest bright, visible star
which guides due north in each night’s sky.
Though oft’ mistaken: the brightest,
Polaris won’t be the North Star
many moons ahead of our time,
this closest bright, visible star.
North South West East
Never Shit Well Ever
Overestimate Over Established After
Ruff’s Under Stinky Shit
Hardening There Territory Tomatoes
Turds Here
My dog likes to eat poopsicles
which is sad cause she’s cute
and everybody lets her lick
their faces
and poopsicles, in case you didn’t know,
are frozen pieces of shit she picks
up out of the dog pen
and takes into the garage
to gnaw on
and slowly thaw out
When people ask,
I say that smell is cause she
was probably just outside eating
poopsicles and everybody
kinda laughs
But in summer when I say
she’s a shit eater
nobody ever laughs at that
After that first good
single digit degree day
I swear she smiles, anxious
to get out in that dog pen
and I like it too cause
frozen shit is so much
easier to pick up
than regular shit
And I don’t know exactly where
I am going with this
but shit is shit
and it always seems to stand for
something else
and if somehow we can make
it more palatable or
cute it is so much
easier to take
I think what I really mean is
that this shit is poetry,
no, no capitalism
or maybe christmas with
the family
All I know for certain is
there are certain shoes
I wear
to clean out the dog pen
and I am sure this must
mean something more than it
really means
And those shoes are always gonna have
shit on them
and stepping in dog shit
especially someone else’s
in new shoes
when you don’t expect it?
Well lookee there,
Lucky my dog just found
another poopsicle.
Isn’t that cute?
All Directions Home
He stood at parade rest,
facing south, into the sun,
because that way he faced the cars
leaving Walmart shopping center.
He stood at parade rest,
straight and tall in the sun.
His neatly-lettered sign said
Homeless veteran needs work.
He stood at parade rest,
facing south, unmoving,
and that was hard work that day.
It was eighty-nine in the shade.
He stood at parade rest.
Determined, facing south
Into the endless line of cars turning out,
hoping for better work.
We had no job to give him, although
we wished we had. Ri gave him some bananas.
He smiled, took them, and said thanks, then again
he stood at parade rest.
Shethra Jones Hoopes
Migrations
South is a place on the map,
a promised land,
a dream.
North is in the past.
There’s no use dwelling
on memories,
no matter how bittersweet
they are.
Home
is a pair of strong wings,
right here,
right now.
past ,present ,future ..so beautifully you have tied time to direction
and those wings! let us fly…
Wow. “Home / is a pair of strong wings” is a powerful aphorism.
Indeed so. The poem turns and flies on this image.
Thank you all so much 🙂