POETIC BLOOMINGS

POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.

IN-FORM POET WEDNESDAY – IMAGISM

Imagism is the name given to a movement in poetry aimed at clarity of expression through the use of precise visual images. The early period often written in French form was Imagisme.Use the language of common speech, but employ exact words, not the nearly exact, nor the merely decorative word.

An example: Autumn by T.E. Hulme

A touch of cold in the Autumn night –
I walked abroad,
and saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
and round about were the wistful stars
with white faces like town children.

Try your hand at connecting with the Imagism spirit. Be descriptive and paint the visual picture. Good luck.

MARIE ELENA’S IMAGE:

A Little Girl’s Dream

She dreamed of grace through ballet –
Tulle layered to below her calf
Satan ribbon crisscrossing at her ankle
Waltzing on toe.
Ballet was offered only paired with tap,
For which she had no desire.
No desire until she acquired a taste
For black patent leather shoes.
Became enthralled with
Brush step, patter tap
Clicking rhythm
On hard surface beneath her feet.
Decades later, as she sees herself
In elderly women who
Shuffle
Lumber
Trudge,
She once again dreams of grace.

 © Copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013

WALT’S IMAGININGS:

FROSTFUL DAWNING

Mists hang low, clutching the grass
with moist fingers. Lingering
for the feel of the warmth of
sunrise’s first heated breath,
knowing the rising sun spells
its demise. It would be wise
for the mist to remain prone.
If left alone it will remain.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2011

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206 thoughts on “IN-FORM POET WEDNESDAY – IMAGISM

  1. True Bravery

    The hospital was packed;
    Everywhere there were kids, who were sick,
    Needing help.
    One surging
    Mass of humanity, a haze;
    Nurses, patients, doctors,
    Everyone converging
    Into a faceless blur.
    And I felt alone in a torrent of noise and action;
    Alone in a sea
    Of conversation;
    A nine-year-old
    Alone,
    Frightened,
    Wondering why,
    Wondering how we would endure this;
    Sure there was nobody feeling as
    Hurt,
    As miserable
    As me.
    Not even concerned that the one
    Who should feel this way was right beside me,
    And he was brave;
    He was brave, the one who had
    To endure the pain and
    Medications, the hurt:
    True bravery.
    He was brave, and I was not.

    He was brave,
    I was lost.

  2. Sunset

    She floats upon the mist, like veil`ed bride
    and mid the purple light of evening glows.
    She wavers so between the candled light;
    a many-rainbowed heaven now she shows.

    There’s mauve and peach among her silken folds
    Look! flutterings of ruffles there she glides…
    and ivory, her face back-lit with gold!
    And peace within a shiny backdrop hides.

    She whispers that the day has slipped away
    and soon the color fades to somber tune
    a greying majesty begins to sway
    as sad, and sadder sings the deep`ning gloom.

    Black night has come again for this old crone
    God save us ’til the light of morn be borne!

  3. MORNINGS AS USUAL

    Three bruised fruits
    emptied from
    a house inhospitable
    Shiver at the end
    of the lane
    Listening hard
    for the strains
    of sunrise
    Praying just
    a little too
    Truth be told
    That no sound
    slinks up behind them

    At last, as golden as corn
    on the cob
    The sun begins to rise,
    Shiny, over the hill
    Finally, draws to a stop
    Right before them
    The bus doors open
    Unfold and welcome
    them inside
    Warm as a Grandma’s arms
    Protective as a cop’s

    They clamber up the steps
    Exhale safety as they
    stumble down the aisle
    find their seats

  4. Marie, how did you see into my soul so clearly? Tears came to my eyes as I thought of my ballet tap early childhood and the tottery, clumsy old dame I have become. And it was your imagery that did the trick: criss-crossed satin ribbons, black patent shoes….

    And Walter, a different kind of imagery, universally .beautiful…..

    • Thanks Viv. Universal, indeed. Marie’s image raked its fingers through my memory as well. I had too trudge along with my older sister for her ballet/tap classes and a that point I heard shuffle-ball-change in my sleep. My first crush on a graceful waif made it “bearable”. That like everything else had passed. Walt.

    • Thanks to both of you, Viv and Walt. I’m sorry my piece brought tears, Viv. Yes, I can completely relate to what you are saying. It has just been this year that all of a sudden I find my body betraying me – left hip, right knee, bottoms of feet – ugh …

      And Walt, that’s so charming … and sad.

      Warm smiles to you both.

      Marie Elena

    • (I, on the other hand, was the clumsy ballerina who spun to the left when the others spun to the right…!) Wonderfully evocative, both of you, and I do love your style of rhyming, Walt.

  5. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Meg, beautiful truths; Walt, soo ethereal…

  6. DebiSwim on said:

    Wintry Night

    The sky is black and endless
    with pinholes of light
    that flicker
    glimmers of white and blue.

    The air is shivery cold
    forced into lungs
    with short painful gasps
    of needlelike stabs.

    The snow kicked up
    by a stray gust
    swirls a tiny tornado
    of diamond dust.

    The wind moans a fey song
    in the trees, limbs sway
    like a deranged dancer
    moving only from the waist.

    The silence is sudden, stark
    filling the night with expectation.
    A frozen branch cracks-
    a cannon’s boom.

    This wintry night,
    breathtaking, lovely,
    wild, alien
    is crushingly lonely.

  7. Loss

    The news of his death caused the glass to drop
    from her hand to the cold ceramic floor.
    The shattered, glistening shards
    twinkled like the pieces of her life;
    strewn in a sharp yet random mass,
    tumbled through a void of shredded dreams,
    never again to be whole.

  8. The Golden Trees

    Along the roadside’s graveled edge
    A row of poplars lift their limbs and spread
    Their roots to where secret water hides
    In the shallow pools of dried stream-beds.

    A thirsty summer, hot and dry
    With sudden storms that made green leaves fly
    From nervous branches, all shaken down
    Beneath the scorching sun in an empty sky.

    Today, as the heat-stricken hours fade
    Each tree now casts its golden shade
    water trickles through the once dried stream
    Clouds arrive, though few have stayed.

    I stand, immersed in the golden glow
    Beneath the poplars’ royal row
    Through long winter nights I’ll return in dreams
    While the poplars sleep in their robes of snow.

  9. Spring’s Reign

    She wraps her mantle round the earth,
    Settling herself for her reign,
    Eyes twinkling with joyful mirth,
    Happy tears drench the earth in rain.

    She hugs herself in glee, and she
    Rejoices in the bright sun’s rays;
    Causing trees to change their wintry
    Garments to fresh new green, to stay.

    She casts her eyes on the buds and
    They open petals to greet her,
    Clothing themselves in colors grand,
    Happy at the end of winter.

  10. Measured

    Her life was measured in teardrops,
    Ill-advised decisions
    That left her hollow and broken,
    Discarded burgundy kisses
    On discount tissues…
    Her spirit ragged and worn
    Like a crumpled dollar bill
    Stuffed into a lost and found wallet,
    Her value forgotten
    Until someone peered inside
    And discovered her hidden worth.

  11. claudsy on said:

    Mountain Day

    Warm breeze caresses
    virgin pines that
    whisper through
    granite holes, which
    whistle eerily to
    red-shouldered hawk that
    circles above peaks that
    protects valley below, which
    basks in brief sun’s light.

  12. Haircut (a Cinquain)

    Staring
    In the mirror,
    Turning her head each way;
    She’s still getting used to her new
    Haircut.

  13. I didn’t write this just now, of course, but it seems to fit Imagism:

    Rain, Rain

    Relentlessly the icy rain swoops down.
    The sodden earth, refusing, cries “No more!
    Have pity on your prey. I weep; I drown.
    Please show me now your mercy, I implore.”
    New blossoms break; brave daffodils are bent,
    Their sunny faces pressed into the mud.
    Sweet pansies shredded, cheerful petals rent,
    The apple trees now mourn each frozen bud.
    But rain beats wings against the wintry gale
    And stretches talons, needle-sharp and cruel.
    We find no refuge from her keening wail
    Nor have we any respite from her rule
    ‘Til sun, her master, calls and she obeys.
    Now hooded, tamed, she broods on stormy days.

    Caressing, soft, the gentle rain creeps down,
    Now purring figure eights around our feet
    And nuzzling cheeks. The shadblow dons her gown
    While patient tulips wait, their petals neat.
    Narcissi bow, so graceful, heads now weighed
    By raindrops beading there like short-lived pearls,
    And grasses wear a shine on every blade.
    The glad earth drinks; the peony unfurls,
    And rain comes dancing, watching flowers preen.
    A playful tickle from her whiskers, then
    She’s hiding and emerging, seen, unseen,
    And running catlike over field and fen,
    She’s gone. The sun emerges, but with cause
    To be suspicious: kittens have their claws!

  14. Harvest

    She bent and pulled a tuber from ground
    already loosened by her mattock,
    red clay clotted on its blade,
    her back creaking like a screen door
    slapping against the door frame
    on a summer night, a fleshy squeeze
    of hands patting shoulders, waiting
    for a slice of sweet potato pie.

  15. Pingback: All That Remains… | Metaphors and Smiles

    • All That Remains…

      Cinder sprinkled on brick,
      mortar and stone,
      timber bones and wire veins-
      borders, paint and plastic,
      crystal glasses and taffeta shades,
      Asian rugs and ancient chairs,
      baubles and trinkets galore-
      years of stored things;
      extra added to excessive.
      What really makes a house a home?
      Sown seeds of good ol’ days,
      fits of tendril reach to teach,
      sprigs of emerald are anxious for light.
      Stir the soil -dirt neath your sole,
      full, you’ll find your stores are spilling-
      filled with the best that grandma’s invested;
      morals, courage, her best recipes,
      vestiges of green-apple jam…

      Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

      I’ve written this poem to convey a feeling that this world is becoming exceedingly clingy to material things and that there’s a declining sense of worth in the values and great old-school ways of our predecessors.

      The rose-hips pictured can be used: Compare the nutritional content of oranges to rose hips and you will find that rose hips contain 25 percent more iron, 20 to 40 percent more Vitamin C (depending upon variety), 25 times the Vitamin A, and 28 percent more calcium.

      Just as one example of something common and usable…I remember my grandmother harvesting rose-hips…dandelion
      greens, too.

  16. Purple

    He watched the way she handled fruit
    this time a purple plum so ripe
    its frosty skin dark as a bruise
    and loose, its smell like her perfume.

    She gently bathed and dried it to
    perfection’s lovely purple shine
    then took a bite, as juice ran down
    her chin; she moaned and drank its wine.

    Involuntarily he closed
    his eyes and swallowed sweet desire,
    and longing fed his mind’s embrace
    of lusciousness, a gentle fire.

    Had this sight stirred him to his core?
    He sighed knowing he wanted more.

  17. Marie, your poem is so beautifully balanced…I love the transition in the end…sentimental and so well written, my friend!

    The inner rhyme and images of your are a joy to read, Walt!! Excellent form.

    :)’s to you guys.

  18. Ellen Knight on said:

    I actually wrote this last May, but it just seemed to fit so well…
    E

    Storm

    1

    A temper tantrum of rain
    stomps its feet
    at being summoned to
    wash away the grime of the city.

    The wind, flailing its ill-mannered
    arms hurls coke cans,
    Chinese take-out cartons,
    pizza boxes from street gutters,

    lifting them to alley doorways
    and corners behind the dumpsters
    that should have been
    their home addresses.

    Plastic bags, the kites of the city
    are transported, lifted,
    kidnapped
    only

    To be snatched from
    the fingers of the wind
    by tree branches and telephone
    wires.

    Paper receipts, cigarette butts,
    candy wrappers, sporadic
    leaves, random coins and
    bottle caps –- pushed and

    pummeled, by a
    wave of water as
    strong as any
    surge of ocean.

    The daily detritus
    of city life is evicted
    as squatters and
    deposited below,

    Some to take up residence
    there, and with more
    being swept away in
    the long journey to the sea.

    2

    Have you ever noticed
    how the rainstorm differs
    in the country?

    Like its city cousin, there are
    the basic ingredients of
    water and wind, of course.

    But in the country,
    the storm seems less
    visceral,

    more welcome.
    The trees, reaching their arms
    high for the water,

    while protecting
    the more fragile life
    down below,

    standing together,
    ready for
    whatever wily

    tactics the wind slings
    at them
    this time.

    3

    Meanwhile, back in the
    city, I am in bed. I am
    supposed to be sleeping.
    I have to get up

    for work in just five
    hours.
    And yet, I can hear the rain
    on the tin roof of my porch,

    thundering like a herd of
    wild horses.
    I can see their
    muscles rippling, and

    their manes and tails flying
    in the wind as they
    throw their heads
    back and yell

    to each other the joy
    of their freedom.
    And with all of this going on,
    I should sleep?

    Ellen Knight

  19. A delightful cornucopia of gar`bage in the first section and how each piece is carefully playing its part. You personification is a real hoot!

    “Plastic bags, the kites of the city
    are transported, lifted,
    kidnapped”

    your city storm has more action than a freight train moving through…
    nice work!

  20. Fierce Love

    When a woman
    longs for a baby
    and learns she is pregnant,
    love for her unborn child
    washes over her,
    growing exponentially
    until the baby’s born
    and forevermore.

    A caregiver begins
    with simple compassion
    toward an adult with special needs
    somewhat detached,
    but then love grows
    like and infant in the womb,
    and when born
    is fierce as a mother’s love.

  21. The Woman, The Dog, And The Glass

    She carried a crystal glass of rosé
    in one hand.

    She held a red leash, for her aged, lumbering golden retriever
    in the other hand.

    A bark broke the air like a siren’s wail
    across the street

    The golden’s head whipped around, tugging her
    in one direction.

    The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on sidewalk
    in the other direction.

    Rosé puddled at her feet, mixed with sunlit,
    cracked crystal shards.

    Deciding spilled wine was infinitely more intriguing
    than another dog,

    the golden tried to lap up wine with the tip
    of her pink tongue,

    and was tugged and forced in the front door
    by the woman.

  22. I don’t usually write to forms so I’m not sure if this is what is expected but anyway here it is…

    On Reflection

    The bright, lively blue eyes
    stare back at me.
    The face is worn,
    ageing;
    a few marks,
    a few scars,
    the usual signs of wear and tear.
    The hair nearly blond where once
    was a red mane.
    The moustache, still flecked with ginger,
    is grey and perhaps, needs a trim.
    I ignore the teeth of the dentist-hater
    and smother the physiognomy
    with lather.

    The eyes sparkle
    in the bathroom light
    and I allow myself a wink,
    and a smile.
    reflecting
    on growing old
    and feeling young.

    Rinse, dry, apply the soothing gel
    and stop the too, too, intimate examination
    that comes with every shave.

    Iain

  23. Pingback: Imagery? | Vivinfrance's Blog

  24. Imagery?

    A snell wind bites ears and noses,
    Eastern chill numbs fingertips
    but Oh what delight the glow
    of returning sun has brought ,
    replacing late-lingered gloom
    on winter faces with smiles.
    Five unbroken days of golden light
    transforms blue to bliss.

    Sorry it’s taken me so long to come up with this.
    Snell is a Scottish word meaning keen, sharp or severe.

  25. Cry Of Flesh
    swamped in doldrums of incessant pain
    eyes soft and warm
    guarding a precious secret
    shapeless waves of anguish
    gut-wrenching riptide
    ‘neath smiling facade
    a mask painted with intrepid face
    screams lurking behind
    bright shards of laughter
    adversities stone-chiseled grin
    surrendering to its inevitable ends
    pain sandwiched between
    fragile flesh and grinding bone
    midnight laps on slippered tracks
    no longer guided by vanities ambitions
    a sour-note flavored sucker
    to match a shivering breeze
    Can you hear it?
    the cry of flesh calling itself

  26. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Dreaming Surprise, 18 February 2013

    The snow wisps the rooftops
    like the powdery confection
    that blows delicately
    through
    my mind.

  27. MORNING

    the real-world clock like
    a buzz saw topples timber
    of night dreams

    or morning’s a scorching summer’s
    breath thawing the deep-freeze
    of a suspended evening’s grace

    or a red-haired heroine
    dabbing ointment on closed eyelids
    her soothing voice: “It’s only wind burn”

    or morning’s a forest of vague trees
    gray shrubs dark moss
    a magic downpour of forgetfulness

    or a hungry kitten in Real-Time
    licking reminders onto eyelids
    purring awake a night voyager

    #

  28. Blooming Into Womanhood

    She’s just beginning
    To bloom into womanhood,
    Still so much to learn.

    The tiny petals of her
    Girlhood are opening up,

    Her face, the round part
    Among the many petals,
    Looking up to her

    Mother, receiving
    Her instruction, learning how
    To be a woman:

    A Godly woman, held in
    The palm of her Father’s hand.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  29. Demolition Men (a Fib)

    walls
    come
    down in
    tumbling
    falls of rumbling
    rubble and white floury dust

  30. Psalm of the Mountains

    By David De Jong

    As I look at the mountains, tranquil tears flow down my face,
    For I know where my help comes from, He is surely in this place.

    Breath-taking beauty, indescribable, infinitely grand,
    Created at the dawn of time, with a sweep of His hand.

    Buffalo, beasts in the field, graze along lupine meandering at will,
    Grandeur of granite, skulking glacier, simply beckons – “peace, be still”.

    Blossoms wistfully button the trail, calling out His name,
    Anthems lifted by any choir, couldn’t sound the same.

    Joyful streams, glistening mirrors, to the expansive sky,
    Eagles waltzing amongst the clouds, deepening the sigh.

    No human fathomed in all his might,
    Could imagine, yet create such a sight.

    Sacred air, breathed slowly, tasting it best,
    Stirring pulses, savored deep within my chest.

    Fragrance of the meadow, dew on the pine,
    Surely God is here – undeniable – this His sign.

    This day will close forcibly, far too soon,
    Songs from the wolf, whispers of the moon.

    Reluctant I turn, to leave this moment, and forever its memory chase,
    Yet my heart weeps in joy, for with my love – together – we stood in this place.

  31. Marie, your poem is so filled with wonderful images.

  32. Ellen Knight on said:

    Lost in Space

    When your memory
    is remiss at unearthing
    much happiness from
    your childhood,

    When you have kept
    those years roped off,
    like a section
    at the movies,

    “All Seats Full”,
    because to you,
    the sign reads,
    “Proceed At Your Own Risk”’

    You read a beautiful poem,
    which begins,
    “The sky is black and endless
    with pinholes of light…”

    And it transports you
    faster than any
    time machine
    to the fourth grade

    Science Fair, where
    your entry was
    ‘The Constellations’,
    which you made by

    Mapping out the sky,
    white dots connected
    by white lines on
    black construction paper,

    Then affixed to a large
    cardboard box, each side
    for one of the seasons
    of the evening sky.

    Then, before you placed
    the box over a light bulb,
    you pricked holes, to
    represent the stars.

    And this fond memory
    enlightens you, that the
    vastness of the stars
    need not remind you of

    The alone-ness you have
    always felt, rather
    the company
    of angels.

    Ellen Knight 2.24.13

    from Debi (DebiSwim)’s poem Wintry Night (Imagism)

  33. sheryl kay oder on said:

    Ellen, did you post this in the wrong place?

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