Following her friend and sister North Carolinian, Jane Shlensky, our Co-host this week is highly accomplished and we are extremely honored to include her works amongst the glowing blooms here at CREATIVE BLOOMINGS. Nancy Posey is a strong voice in poetic circles, as she is a ardent promoter of the process. We welcome her here.
***
Nancy is an Alabama native, living in North Carolina (“The Writingest State”) since 1995. She teaches English in the community college after 18 years of teaching in high school. A lifelong reader, she has always been in love with the written and spoken word. Nancy was drawn back to poetry with the Poetic Asides PAD challenge about 6 or 7 years ago. Since that time, she has built friendships with the writers she met there, leading her to this site. When she’s not reading or writing (or grading the endless stacks of essays) she stays busy. She and her husband Dick have been married 37 years in June. They have three grown children and three grandchildren–all beautiful, charming, and fun. She also finds time to travel (most recently to Haiti) and to learn to play mandolin.
Find Nancy’s work and musings at: THE DISCRIMINATING READER and ALABAMA TAR HEEL
***
PROMPT #149 – “NO POEMS ABOUT POETRY?”: Nancy offers this thought for poetry month. It becomes our prompt this week! She says: “No poems about poetry,” I’ve read in submission guidelines, joining cat poems in the lists of don’ts. If poets don’t sing the praises of poetry, then, who will? People of all ages often bristle and grow defensive when we suggest reading poetry along with, not even instead of, their usual reading matter. I must confess that some of the damage is done by my people—English teachers. We assign a poem, ask students what it means, and then tell them why they are wrong. Didn’t Billy Collins say that high school is where poetry goes to die?
Rather than wring our hands, why don’t we take this opportunity during National Poetry Month to become publicists for poetry. Write a poem that celebrates poetry in some way—and follow that basic rule of writing: Consider your audience, reluctant readers.
***
WALT’S POETIC P.R.:
SINCE I’M GOING TO WRITE SOMETHING ANYWAY…
I might as well write rhyme.
I have this blank page, and the time
and the rage to go gently into that good write.
I might as well write rhyme.
A poem is as expressive as I can get,
and I’m of a mind to do it all on my dime, every time.
I might as well write rhyme.
Poets are a special breed. We don’t need much
except a muse and just enough heart to get started.
Since I’m going to write something anyway,
I might as well write rhyme.
It’s the best way to know I’m alive.
© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014
***
NANCY’S PROMOTION:
POEM
I’m leaving it here on your desk,
purely harmless, with no hidden
intent, this brief poem I heard
that made me think of you. No
Latinate construction, skewed
syntax, no symbols planted so deep
even the poet needs a pirate’s map.
In simple words—ones I might
have said myself, though not
as well, not as clearly, this poet
who never knew you penned lines
that surely sing your name.
© Copyright Nancy Posey – 2014
Responses
THE POETESS
You write of caves and interior spaces;
of mind-spun flowers and wind-blown places;
your words create a glittering world
of deep-felt dreams deployed, unfurled.
The magic you make spans over the years
to put mere sentences to arrears.
Thank you. Thank you for all of that
and for the joys your words begat.
copyright 2014, William Preston
Nice one, William. I love what you did with the rhyme and the flow. Makes a reader wish she’d penned the words of which you speak. 🙂
Amen!
Lovely use of imagery and expression. I love “mind-spun flowers and wind-blown places” and “a glittering world of deep-felt dreams deployed, unfurled.”
I agree wholeheartedly with Linda.
YES!
Yes! I love poems about poetry! Good to see you Nancy as captain of the ship!
I’m glad this place is populated with such talented people, Nancy and Walt.
I’m with Benjamin in sentiment here. It’s good to see you Nancy. I look forward to seeing what you do this week. As for a poem about poetry and its value, it’s a favorite topic of mine.
Great choice, Walt, for co-host. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t love Nancy’s work.
Nice…and well done!
Interpret
I’ve written verse time and again,
I’ve cried and I’ve died and I’ve bled,
I’ve poured out my heart with my pen,
Emotions written raw and red;
Because my tongue plays tricks on me,
Words can be misinterpreted,
So I write and I let them see,
I let them ponder rhyme instead.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2014
Superb piece, Erin Kay
Excellence Erin! Absolutely adore this.
😊
Yes – So elegantly excellent!
nice work, Erin
That is smart thinking – I can think of some who I wish might take up rhyming over talking 🙂
Oh, yes
oh, indeed, the word from the mouth can get us in much more trouble than that on the page.
Very nice Erin. Words CAN be misinterpreted so easily so let them ponder rhyme is great.
Good one, Erin. Authenticity rings through it all.
Thanks, everyone! Your comments really mean a lot to me. ❤
Wonderful, Erin!
It is supposed that the majority of people who read poetry are poets themselves, so why not write poetry to interest the majority of our readers!
Walt your Villanelle is superb and Nancy, I am always banging on about comprehensibility and your poem puts it so well. You couldn’t have chosen a prompt more close to my heart.
Metaphorical Poetry
My poems are an adventure
into ideas unexplored.
My poems are a mish-mash,
a soup of varied words.
My poems are a patchwork quilt,
of scraps of cloth in brilliant colours,
sewn together in quirky patterns
by accident or design.
My poems are the music of me
the rhythm of my life.
My poems are an adventure
willingly explored.
That about sums it up. Wonderful.
Nice Viv! good imagery to sum the experience of writing poems!
This is delightful, Viv.
a poem can be any or all of those things. Good work,
Beautifully put, Viv
look at you venturing into the land of metaphor, and doing it quite well. 🙂
I love the idea of the patchwork quilt. That’s so appropriate.
Wonderful, Viv. You expressed beautifully the feelings of many poets.
Viv, this is perfect! I love the image of a quilt.
PLAYING POETRY WITH A NET
From structureless stanzas I flee
whilst writing my own poetry:
a pattern defines
my rhymes and my lines;
I’ve nary a verse that is free.
copyright 2014, William Preston
Bravo. You are very very good at this!
Good one William. Like the brevity and the message in it.
Great limerick, William.
OH, Wm “free” is really Okay. 🙂
I do indeed need more structure in my lines…well done
And you always do structure so well!
Oh, fun, William! 🙂
This sums it up for many of us, William. Even when I’m writing something without regard for rhyme, rhythm, syllable or cadence, it all seems I create a pattern for myself unthinkingly as I write.
Great job.
The House is Built
One word
two words
three words
come like bricks
lain side by side
in full development
as they depart
from the heart
until the house is built
He who builds
is skilled
in material
and design
constructing
the house
in free verse
strict form
and rhymes
Two words, four words, six words, a poem;
everyone for poetry, stand up and show `em!
🙂 to you both.
I like it!
Nice construction there : )
gracias!
Oh, yes, Benjamin. Marvelously true.
Thx Claudsy
You’re welcome.
Your house is filled with beauty, supported by a strong foundation.
WHAT A POEM IS
don’t tell me poems waste time
words strung in lines like paper dolls
waiting for wind to blow them away
don’t say poems can wait or they’re
not worth the ink they’re written in
don’t dare explain how poetry is useless
how from it nothing is built that can remain
nothing at all don’t call a poem
names you’d be ashamed to wear yourself
a poem’s a shelf upon which you store
the core of you and if you’re wise
a good disguise when truth is
best left under wraps or life’s a trap
just waiting to spring and bring about
your downfall
be instead the precious few who call a poem
what it truly is: a hand to lift anew
those who stumble in the dark of prose
#
I love words as paper dolls…
I like the shelf allusion.
me, too
“and if you’re wise a good disguise when truth is best left under wraps” Yes!
Nice, Sal! I particularly like “a poem’s a shelf upon which you store
the core of you”. 🙂
This is excellent, Sal. I love it.
Wonderful, Sal. I love ‘those who stumble in the dark of prose.’
Insomniac
Sometimes my dreams
leave me slack-jawed.
It’s like an attack
of lucid metaphors
begging for home
awakens me
and I can’t sleep
until they’re delivered
safe and sound
to my writing shack,
which is odd–
calling the nook
where I write a shack.
But it’s like that
with papers strewn
this way and that,
words on purple
and yellow pads
waiting in line.
Sometimes I can’t
even find the door,
but it seems as if
I live there,
according to my kids.
They call me
a poetic maniac,
but that’s okay–
I don’t drink anymore.
Awesome Laurie! I love the images in this one
This certainly rings true! I love it.
I’m diggin’ it, Laurie. Absolutely love “an attack/of lucid metaphors/begging for home”
🙂
ah, trading the one bad habit for another. 🙂
Cool, a peep into your writing mania.
“I can’t sleep
until they’re delivered
safe and sound”
Perfect, Laurie!
Lovely story line, Laurie. Very visual to me and one I can relate to in several ways. I have a shack almost like yours, though it can’t even boast a nook. It sits out in full view of every passerby, disheveled and disordered as any self-respecting shack should be. 🙂 This was wonderful.
Smidgen and Dash
A dash
of you…
a smidgen
of me…
is poetry
Lumped
together
we stand
sharing
in this grand
moiety
smiles… delightful
Oh, yes.
Thx
Thanks
Hummm, fun 🙂
: ) NICE
Oh yes — fun, indeed! 😀
Good one, Benjamin. I can certainly agree with it in full measure.
Thx
🙂
Oh YES!! Love them both, Walt & Nancy! Off to see if I can find that misplaced muse — and heart — Walt. 😉
Writing Poems
In the dark hollow of the night,
I trade my sleep for time to write.
Idea clouds form overhead;
in blinks of time they can be read.
When half done, they may dissipate.
It’s in the cards to stay up late.
It’s only signal to press on,
until a chorus like a fawn
will scamper in the forest green
and sing of wonders, sight unseen.
The earth rotates and time will crawl
till words flow like a waterfall.
Poems paddle by in their canoes.
I so prefer this to the news.
grins
“words flow like a waterfall”…
Your words flow perfectly. The rhythm and rhyme is spot on. I alwas love “until a chorus like a fawn will scamper in the forest green and sign of wonders, sight unseen.” but the absolute BEST line is without a doubt “poems paddle by in their canoes”.
🙂
Poetry keeps you up late at night? A couple of you have mentioned that. Words flow like a waterfall . . . oh, for those magical moments.
Nice, Connie… especially the last 4 lines.
The whole is fun, but I love the ending, Connie! 🙂
Insomniacs of the world, unite: you have nothing to gain but your poems.. I like this, especially the second line.
Bravo, Connie. I’m with you in preference over the news. I’d much rather wrestle an unruly group of words into respectability than see more of CNN.
Love the ending, and the words flowing like a waterfall.
I have sat and observed and written. And I love the supportive environment of this group of pets, encouraging me the fledgling poet (I might take exception to FlashPoet’s description of the “dark of prose.” lol. as a novelist)
But I have questions about poetry as a genre vs. poems. Is this a place I can ask those questions?
poetry is a concept, poems are its practice
I like that answer.
Me, too, Debi.
poetry
always wants a dance.
Even when nobody asks
she gets out on the floor.
Alas I am left, tapping,
with two left trochees
and a pest of unvoiced plaints.
Amphibrachs,
and some tepid punch jiggle
when I bump the table
for I bump the table
when I tap. Poetry does
enjoy a good turn
in a lampshade.
You could’ve done this in one, in vaudeville. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Grins
This is fun!
I’m clapping…
Oh, rollicking fun, Barbara! 🙂
That’s awesome Barbara. I like the notion of being forced to dance, even tap dance. Enjoyed your bumping the table as well. I think I’ve bumped many myself!
Love the fun, Barbara. Good for you and good for this.
As Physics
is that branch of science
best equipped to describe
a cat’s ability to alter gravity
when it wants not to move, so
poetry explains black holes as cats.
a poem about cats and poetry all together. Love it. Are a lot of poets cat lovers?
It seems that way.
I couldn’t bring my kitty to the nursing home. Missing you, Talia!
Nice viewpoint here.
Wide grin here
This one’s even more fun. Barbara, you’re definitely on a roll here. Love it.
Love this, Barbara!
Life is Like a Poem
We giggle and act silly
(rhyming poetry)
and perhaps get a bit sassy
(limerick lines).
We look in the mirror
(palindrome faces),
and we often spell out our words with meaning
(acrostic moments).
We have problems, we look for solutions and we try to solve our problems
(with a BOP on the head).
We follow rules and routines
(cinquain or a sestina to name just a few),
and our friendships and loves take all shapes
(Diamante diamonds and Shape poetry).
We use math daily
(Fibonacci sequences),
we enjoy the outdoors
(Haiku bits),
and we travel the world
(Gwawdodyn, Haiga, Kyrielle to name a few places).
We tell long stories about our lives
(Odes to you and me)
and we seek, speak and long for love
(Sonnets sing).
Yep, our daily life is living poetry,
so why wouldn’t we celebrate poetry?
Bingo!
Way to go, Michelle
very clever, Mik
Great point, Mik!
Ahhh, yes.
A true tale Michelle! And wonderfully told.
This would make a glorious lesson in poetic forms for a class, Michelle, but it also asks a wonderful question. Our lives are a kind of poetry, though we seldom see them as such. If we talk about our lives, we talk in poetry or, at least, about it.
Terrific!
[…] Prompt #149 – “No Poems About Poetry?”: Guest Co-host – Nancy Posey […]
Stray Words
By David De Jong
I know of a cantankerous old gent,
Simple in his ways, barely worth a cent.
Takes his days in stride, fixed in a saddle,
Carousin’ along, in fields of cattle.
Prairie songs spill out his wanderin’ mind,
Each he ponders, and fiddles, to refine.
Most speak of life, some of love, none of hate,
Some won’t make it past, that old pasture gate.
Some he scribbles to keep, else he forgets,
It be words he loses, he most regrets.
They be medicine to an achin’ heart,
Gives a spirit reclaim to a fresh start.
Peace in a sunrise, opens better days,
Even while alone, tired, searchin’ for strays.
He’ll bring em round, if it’s the last he does,
It’s findin’, rescuin’ the lost, what he loves.
Some is tangled, cut and bruised in old wire,
Others are found broken, lonely and tired.
It gives him a purpose, best he’d found yet,
It be those he loses he’d most regret.
His songs be simple, but come from his heart,
Some annoyin’, like a squeak in a cart.
He knows what it’s like to be lost; a stray,
Got lost in the woods, way back in his day.
Just a small pup cryin’ in the dark of night,
Wanderin’ and wonderin’, lookin’ for light.
If his words can shed some light on the path,
Save a life; from torture, torment or wrath;
Then it be a pretty good, best-odds, bet,
This man’s words were written, with no regret.
Long ago, came another, searchin’ strays,
Pages are filled with stories from His days.
Words He spoke with love are written in red,
Words like honeycomb to the soul be fed.
He told stories with meanin’, lessons, too.
Gave up His life: to rescue me, and you.
So it be fittin’ this time, some call lent,
To reflect on this One the Father sent.
Be it in a song, a rhyme, written word,
Let’s give thanks He died and rose on the third.
Let it be said; once more, just once more yet,
Come in from the dark, don’t die with regret.
Get that man a guitar and a campfire. Wonderful.
I’m with you, William. David, you’re definitely a cowboy poet and that’s to the good. One o’ the best around, I’d say. So glad this form and ability hasn’t been lost. That would be a regret.
Terrific!
Hiho, friends! Good to have Nancita hosting this week. I’ll be back with a poem-pushing poem.
BIRTH
c/w 4-2014 by MARJORY M THOMPSON
When night slips past its fullness,
quietness is found
and poems are born.
The last low rays of light
from the departing moon
leave all the stars to lag.
Each star now shines as light
fragmented from the moon
to aid the birth of thoughts and words.
Words written o’er the seas of time,
that will remain
caressed within the shifting sand.
Each bit of sand a thought,
voices that all the stars will hear
throughout the ebb and flow of life.
The night and day, the moon and stars
still ebb and flow a beating serenade
as yet another poem is born.
Nice, Marjory! “…yet another poem is born”!
Amen to that.
Wonderful poem, Marjory. The ebb and flow of this one reads so smoothly. Good for you. I like the words choices that create such vibrant images.
This is stunning from that first paragraph on.
very nice
Something silly from my past:
Rhyme-Time
If one took time
To make a rhyme
Where all lines rhyme
Time after time,
Is it a crime?
To take the time
To make lines rhyme
Time after time
Would be sublime,
If not prime
For wasting time
On a rhyming rhyme.
But now it’s time
To give a dime
To the funny mime
Who cannot rhyme
Time after time.
He’s stuck in slime
And cannot climb
Out of the grime,
Now, that’s a crime.
But right now I’m
Gonna’ take the time
To throw the mime
Stuck in the slime
A new enzyme
That eats the grime
So he can climb
Out just in time
To get the dime
And hear the rhyme
That he can’t chime
‘Cause he’s a mime
And mimes can’t rhyme
Any time.
Now, should that mime
Stay in the slime
Or is that dime
Worth his time?
And is it a crime
For a rhyme to rhyme
Time after time?
Don’t ask a mime.
(c) 2001 Earl Parsons
I love it – Fun Done.
It takes time to read this, but what fun!
Oh, my. Earl, that is one of the most tongue-twisting poems I’ve ever seen. I read all poetry aloud and this one had my head spinning by the time I got to the end.
Well done on the fun-o-meter, Earl.
Penning Poetry (a repeat)
Sometimes the words come quick – so fast
my fingers fly to capture them.
They splash over the fall in a sparkling cascade
dancing, jumping, cavorting, roaring with life
and vitality, sheer joy of being.
Each drop a diamond reflecting the light in
glints of ruby, emerald, topaz and aquamarine
each singing a capella but in lilting harmony
one with the other, a praise, a tribute, an ode.
Then other times, it’s a tug of war and I with
calloused hands drag and wrench each word
by hairy head into compliance of sound and
succinct significance, a taming of the shrew.
I try to domesticate my wild, unwieldy thoughts
to cohesiveness, try to transform a feeling,
an impulse, a fickle emotion into a solid image,
or metaphor of likeness to a reality of now.
I know it looks like I’m goofing off but look –
there are furrows on my brow.
yes, the fingers are idle but the brow furrowed…a poem is in the works.
I hear ya.
Me too, and I’m deaf!
This is superb, Debi. And so very accruate as to the poetic writing process. Bravo!
yes, yes, yes. This is so true. Right now I am experiencing more of the second stanza than the first. I am hoping that changes soon.
Upon Reading the Poems of Mary Oliver,
In Which She Refers to the Poet in Third Person
I write as often as I may
a poem or a chapter,
a recounting of the hours
of the day, or the days
that can pass in the course
of a night.
I write as often as I may
of laughter, but tears
frequently fall, searches
of joy where anger
is normally found.
I write as often as I may,
trying to expound
on the mundane found
in the spectacular, and vain
attempts simplify
the amazing.
I write as often as I may,
never quite satisfied with
the result. Maybe this is why
I follow the advice of a friend
and leave the titles of author
and poet for others to bestow,
never referring to myself
as anything more than ‘writer’.
I’m never quite satisfied with mine, either. Are poems really ever finished?
No, and I think that’s the fun of it. However, I;m sure Mark’s “more than ‘writer’.” Wonderful piece.
So true for many of us, Mark. Well done indeed.
I think I hate 85% of the things I write. But then there is that 15% when I feel I’ve possible done something right.
Through Other Eyes
How do you see the moon?
If you read five different poets
describing the moon, you will
see that each one extracts
a facet of the moon, in their
own unique way. You say,
What does that do for me?
Well, you will never look
at the moon in the same
old distracted manner. You will
apply the poets’ images
and thoughts, find which ones
seem to fit your own idea
of the moon, and you will smile
at the intimacy poetry allows.
if we can make the reader see something, anything, in a new light…mission accomplished
Thanks, Mark.
So true.
Thanks, Laurie!
So true, Sara.
Thanks, Marjory!
Yes, indeed, and cheese will never be green again.
Also true.
Marvelous, Sara. I like this idea and hadn’t every thought of it that way before. Kudos, girl.
Thanks, Claudsy!
🙂
;0
“and you will smile at the intimacy poetry allows”… love that line!
Thank you, Debi!
exactly!
[…] .. Written for Creative Bloomings. […]
Ink
We all collect words, Love,
seize them from the breeze
and press them down to page,
wings still fluttered. I’ll simply
(pen)
pin these few to you, stick your
skin with some new hue to breathe.
Braille your way past silence,
loose them
as you may.
.
pinning words of love to another…spectacular
Yes, lovely!
Braille your way past silence… I love that!
Same here, and it resonates with me owing to deafness, oddly enough. Words have an amazing mental texture, and it looks to me as if De feels each one.
I agree. Those are excellent lines.
Ahhh… sweet!
Good one, De. I like how you give it over to the reader, forcefully and with intent.
I love the dialogues that develop when we are paying attention to each other’s words, don’t you?
Yep. 🙂
[…] Written for Creative Bloomings Prompt #149: No Poems About Poetry? […]
CATHARSIS
(a shadorma)
Her words flow,
like tears down her cheeks,
spilling on
-to the page.
Poems, the silent echoes
of her poet’s heart.
Nice, Paula!
Thanks, Pamela! ❤
Ah, this is moving and precise at the same time, it seems to me. Love it.
Thanks, William! In writing short poems (eg. shadormas) I do enjoy when I can be clever or convey wisdom in few words. But I’m also happy to know they can be “moving” from time to time, as well. Glad you enjoyed it!
Well said, Paula. They are often like that, aren’t they?
“Poems, the silent echoes of her poet’s heart.” by Paula Wanken… That is going to end up a quote search result someday.
Potter’s Play
Poets
love
word
play-
doh
For
they can
teach it’s
substance
form and shape
Molding
it unto
the desired
end
I like the idea of molding words like “playdoh” — even though they don’t always cooperate as easily as that. 🙂
Ha! True.
True that 🙂
Thanks for that original allusion. Sometimes, though, the play-dough feels more like a Rubik’s cube, in my experience anyway.
Great comparison, Benjamin. We do do just that most of the time.
Thx, although I did like Williams idea of the Rubix cube.
You both may well be right. That’s one little device I could never master, or even come close. Still a great comparison.
OK, here’s two for the price of one! And yes, the 2nd is a “rewrite” of the first (– because, my husband says “it’s not a poem unless it rhymes”.) 😉
This one is for you –
penned & sketched in purple ink
by my own hand.
Nothing fancy, nothing new –
but written from the heart;
a simple message to let you know
I thought of you today.
I’m sorry that it doesn’t rhyme.
Perhaps next time….
~
Just a silly little ditty
not too deep, not too pretty,
written so that I might say
that I thought of you today.
I know that you prefer a rhyme,
and so I spent some extra time
making sure the beat was true;
(after all, this one’s for you.)
Maybe now you’ll like it better;
if so, tell me, in a letter.
~
This is so endearing, Pamela!! Love that it’s in “purple ink” inspired indeed! :)’s
Thanks, Hannah! Just wish the site allowed for a purple comment! 😉
These are endearing. I like the second better, but only because of “silly little ditty.”
LOL. And so it was! Thanks, William! Glad you enjoyed. 🙂
Hahaha. Pamela, this is too good. One more reverent, the other a slip of a ling that skips formality for a schoolyard jingle. Too good.
Thanks, Claudsy! 😀
Love them both! I always like a bargain.
great idea. They work perfectly together.
[…] Creative Bloomings- PROMPT #149 – “NO POEMS ABOUT POETRY?” GUEST CO-HOST – NANCY POSEY […]
While the Getting’s Good
Nature tries to burst out from behind the rush –
from inside the bustle climb she’s just above my head
and when I should be merging into highway traffic
with my blinker frantic there she is and I must look.
This Sunday is a slate gray heron and her flight is measured
treasured is the sight of her majestic expanse of feathers
gripping invisible wind and wise to tell me of time-
fleeting and fast between outstretched fingers;
truth is held in the dramatic arch of her angular neck
her head pulses forward slightly on each powerful push
and then I see suddenly the swirling trio of osprey to my right
and the awe of the undersides of six mottled wonderful wings.
Vast visions might arrive just when one could easily miss them,
could try to escape one’s memory – if it weren’t for the jotted note.
Yes, this poem may possibly just as easily never have been written
if it weren’t for the small voice begging to become unhidden;
night could show up as it does and it has and the day becomes filed away…
a passing memory growing dim and dimmer in the swift approach of sleep
all of this without ever a word finding page and purpose or poise
but tender verse won’t wait and hearts hungry for poetry must be fed,
spirit inspired must be bled – a sacrifice of minutes given for receiving
a brief experience is made more full – more real
by merely acknowledging it and honoring it with our attention.
Nature tries to burst out from behind the rush –
from inside the bustle climb she’s just above my head
and when I should be merging into highway traffic
with my blinker frantic there she is and I must look.
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014
I guess this is more for the reluctant writer…that’s okay right? 😉
Thank you, Nancy for sharing/hosting/inspiring and thank you, Walt for all you do!
Warm smiles to all in the garden. 🙂
I love this. I recognize the “I must look.” Wonderful work, as per usual.
I know I commented on this elsewhere, but, what William said. 🙂
You’ve done it again, Hannah. You’ve taken a landscape, a pastoral, and wound it with wings and all things flight=related, and stooped onto poetry while driving. How many can claim that ability and have it make sense? Not many, I’ll wager. Well done.
Wonderful insight
I’m really late. So many tasks today. But I do have a couple of poems for the prompt. I’ll have to return tomorrow for commenting. This is the first one.
Poem’s Professionalism
Such tiny gems
These glyphs that speak
To hearts and mind
Of times, places,
Lives spent elsewhere.
These glyphs, of color
And sound, sensory
Influences never witnessed
Until found within lines
Spoken, telling stories.
Insignificant letters
Bundled together,
Taking the lead when
Giving a mind direction
And leaving an impression.
Rhyme or rhythm, each
Has a place, a job to
Execute flawlessly,
To haunt the reader with
Mental images forever.
“Professionalism” in the title startled me, but “Rhyme or rhythm, each / Has a place, a job” made it clearer. Thanks for this.
You’re welcome, William. I’m glad you liked it.
Lovely poem, Claudsy.
Oh, thanks, Sara. So glad you enjoyed it.
This was a very quick one, with little time to smooth it out or moke it say what I really wanted. Any suggestions are welcome.
Letter Dance
It’s not a waltz
Or even a jig;
Nor is there schmaltz
Or a whirly-gig.
The dance revolves around
Letters and a poet’s mind bound.
I am but an A,
And I can save the day,
But not before B
Rushes headlong after me.
Soon C drops in for a chat
But we don’t often spat,
Even if D wants to keep us
Apart, directing like a referee.
E often falls in line at the end,
It’s her choice of sound to mend,
Of course, F favors a close snuggle
With vowels that won’t struggle.
There are so many of us;
Which ones are chosen makes no fuss,
For we all get chosen every day
For making words is a poet’s way.
Without us no words would grace
A page that spins tales of alphabet lace.
I am enjoying this; going back to read it some more.
That’s sure a plus for me. Thanks, William.
I loved this, a bit like my attempt to write about music’s circle of fifths a few weeks ago. Alphabet lace. So wonderful.
Aw, thanks, Darlene. So glad you liked it.
So many ‘just the right choice’ of words used in both your poems. Lovely.
Thanks so much, Debi. I’m glad you liked them.
what is
poetry?
pixilated
lyrics sprinkled on blank
paper
Wow. “Pixilated lyrics? Wonderful!
Yes!!
Succinct but formidable, Chi. Good for you. I like it.
I love the word, pixilated. Good one, Chi.
Thank you. I love the word. Had to use it!
nice work, Chi
Thank you! Hope you enjoyed it.
Please Read-
Of simple things I try to write
Poetry, in every sight
Rhythmic words like soaring kites
Amplify my every bite
Makes me dive in deeper seas
Contemplate and twist my keys
Like a best friend it’s with me
Showing me,new sides of me
Now I send some thoughts to you
Sharing some of what I view
Maybe you will find some reds
Linking to your inner threads—–
This is full of wonderful lines, my favorite being “Rhythmic words like soaring kites.” Thanks.
So clear, so true. The art of showing of showing the importance of the small things
Priti, this flows so smoothly, I got to the end before expecting it. Poetry does all of those things you’ve described with such grace. Well done.
I like “Makes me dive in deeper seas.” So true
REMINDER
Please note:
Only poets
Employ the strong measures
Meant to make music without tune-
Smithing.
copyright 2914, William Preston
So does that make rappers poets?
I don’t know; the only ones I ever heard of were the Fox Sisters.
So true and something we never think about. Good one, William.
Smithing…love that concept.
The Road to Poetry
Addicted with the first story
Twenty years and more
Words slip and slide
One sentence, one chapter, one book
Jonesing for a fix at opus number thirty
Demanding a more powerful drug
Adding rhythm and rhyme
One word, one rhyme, one line
Words reborn as poetry
Dare I proclaim it?
A writer? Yes.
A poet?
I must
Not sure if this is what the prompt meant but . . . anything goes, more or less, right?
This looks and sounds right, in my opinion.
Darlene, you have taken a different route to get here, as many of us have. I, too, write novels. Moving prose into poetry is difficult, but good lyric prose always stands on the edge of formless verse. You haven’t stepped on my toes here. That’s for sure.
When describing something in my books, it often comes out poetic. And when I am steeped in feeling, it comes out in devotionals and poems. . .I have downloaded low-price books ($ .99) of poetry by Emily Dickenson and Shakespeare. I’m also a fan of Robert Frost. I’m afraid I am ignorant of contemporary poets.
You’re not alone in not recognizing the contemporary poets of note, Darlene. I discover new ones each day and glory in the new tomes of verse. 🙂
You are a very encouraging mentor–know that you have my thanks
Aw, thank you, Darlene. I appreciate that vote of confidence. You’re not that far behind me in time spent doing verse, you know.
(I hope this is not too bizarre for the prompt– I just couldn’t get it to go where “I” thought it should go!)
{Poem w/image: http://lettheballoonssailmeaway.wordpress.com}
Lost Poem
There’s rhythm in the waves today
Slow and steady, across the page.
…Rhythm in the waves today
…And steady, across the page.
…In the waves today,
…Steady across the page.
…The waves today
…across the page
…Waves today
…the page
…Today,
…page.
This progression isn’t bizarre, Hen. It worked for me as a showing of the whittling down we can and often do in our poetry–a kind of reduction to essence we strive for. Good for you.
Oh!! Thank you, Clauds! It’s a refreshing perspective— I kept feeling like it was about losing my train of thought and erasing words, and finally, left with only a blank page — 🙂 !! This is definitely one where the little muse took off like the Gingerbread man… ❤ !!
🙂
I can see both view points but looking at it from the readers angle, I think the thinning out of words reveals the poems depth. As it depletes it makes one think. I like where the muse took this : )
Ahh… yesss… I Love that…. Thank you, so much!!
Mightier than the Sword
Tiny targets tremble
as monsters rage in anger.
Hope glimmers, skitters, snuffs,
and comes to a complete stop.
In the downward spiral of violence
a sharpened pencil pierces
and pushes through to pillows,
sunlight, azure skies, laughter,
and delicate petals of orange tiger lilies.
Ah! What poetry can do!
Excellent, Connie. Such fire. I love “and pushes through to pillows,
sunlight, azure skies, laughter,
and delicate petals of orange tiger lilies.
Ah! What poetry can do!”
I love the direction this poem took, Connie.
love your word choices, Connie.
What wonders I wrote. . .before the words disappeared. Enjoyed this very much.
Fog, Dusk and Beyond
By: Meena Rose
The fog at dusk is crowded now;
Humanity’s observers now congregate
For their ritual discourse.
The congregation made up of poets;
Of seasons past and of seasons to come.
The eclectic delegation hosted by poets
Of the current season.
Their powers traverse time and space;
Their perceptions vast and deep.
They are grading Humanity’s progress now;
Dismayed and pleased all the same.
The state of consciousness is amiss;
Yet portions shine true.
Discourse over;
Plan for the year set;
Congregation dismissed.
The fog at dusk is empty now;
Already awaiting next year.
congregation of poets – ha, I really like the things that can imply. Nice
This is a fascinating vision, well and cleverly presented, in my opinion.
under the willow
reading books of poetry—
sudden thunderstorm
This is interesting; it seems to straddle haiku and senryu. Raises all kind sof images. Great job, in my view.
sudden thunderstorm… lots of goodness there
Everything on here is so good this week (as per usual) but I don’t know if I’ll get back to comment on anything individually or not…my plate seems rather over-full right now (no excuse, I know, but it’s the only one I have) Great to see you Nancy, at the helm – thanks to both you and Walt for continuing to nurture the garden. Here’s my effort, an oldie but I think it works for this prompt..
The Trouble with Poetry
She’s impossible
A harsher mistress
You can’t imagine
Demanding to a fault
She will make you
Give up friends
And family and live
In poverty and isolation
Without a thought
For your well-being
And you may chase
Her from your
Life believing you
Are better off without
Her but eventually
A time will come:
Your dog will die
Your wife will leave
Or it could be you just
Can’t sleep
She will call to you
Sexy, sultry as any siren
You will not be able
To deny the itching
In your palms
Until you sit down
With a pen
Or a laptop
And answer her
At last
But by then
She will be out
For blood.
S.E.Ingraham©
I love this, Sharon. Out for blood, indeed!
Cats, Poetry & Death #57:
On Crossing the Great Divide
Sit a while and I will read
tales of yore to thee
Rest your eyes and I will feed
the visions closed eyes see
Let the cat purr you to sleep
as my rhyme and meter sway
slip silently into the deep
slumber and drift away
In you dreams you’ll hear
voices crying out aloud
heartfelt wishes full of cheer
to make you strong and proud
Be not afraid of saying adieu
take heart and seek the light
as I whisper farewell to you
and you enter the endless night
T’were spoken oft in the past
how a poet’s words can soothe
and to hear his words spoken last
would help you gently move
From here into the next place
and rising with strength reborn
and a broad smile on your face
you’ll welcome death’s first morn
For It’s the poet’s words and the cat’s
meow that lighten loads and hearts
and lay out garlanded welcome mats
and hail Ambrosia laden carts
As Elysian Fields beckon thee
and the spectre’d veil falls
lend your ear once more to me
afore it hears the final bugle call
So goodbye, if it must be so,
as you take your final breath
one last verse before you go
of Cats, Poetry and Death.
Iain
These is my favorite stanza:
For it’s the poet’s words and the cat’s
meow that lighten loads and hearts
and lay out garlanded welcome mats
and hail Ambrosia laden carts
Thanks Linda 🙂
Roots to Pen
From roots to pen
we poem and write again
From experiences we gather
weathering storms or in the norm
Pooled and stocked rich in the memory banks ready for distribution
when the time is right for dispensing
[…] Prompt #149 – “No Poems About Poetry?”: Guest Co-host – Nancy Posey […]