I present the poem, “You Begin” by Canadian poet and novelist, Margaret Atwood:
You Begin
Margaret AtwoodYou begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
—
From Selected Poems II (1976-1986) by Margaret Atwood, published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1987. (•)
##
Surely, you can find some snippet of inspired thought within this truly marvelous poem. Use that poemic molecule to create your own world within your poem (which will include summer somewhere within!)
I CONTINUE
And so I continue!
This is my poem.
These are my words.
This is the time of night
where sleep beckons. I sit
fingers to keyboard on a summer eve.
This is my shirt; it has no sleeves.
It is black as night,
or a chalkboard if you erase it.
Or blue if it’s really dark;
sometimes black looks like blue
when it’s really dark.
This is me and that is you and together
we are we, but never wee for hearts in love
are so big as to hold it all.
You are as short as I am tall
and I continue to fall for you every time my rhyme
has you in it. So I begin it,
and then I continue. This is my poem.
These are my words, you are my muse.
I choose you to be, but that’s just me.
It always comes back to that!
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016
Lovely, Walt.
😀 Thanks Marilyn!
Purely lovely and so like in form to Atwood’s.
I have a decent “ear” for the written word, Debi! It was what I was trying to emulate. SO glad you caught it!
I love how you come full circle, love is all about how you put it in words isn’t it?
You said it yourself, Bjorn! An end becoming a beginning leads to and end, and so on. A continuous loop of love! Thanks.
fantastic! I was drawn to these lines…
This is me and that is you and together
we are we, but never wee for hearts in love
A superb kick-off to a great prompt. thank-you.
Your poems speak directly to the reader and for that I am grateful.
We speak to each other in poetic parlance, Sal! We “understand” each other!
I’m just trying to keep pace, Janet! I loved Atwood’s piece so much, I couldn’t help but use it to inspire! Thanks, JR.
Musing with the muse. That’s what strikes me as I read this. Wonderful.
“This is my poem. These are my words, you are my muse.” These lines say it all. How incredible to love someone in that way. Wonderful poem.
Thank you, Toni. Glad you came by! I was inspired by Atwood’s poem!
Thanks William! Never refuse the muse!
Sigh .. a beautiful love poem. I’ll be rereading this, more than once.
Brilliant use of mimicking her voice, Walt. “This is my poem. These are my words, you are my muse.” Love it!
Wow! What a capture of the essence of Atwood’s poem. Thumbs up, CH!
You’ve created the very same feeling I had in reading Atwood’s brilliant poem, Ergo, you are a brilliant poet and promptster, Walt.
Victoria, you flatter me with your kindness. Although it felt like her work as I was writing it. Blessed with a good ear, I guess! Thank you!
Before the Beginning
Before it all began
Before anything that is was
Was there anything
Or did everything just appear
Did everything just show up
Just suddenly materialize
Like magic
Or perhaps it was already here
The building blocks of the universe
Just waiting for the time when it
Would make its initial move
That sudden big bang
But who put them here
Before the beginning
Before time itself
Even before God
What was
And what will be
When the end finally arrives
© Earl Parsons
It is the big question that has no answer… yet.
The before and after might be the same point… there is comfort and harmony in spheres.
For me, this suggests that maybe the Word was a question mark. This piece inspires much reflection.
Before you begin and before I continue there is what is! You found the beginning of the beginning.
This is brilliant, Earl. Every time I read it, this piece feels deeper and deeper.
Nicely penned, Earl. I love pondering “before the beginning” with my Sunday School class. They are 3rd-4th-graders. Super cool conversations with them, I’ll tell ya.
Where do we begin
Begin at the beginning
Wherever that is
Many points to ponder in this. I know how I feel but that is just my private opinion. Excellent poem.
where indeed!
Yup! 🙂
It amazes me that so much can be said in a few lines. I love this one, Earl.
John sleeps, so I shall write …
It’s a New Beginning
I heard a robin sing last night,
to windswept leaves lost in dark,
to the moon bright as skin,
and ghostly clouds pressing light.
There in new beginnings, where
I left my scuffed days behind,
left the remains of yesterday,
to the rootless thunder.
It’s a new beginning. A day
for stopping clouds,
for tying them into knots
and anchoring them to loss.
My father died ten years ago.
I say goodbye every day. It’s
how I start a new beginning.
~
© Misky 2016
Misky, this is sweet and full of sadness, too. “I say goodbye every day. It’s
how I start a new beginning.”
Such beginnings… somehow almost a Sisyphean task, every night a bottom and it’s uphill from that point.
It’s something to think about, eh?
this poem is a sequence of breath-taking lines…even your intro ‘John sleeps so I shall write:)
love, love these, ‘where
I left my scuffed days behind,
and
A day
for stopping clouds,
for tying them into knots
and anchoring them to loss.
I’m glad that you liked this one. Thank you.
For me, this piece overflows with poignant imagery. Wonderful.
Thanks, William!
I like the way you tell of leaving sorrow behind and then giving that sorrow a face in your final stanza. I also like your word choices. Great!
Thank you so much. Delighted you like it.
I can certainly understand the need to begin each new day in this way, Marilyn. You’re not alone.
My day often begins in the same way. My father died 30 years ago. Lovely poem and a bit sad, but tender.
Thank you. 🙂
And I’m happy to say, Walt, that I rarely feel alone. That’s what love does for you. For us.
Well stated!
Wow. First of all, I’m so sorry for your loss, and feel your heart on the anniversary. This poem is wonderful, and how could he help but love it? “A day for stopping clouds, for tying them into knots and anchoring them to loss.” Oh, how you leave me in awe.
Thank you so much. I’m very pleased you like it.
My father is gone ten years as well. I talk to him in my head every day. Beautiful!
Thanks, Sarah. xx
Filled with wisdom and nostalgia, Misky. I wish I’d thought of “scuffed days!”
https://georgeplaceblog.wordpress.com/2016/07/05/to-jean/
this poem requires a few reads…so many skip-a-heartbeat lines! You had me with the opening and then you closed it SO perfectly with that juxtaposition of the end beginning! wow!
Superb
Debi, sometimes I think my drive to feverishly write poems and stories is motivated by a fear of a one-day mindlessness, and I pray that if it comes to be I will accept creative descent with grace. Your poem hit the nail on the head. God bless you, my friend, for all your poetic gems!
From beginning to end to the beginning of the end, you’ve covered the gamut with grace and respect, Debi. Such an excellent poetic expression.
Isn’t it strange how old memories sharpen with age, and new ones become fuzzy. You really nailed it in this poem, Debi.
Yes. My grandmother thought she’d left something on the train and asked me to check at the depot for her. She hadn’t been on a train in decades. Maybe we go back to times we love.
Worth considering, Debi.
Pingback: Before is after | Björn Rudbergs writings
Thought I join. Here is my offering…
love, love how you juxtaposed beginning with end or is it end with beginning? fantastic writing!
Oh, this is wonderful and invites many readings.
Thanks for joining our bloomfest, Bjorn. You’ve captured the spirit of Atwood’s piece perfectly. Endings are new beginnings!
Bjorn, it is so good to see you here! Your poem fits beautifully with Atwood’s.
Begin the Day
I begin this way
on a summer day
with the screen glowing
while the birds chirp outside.
Soon shapes will appear
as the sun rises
and wordless people call
wanting up and breakfast.
And I say, “Hi Lord,
walk with me hand and hand.
May I get outside today
and enjoy the things You’ve created.
“May I catch a glimpse of You.
And may I live in such a way
that others will get
a glimpse of You, too.”
I think a beginning when you can meet the morning outdoors is the best.
beautiful! We should all begin this way!
I love the sheer gentleness and grace expressed here.
“May I catch a glimpse of You” is a powerful line that paints a master poem of nature as a divine gift and a believer’s gratitude.
Love the way you end it.
Every day ends to begin the same way. A conjoined existence! Beautifully written, Connie!
I love your prayer at the beginning of the day. Excellent poem.
a perfect prayer
Wow. First of all, I’m so sorry for your loss, and feel your heart on the anniversary. This poem is wonderful, and how could he help but love it? “A day for stopping clouds, for tying them into knots and anchoring them to loss.” Oh, how you leave me in awe.
Well, I don’t know how my comment ended up down here. This was meant for Misk, way above. 😦
Connie, I love your prayer, your heart, and your faith. So endearing … all of it.
Beautiful gentleness throughout this poem, Connie. I love the opening.
A perfect way to begin the day–the prayer and beauty of outdoors. That is much like my routine!
Of Pleasantries and Present Tease…
Outside the window the world is full of green and gold and blue
Sometimes it seems time mocks us in its tick by tock ado
I check the clock too many times a day, I say, do you?
As windows frame a summer-world where winter-white ran through
The garden leaps to shake our hands and kiss our dusty feet
This Thing that weds then sheds its bands has bled to heads of wheat
And soon high noon, like June, will fall where nothing can compete
Save new day splayed where seasons trade the bitter with the sweet
This way we pass but once wakens awareness of a place
Where none, when they have gone to it returns to human race
And therefore we can only guess what waits where gates embrace
A violet-misted veil betwixt, of season-salted lace
Come, wash your face, set cups and plates; don’t fret about the hour
For all that time forgets it whets its grindstone with a flow’r
For all it takes it grafts from our mistakes a keener pow’r
To gaze with fresh amazement at Time’s daze of sun and show’r
Wow. Masterful.
It’s not so easy to write poems with rhymes that are not contrived, but you handled it quite well here.
thnak-you:)
Wow what a wonderful piece of classical poetry..this feels timeless in its beauty… and to handle rhymes so effortlessly… masterful.
Lovely and I esp like the third stanza
Extremely beautiful, Janet! And your rhyming is stunning. I love the glimpses of life you present here on a daily basis! Thank you!
Wonderful unstrained rhymes in this. Beautiful classic poem. I love how you handle the rhymes so easily.
I’m in awe of you effortless rhyming
So much beauty. So000 much.
Gorgeous poem, Janet. It has the feel of another time.
Such good work with rhyme and meter in this. And the light-hearted voice that masks the wisdom within.
THE METONYMY OF MONOTONY
In summer
most colors are greens,
but in fall
I use all
the hues and tints that await
in my crayon box.
you know how to write ’em. thank-you for teaching the rest of us how to use ALL the crayons in the box!
Perfect in form and leveled meanings!
All of them except that green… they are all gone when fall comes.
short, sweet and full of color
You probably blend the crayons to show colors no one’s ever seen before! You are as artistic as you are outstanding!
I end up using all the colors by the end of the year. This is outstanding. Short sweet and to the point. A wow of a poem.
oh yes, color my world!
Another winner here, Bill!
Yes, it is a colorful season.
BEGIN TO FEED YOUR HEART KIND WORDS
Begin with self-love. Let it grow. Learn to treasure
Love, for I suspect magic is in the giving
And receiving of this our life’s sweetest pleasure.
Imagine the Lord molding clay into living
Man and woman! What joy! The greatest measure
Of His boundless love. This God so forgiving!
Why when we stumble over stones we censure
Ourselves? What woodland sprite can teach us bringing
Mercy to our lives is part of love’s power?
Begin with self-love. Let it grow. Avoid faking.
Or treasuring love like gold or some flower
Torn from gardens. Prevent your heart from breaking:
Feed it kind words. Don’t let it see you cower
When love’s magic stares you down. Don’t start shaking!
#
There is much wisdom here, especially, for me, in “Feed it kind words.”
I agree, William.
This poem is a good hang-on-the fridge-so-everyone-can-read-it poem. Sal, you had me with the first sentence!
I so much like to see love glowing… it’s a wonderful world where love can be nurtured with itself. where green gives green…w
“Begin with self-love. Let it grow. Avoid faking.
Or treasuring love like gold or some flower
Torn from gardens. Prevent your heart from breaking:
Feed it kind words.”
Goes against our grain but what we need to do.
Sage words, Salvatore! Always a concise lesson in your verse! Thank you!
I truly enjoy all the wisdom in this starting with: Start with self-love…and then the sharing of it to all. Excellent.
this is magic …..
Truth, simply and beautifully expressed. Made me sigh.
Wise words, Sal. Self-love is the toughest.
Genesis
Where did it go, the first poem
before the keeping of things?
Did it just evaporate in a summer’s sun,
or incinerate in a winter’s fire?
Where did they go, those poems
created before the written word?
Were they, like dreams, soon forgotten,
fading in their fragility, simply fallen away?
How did they begin, the first poets,
walking side by side on a summer’s day,
or sitting alone, staring at the flames
in a cavern, free from cold?
What happened to those poets,
the beginners of the craft,
did they simply die alone, in reverent solitude,
a mere glimmer in a summer sky?
Or was they born from the wonder
of a falling star… I love the thought of thinking how poetry was born.
I like the idea of this… prehistory man or woman writing poetry. Wonderful
Great thoughts to ponder, Daniel. It becomes a “chicken and egg” thing. We’ll never surely know but are glad it came to be. Quite the beginning!
Oh how I enjoyed reading this, several times. Indeed, where did the first poets come from? From watching the first sunrise or catching the first snowflake? Excellent!
what a wonderful thought to ponder!
Ponderings of a loving soul. You make me smile.
Love u 2
I am in awe of how your mind works, Daniel. Now I am sitting here thinking about these questions.
A Beginning
This is not the beginning of me,
but it is a beginning.
Just as seasons come and go, you see,
this is not the beginning of me.
Each summer, a new time to be free.
Winds blow, suns rise, time’s a-spinning
This is not the beginning of me,
but it is one more beginning.
I feel reborn a bit myself when summer comes.
I am so glad for all those new beginnings every day! This is lovely
Thanks, Debi
The repetition in this triolet has a “Finnegan, Begin Again” feel to it. All those beginnings never end, Rob!
Hahaha. It actually has its root in part of the opening paragraph of every book in The Wheel of Time series…all 14 of them. “There are neither beginnings or endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time.” It’s my favorite fantasy series.
Wonderful poem. My new beginnings begin in fall. I love how you wove the fantasy into this and created a poem.
Thanks, Kanzen
love the repetition
Thanks, Candy
Intriguing, beginning to … well … beginning. 😉
Each day begins with a slightly different you.
Indeed
Pingback: Weather…Or Not | echoes from the silence
Another triolet, picking up on Atwood’s phrase, “Outside my window…”
WEATHER…OR NOT
Outside my window
lies a world of wonder.
The sun, bright and yellow,
outside my window.
Shadows fade as clouds billow
and the sun goes under.
Outside my window
lies a world of wonder.
Your triolet is as lovely as that wonder from your window. It takes a practiced eye to appreciate it all.
And this is wonder-ful
Weather: The Storm! Another classic triolet rendered with true heart, Paula! Lovely!
There is a sense of being trapped here…. but it’s true, the wonder begins outside the window…
Lovely triolet. The wonder outside your window is the beginning of it all.
You made me want to look out that window 😉
I love that you focused on “Outside my window…” Wish I had thought of that. Beautifully penned wonder, Paul! ❤
Perhaps, it is a wonder-land!
Colors Are Free
Here’s a box of sixty-four crayons.
Will you use shades of green for grass?
Why not choose a midnight blue,
pretend its grass at night.
Yellow summer sun?
See pink halos.
Imagine
your own
world.
This is like van Gogh… exactly like that, who says the grass is green, it could be purple really…
Oh how luscious! Midnight blue for grass at midnight Lovely poem. I am looking differently at my box of 64 crayons already.
Truly! The colors are endless, Sara! Well crafted!
Colors are free, indeed! Excellent!
Thank you all so much!
Wonderful imagining. We do get stuck in the same old, same old. Thanks for the reminder to be a little crazy.
Pingback: Poem: A Beginning – Wanna Get Published, Write!
As poets, that’s exactly what we do, Sara! We imagine our own world and render it in all the expressiveness we possess in our expanding tote of tools! Well done, CH2!
Aw, I feel a blush coming on. Thank you.
Pingback: kanzen sakura
Hello. My first visit here. Wonderful poem to begin inspiration. The link to my poem, My Night, is here: https://kanzensakura.wordpress.com/2016/07/05/5563/
A great start, Toni! We have a great group and we are happy to see your words here in the “Garden”. Love the flow of your poem and the rapid-fire lines, almost frenetic expression of night!
Lovely to meet you!
Nice to meet you. I am a staff member over at dVerse and have seen you there.
Hi Tony! Nice to see you here. All the wonders of twenty-four hours in one lovely poem.
Hi there! Thank you. It’s good to see someone I know.
To My Son
You take my hand
and follow me with
unsteady steps and
simple trust
that I will lead you safely through
the springtime of your life
You run ahead
I follow close to
keep you safe from
unknown threats
as you skip playfully
through the summer of your life
Side by side
we walk along
companions in a life
of shared memories
your arm around my shoulder
as we stroll through the autumn of my life
You take my hand
I follow you with
unsteady steps and
simple trust
that you will lead me safely through
the winter of my life
A tender journey through life, Candy! The seasons as phases of a your son’s life plays out well here. Check out John Keats “The Human Seasons”. I like your poem a lot!
So perfect…way better than a Facebook photo
This is a lovely poem. I truly like how you use seasons as part of your child’s life. The last stanza is so very tender and trusting.
This touches my heart. Wonderful piece, Candy.
This is truly tender poem, Candy. Lovely.
What a wonderful passing, the walk and hand in hand is wonderful.
Ah, I think about that now that my winter is approaching and as I try to help my M-I-L through her last winter days.
THIS IS WHERE WE ARE NOW
Facebook has this thing they do recently
Every day – they pop up memories
for me – from last year, from five years ago,
from whenever …
It seems pretty random
Today, up came your picture taken on that
sweltering summer day, one day after
you delivered baby number two.
The site says no-one else can see this
unless I elect to share the photo
But I am caught in a time-warp as if
I’ve found a shot of you on a milk carton
You’ve been missing from my life for
so long – this photo seems surreal.
I study your Madonna-like demeanour
as you smile down at your babe
You are the quintessential mother,
so calm, flushed – it was hellishly hot –
but serene, as if overcome with love.
I am back at that day remembering
it was me that took the photo
How grateful you were: no-one
else had thought to photograph you
with your son.
I am tempted to re-share this posting
but am worried Facebook might
close my account; I no longer
have your permission to post
such photos, I learned one sad day.
Still, if it jolted you out of the
complacency within which you seem
to be living … the one that has
placed us all in such a void …
The risk might be worth it.
Maybe not the permission you’d like, but as long as you keep giving us of yourself, you have my hope that you’ll keep doing so….quintessential indeed
Oh how sad this is. An excellent wry write but still, so sad
just heart wrentching …
Sharon, this piece is so different from anything I usually see. As though we are sitting across from each other, and you are sharing from your heart. If the idea of poetry is to bring image to mind and emotion to heart, you’ve certainly excelled with this one.
How sad this is, Sharon.
Those memories can be a jolt, I cannot imagine how bittersweet it is to lose out a life once shared. Wonderful poem,
Love the immediacy of this. You’ve taken a moment and filled it with regret and sadness. SOOOOO good.
A jolting reality written with aplomb, Sharon. Those memories can be intrusions at times, as you have depicted. There are worst things than being banished from farcebook! Thank you for sharing this, Sharon.
CRAYOLA AND ME, 1958
I began as Flesh,
But only because it was 1958,
And they didn’t yet understand
A white baby may have a tint
Of Raw Sienna.
No understanding that changing Indian Red
To Chestnut is not only untrue,
But negates a child’s ability to learn
That Indian Red describes a pigment native
To India,
And not the skin of a Native American,
Or for that matter, the ability to learn what it meant to be
Prussian.
Was it easier to change Prussian to Midnight,
Than to teach us the blues of history?
And sixteen new colors were added that year, and
When I turned four I was no longer Flesh,
But Peach.
Peach with still no tint,
And no understanding that Peach is not white,
And I am not white, and I am not Peach.
But colors are sharp,
And when the summer sun shines
On sixty four colors left on Grandma’s porch,
They can run together
and
Permanently
Mingle.
© Marie Elena Good
Love, love, love that Atwood poem! I don’t know of her, and have never heard this poem. Thanks for the introduction, Walt! I’ll return a bit later to read, and hopefully catch up on the day I missed.
Oh my, you are getting increasingly lyrical. Bernie Taupin could write the music for this one
Whoa. Now THAT is a generous, generous comment!! THANK YOU!
Elton’s music; Bernie is lyricist/poet. BUT… I agree Daniel. I can see Marie usurping Taupin with her lyrical excellence!
What a wonderful poem, Pard! Colorful and heartfelt! I love how you embrace your heritage through crayola’s standards. I’m also going to love your chapbook that comes out of this experience!
And how sadly we learn that even politically correct crayons do not embrace the now. The last stanza is truly outstanding. BTW, Atwood is not just a poet, she is also a novelist including The Handmaid’s Tale.
Thank you for that information and lovely and encouraging comment. Much appreciated!
Thanks so much!
Excellent way to portray Atwood’s words.
Thank you, Sara!
WOW, Marie. A biting poem stating eloquently and creatively a truth of our times as well. It is ridiculous to be defined by a color not to mention hurtful. Would that the last line someday be true. Of course then it will be something else. Some people just want to feel superior even though they aren’t.
Debi, thank you so very much for seeing it all there. Thank you SO much.
This is so wonderfully penned Marie Elena, so nuanced and understated – I found myself returning to read it several times, enchanted by the way crayon colours have been so aptly yet somehow (as you deftly show) inadequately changed with the times, trying to become more politically correct but never quite getting there … And the final stanza seals the deal. Great poem.
Thank you so very much for your kind and meaning words. I don’t believe we’ve met?
I love what you did with colors…creating such a powerful metaphor. Hooray for crayolas!
Hooray indeed! 😀 Nice to meet you, Victoria. Thank you for your kind words.
This is wonderful to paint a childhood, those colors and the mind of a child, to see nuances and find your flesh
Only One
If I had to pick one color,
for summer, it would be green
but then, because it is summer
and things grow this time of year
my green would morph
into shades of green and then…
think of a tree…
around the base is the green grass
and the trunk would be shades of brown and gray
and each branch would dip down
and touch the petal of a flower,
taking on the hue of what was touched
until the tree, mainly green but sprinkled with color
reached the blue of the sky.
Pingback: there are more words–Poetic Bloomings, PAD Day 5 | Victoria C. Slotto, Author
Wonderful prompt…thank you.
https://liv2write2day.wordpress.com/2016/07/06/there-are-more-words-poetic-bloomings-pad-day-5/