A significant factor in the origin of bees and my relationship with them is the nonstop hum of fear immured within me by the bonnie buzzing of their wee wings. Mama always said Grandma made me afraid because she was afraid, and so I learned to be afraid. She and Daddy said I was overreacting, repeating what I saw. Just stop, they said, as if fear was a faucet I could control with strength of will. But when I found myself grown and at last alone with the bees, instead of running, all I could do was stop and wonder at the nonstop hum of life itself.
Hello again! I can’t believe that there are only two more days of this year’s NaPoWriMo. I’m sad to say the least. Today’s prompt was to write a concrete poem. Like acrostic poems, concrete poems are a favorite for grade-school writing assignments, so this may not be a first time at the concrete-poem rodeo.
In brief, a concrete poem is one in which the lines are shaped in a way that mimics the topic of the poem. For example, May Swenson’s poem “Women” mimics curves, reinforcing the poem’s references to motion, rocking horses, and even the shape of a woman’s body. George Starbuck’s “Sonnet in the Shape of a Potted Christmas Tree” is – you guessed it – a sonnet in the shape of a potted Christmas tree.
So, my concrete poem proved difficult to post without the shape shifting when previewed via mobile phone or desktop. What you will find is that I have posted an image of my poem for those reading from mobile apps and a regular copy for those reading from a laptop or desktop. Either way you are reading it, I hope you will be able to detect my “tree” form.
Happy reading!
My Trees
My childhood
memories
are full of
trees like the
giant willow
who grew
in the middle
of the little grove
of trees hidden
behind the new
condo development
It was there that
I dreamed of spending
my adult life
chain-smoking
cigarettes and
clacking the keys of
my old typewriter
as I cranked out
my next best-selling
novel. Then there was
the colossal oak on the
playground--the one whose
ground roots held me like a
comforting mother as I watched
the other children run and play
together from a disassociated
distance. The oak was my friend—
my best friend—and I loved her.
In later years, there was the young
sapling who gave its life to save mine.
It happened when the canoe tipped over,
I slipped quietly into the swirling river, and
I thought I was dead at sixteen--until I spotted
my father uprooting a small sapling from the bank.
He held the tree across the river and told me to grab on;
It was then I knew I was safe in the strength of the tree and
my father. Safe in my childhood memories safe in the arms of trees.
--cjpjordan
Thank you and shoutout to Silas Baisch who made this image available for free on Unsplash.
Today’s prompt was the challenge to write a “duplex.” A “duplex” is a variation on the sonnet, developed by the poet Jericho Brown. Here’s one of his first “Duplex” poems, and here is a duplex written by the poet I.S. Jones.
Like a typical sonnet, a duplex has fourteen lines. It’s organized into seven, two-line stanzas. The second line of the first stanza is echoed by (but not identical to) the first line of the second stanza, the second line of the second stanza is echoed by (but not identical to) the first line of the third stanza, and so on. The last line (or two) of the poem is the same as the first.
This is based on a true story. One day, if the mood seems right, over coffee and croissants, I will share the rest of the story with you.
Come on by and let’s make a date for coffee.
That Day
What I remember most is the ocean releasing— crisp, cool breezes and a bevy of blues.
You left me there by the stony beach—blues and greens assault my senses, I cannot look away
A way off in the distance your boat lurches But not as much as my heart when she slips
Slips slowly under the water, eyes wide open Open arms floating just beneath the surface
The surface of the water explodes With my crazed frenzy. Panic rising
Rising until bile is all I taste, but somehow, somehow… My memory is blurred but I remember—
crisp, cool breezes and a bevy of blues; what I remember most is the ocean.
Thanks and a shoutout to Annie Spratt who made this image available free of charge on Unsplash.
For today’s daily prompt, they played off the promot from a couple of days ago: instead of “hard-boiled similes”, Today, we were challenged to write a poem that contained at least one of a different kind of simile – an epic simile.
Also known as Homeric similes, these are basically extended similes that develop over multiple lines. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they have mainly been used in epic poems, typically as decorative elements that emphasize the dramatic nature of the subject (see, by way of illustration, this example from Milton’s Paradise Lost).
NaPoWriMo suggested: “But you could write a complete poem that is just one lengthy, epic simile, relying on the surprising comparison of unlike things to carry the poem across. And if you’re feeling especially cheeky, you could even write a poem in which the epic simile spends lines heroically and dramatically describing something that turns out to be quite prosaic.…Happy writing!”
Daylight
As when the gold light of morning dawns like the wind singing like the silence of large-hearted friends when life sings in dissonance,
so peaceful were the roots shining through lacy grasses—a picture of stability when seismic shifts start quivering and quaking,
the drooping daisies—fleeting, fragile—resting their feet in shards of glass scattered by the quake. What could I do but hold my breath
while the sky exploded in burnished orange and lavender? Soon the yellow stars began to wane as my spirit rose with the sun.
Today’s prompt was based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it.
Today’s challenge was to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which I live.
We shall see how this goes today. We shall see what form my dream-visitor takes.
Happy reading!
Our Lady of the Garden
In the garden a tiny, perfect bird landed on my shoulder.
Jewel-toned and stunning, the bird morphed into a beautiful woman right before my eyes.
The trumpet vines flashing brilliant orange flowers shone in the sun like a halo around her head.
My angel with her flaming crown, and delicate hands, she felt born of spirit, born of dream.
Sing, she told me Sing of the Universe. Sing of the beauty of the earth.
In my dream-state I sing her song.
I see in her the land and sky; she connects me to water and earth. The waves roll in her laughter; the plants flourish under her hands.
From my heart I sing of us.
We become a tapestry, woven together— garden and bird, woman and earth.
When I wake, it is daylight. I look out my window and see a hummingbird— wings whirling without resting— sipping nectar from flaming goblets shaped like trumpet flowers.
Thank you and shoutout to Richard Lee for making this beautiful photo available for free on Unsplash.
The prompt for today was in honor of today being the 22nd day of Na/GloPoWriMo 2022, and they challenged me to write a poem that used repetition. I was invited to repeat a sound, a word, a phrase, or an image, or any combination of things.
So, here you go fellow poetry loving friends. Not as repetitious as some poems I’ve written, but there is that element throughout.
Happy Weekend to you!
The Owl Sees
Where the mind ends, the owl sees— through Ominous golden eyes It breathes in stealth and exhales darkness gliding through blue-black skies. Underneath the fern unfurls, shivers in the windy wake.
Where the mind ends, the owl sees— with certainty of vision and a clarity of mind; she free falls into the darkness, her mournful cry resounding into the boundless cosmos.
Where the mind ends, the owl sees— the wilderness unconstrained, the weeping child whose wailing seeps into the warping twilight. Inside echos of sadness the owl and child grieve as one.
Thanks to Eleni Trapp @elenies for making this photo available freely on Unsplash.
Today’s prompt challenged me to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. I’m not sure I really accomplished this, but I certainly managed an idea to the cherry blossom.
Can you tell I’m longing for spring?
My bones miss the energy of the warm sun on my skin. Each morning they beg for mercy from the chill of frost and bitter wind.
My nose misses that honey sweet scent mixed with the musty wet earth that accompanies the spring blooms.
Please come quickly!
The Blossom
Born in boggy sorrow, blossoms billowing in the breeze after the harrow of heavy spring rains.
Sunshine and spring leave their stamp on stained fingers and lips sealed with a kiss of ruby goodness. Juicy
life carefully cultivated from the bitterness of winter— the making of a miracle.
I raise my cupped hands to drink in sweet almond and honey fragrance— so delicate that it’s nearly
indiscernible. The secrets of spring in a solitary word: cherries are a metaphor
for life—the taste is tart, the scent is sweet, the process leaves its mark lingering on our skin for days.
I am certain the Cherry knows the full weight of power possessed for it returns year after year.
Hope comes alive in each blossom; otherwise we would waste away in a world of constant winter.
Today’s prompt came as no surprise. Yesterday, the challenge was to write a poem about a very large thing. Today, I had to invert my inspiration and write a poem about a very small thing.
Maybe you’d like to try your hand at poetry. I would love to hear what tiny thing you’d like to write about in your poem. I landed on hummingbird eggs and rather enjoyed the adventure.
Faerie Eggs
How small they were—teeny tiny— Like faerie eggs enclosed in spiny forest foliage—safe and sound.
Mysterious and magical Protected by the physical Perhaps I was on Faerie Ground.
And then I saw them fluttering up and down the trees scuttering while I stood statue-like, spellbound.
Hummingbirds dipped and dashed; they flew around my head with quite a crew of wee guardians duty bound
to protect from the likes of me. I stepped away so quietly— slipped like a ghost to the background.
Tiny wings moved faster than light soon disappearing from my sight; gathering my wits I glanced around,
And I knew I was all alone for the forest looked overgrown— save the twinkling Dust on the ground.
Thanks and shoutout to Dahiana Waszaj who made this image available for free on Unsplash.
Todays prompt asked us to write in a specific form—the nonet.
A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second has eight, and so on until you get to the last line, which has just one syllable.
Maybe this is the time you want to try your hand at poetry writing. The nonnet is a form that doesn’t have to rhyme, so for all of you not-into-rhyming friends, this is a great form.
I hope you choose to have some fun with writing today.
First
The birds warmed their feet on the long wire— some thought about hot summer days, others gossiped about how Gini’s Gang was taking over Town. I mean, the absolute nerve! Go! We were here first.
Poetry, Ponderings and Possibilities 