Anytime I see or hear the word 'rebel' it's always James Dean in that iconic red jacket I see....
And here I'm rebelling against my usual more-than-one-verse poem. I'm challenging myself to keep it short and succinct!
Rebel With a Cause
I will not give in.
Red fist of a heart raised,
on alert.
Let the bullseye of truth find me
not inert.
Actual, aggressive angst
pulled off with a pout,
a 'don't mess with me'
kinda clout. Lean, mean, moody -
over and out.
For the erasure prompt today, I used a random paragraph from my blog post on poetry...because I could not come up with an adequate descriptive one...!
And
contrary to some popular opinion, we poets do not live in a grandiose
world of our own making. As a poet, you are intrinsically attuned to the
world as it is, not removed from it. We render it in language that
shines a light on its silent secrets, illuminates and releases its
burden of unnoticed glamours. Poetry is an expression of living, a
testament of being here and feeling alive, a 'life-cherishing force' as
Mary Oliver notes. And it is not the pursuit of the dreamy, or the
airy-fairy, or a part-time past-time. It is a worthy discipline. I love
how Mark Strand put it that: 'life makes writing poetry necessary to prove I really was paying attention.' In
our finer moments, poetry is what we all do, what we all feel; that
which quickens out heartbeat and bestows on us a true sense of being
alive. Poets are just people who pledge their lives to this course, who
take the time to record in verse (to seek, as Coleridge said 'the best words in the best order') the amazement of life they witness. How can any of this be sometimes looked upon with smug derision by certain people? (Cynic, thy name is critic!)
http://a-blog-of-ones-own.blogspot.ie/2015/07/the-sense-of-sensibility-on-being-poet.html
In a grandiose world
intrinsically attuned
to its silent secrets,
a testament
of feeling
is the pursuit
of the dreamy;
worthy moments
what we all do,
what we all feel.
Being alive
pledge
to record
the amazement.
Today's prompt was so cool: take a random poem, cover all of it but the last line and write a line to respond to it. Then move to the second last line, write a line to respond and so on and so on until you have 'answered' all the lines of the poem.
I opened a poetry anthology randomly this morning and found this lovely poem from Marianne Moore to be my piggyback poem:
A Jelly-fish - Marianne Moore
Visible, invisible,
…a fluctuating charm
an amber-tinctured amethyst
…inhabits it, your arm
approaches and it opens
…and it closes; you had meant
to catch it and it quivers;
…you abandon your intent.
Charm
With resolve, you begin again.
Let it go, and the world stands still, shimmers.
Now it opens. I had never meant
to retreat, close down.
I live in it you know, your heart
a salmon-pink jewel,
flamboyant secret.
Unknown, known.
I can't think of anything for today's family anecdote prompt... so I'm going with the sky tonight instead. (It looked exactly like this picture, but the opposite way round...)
Mid April
New moon
and Venus
in the sky tonight
a silver surprise.
Needle and thread
finger and thumb.
Wink of an eye,
half a smile.
Kiss, and don't tell.
Baseball mitt
and ball -
mid catch.
Caught moment,
home-run
at dark.
Gramophone moon
small quaver planet.
Evening serenade
just begun.
Luminous
semi colon
afloat on blue;
true
how a bracket
can stand back
(a sly aside)
from the finality
of any
full stop.
Meh to today: sports, play, games. Not feeling it much, but I'll play ;)
Player Haiku
Cards on the table.
You play at being adult -
but I call your bluff.
Today's prompt was to write a poem about a fairytale villain's good points. Hmm. All the villains have been done...apart from this one.
Dirge
Under the sea there is silence.
A rush of blood to the head
and then a deliberate quiet.
Ursula had known life loud:
percussion, jazz, big bold soprano.
Nothing floated her boat like a sweet voice
hitting those high notes.
She remembered the lilt of a lyric -
how it could hook in your gut
like a barb, the thrill of a chorus,
swell of a song as it filled your lungs
wave of longing, no more alone.
Music her only muse, sunk deep
in her forsworn soul.
If melody be the tune of love, play on -
but nothing sang here, nothing
could even make a sound. Until her. Godsend.
Ariel and her aria. Anthem of hope.
A lost wish, found. How a heart can ache.
And oh how it glowed in the dark, that jewel
blazing from her throat.
I'm loving today's prompt - to write an imaginary dream dictionary entry based on words provided.
Dream Diary
Teacup:
Beware of too much talk. Of blundering blindly
into high society.
A dream of camaraderie.
You will encounter fine, delicate
situations in which you want to behave
badly. (Just like the Madhatter...)
If the teacup is cracked
you cannot keep up the polite facade.
Sipping from it continuously
means you are nervous, relax.
Colourful china denotes
a cheerful disposition.
Ballet Slipper:
Life is a balance of precarious whims.
Tiptoe expertly through.
A dream of childhood:
you are a little girl again
yearning for perfection.
If the slipper is unlaced
you are still led by your dreams.
Wearing the slipper
means you have found what it is
that you love to do.
Dancing
is very auspicious.
Take heart. This dream is saying
perseverance pays, grace
will save the day.
Rowboat:
A dream of impending departure.
Take heed of anything
you want to escape from.
You want to travel
but don't know how. Or
there is a journey on the horizon
you feel unequipped for.
If there are holes in your boat
there are problems in your day-to-day life
you need to deal with.
If you have lost an oar
you have recently lost or will lose
a good friend.
Choppy water means
you are fleeing danger.
Smooth sailing augurs
a fortuitous stretch ahead .
If your plan is to circumnavigate the globe -
rejoice
for you are ready to shake off
your life of old
and begin anew.
Today we had to turn a popular saying on its head and write a poem with it... I didn't follow the prompt exactly because I like to break the rules from time to time and feed the muse what it wants!
A Rhyme in Time Saves The Day!
Today
although I did not
write a poem
a poem
wrote me.
Its words settling
on my tongue
like dew,
new tonic of elated
truth.
Baited by beauty
all day
I did not give in
to inconsequential
living:
I rhymed;
I counted heartbeats
in iambic wonder;
blank spaces
inked
with meaning.
Today we had to write a Haibun about where we live... I had to do two if I was to stay true to the theme, which proved to be a very difficult and deep-felt exercise.
Here
The town is laden with hills. Secreted away under a vault of clouds. Sometimes the moon infiltrates them and hangs like a pendulum in the sky, counting the days. Night is black. There is an aching lack of trees. Sometimes the pavements mourn for lack of leaves, a canopy breeze. A solitary one here and there bows under the strain of its solo life. Everywhere though, the aluminum slate of the sea, the rustle of waves, the whispers of hidden days to differing grey degrees. All the while the hills roll upward like jagged teeth, behind which the horizon cowers.
Hills smother the sky
here everywhere is the same
ponder grey again.
There
Everywhere there are green corridors of light. Tree canopies leading the way like curtains opening on a show, tapping applause on bus windows. Possibility leafy-lined streets. Sky hangs low, big and blue and buoyant, close enough to pull down and fill your heart. Arcs of bridges span roads, for skywalking instead of jaywalking. Night is midnight blue, perfectly lit by the silver skill of the moon. Mountains stretch the horizon. Sea is a secret found, a lapping lullaby on the outer suburbs and its horizon an endless variation of blue. Different destinations at every unfurling of road. Small epiphanies gifting days. Everywhere, an exhalation, expansion, release. Seagulls woop it up overhead, sing their morning songs, sweep and swoop to ground for food. Pavements teen with people, the city, unceasing, an engine revving dreams to life.
Green eternal spring
leafy possibility;
language of begin.
Today we had to write a poem about the future - like a state of the union address. I went with trying to define it instead...
Future
Future looms like giant's country,
a vague mist of maybes.
Shimmering truth, horizon line
ever-shifting: here, now, gone.
Mirage of moments
awaiting enactment.
Future is fine, fancy, aloof.
A big blank -
or kaleidoscope of colour.
Somewhere
over the rainbow.
Future me imagines France;
a cottage with pink roses,
a typewriter, not unused,
books, charms, love, plans.
Future is fantasy fulfilled,
just a whim and wing away.
Le futur proche -
all those things
I was going to do...will do
if only, really, tomorrow and
tomorrow and tomorrow...
Future tense: a procrastinator's paradise.
A certainty clause, fix-all solution.
A tense promise.
An uncertain fact, face it.
None of us
future-proof.
The future is a contradiction in terms.
Far off, it gallops forward
with every day lost.
The future never arrives.
The future is here.
Currency of thought,
repository of dreams.
Lit fuse of possibility.
Question mark. Exclamation point.
Not prose with a predictable ending
but a poem
unwritten.
The future is written in stone;
the future is not yet written.
The future never arrives.
The future is here.
