The prompts for today are Inspiration, and Moment. I chose to write a Skinny. You can find out more about this poetic form at The Skinny Poetry Journal.
After
(a skinny)
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
There will be a moment in the After
when
we
hug
again
when
laughter
returns
when
the After will be there in a moment.
Today’s Poetry Prompt over at Poetic Asides is to write a dare poem. This one is in the glosa form.
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
–T. S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
Time’s up, Alfred.
Make your decisions.
Settle your score with time
and risk it.
Eat that peach
and grow your hair.
Join those women
in their fancy parlor chats.
Stop asking
“Do I dare?”
Jump in.
Start the next round of Twister.
Knock their socks off, buddy.
That catty fog against the windows
has settled into your soul.
Wear a wig! Carry a purse!
Swim with the mermaids.
Take up Irish drinking songs,
verse upon verse upon verse.
Disturb the Universe!
Ever since my college days,
you have been sitting
on my periphery,
asking me these questions,
reminding me that hesitations
breed paralysis, a crime
of omission,
of never-having-dared,
waiting patiently in line:
In a minute there is time. . .
And in a minute
the chance is gone,
the mermaids have stopped singing,
your hair has gone gray.
Sure, it could always have been better,
but it could also be much worse.
Step into the center of your life, Alfred,
and all the foggy yellow clouds of doubt
will gradually disperse:
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
Gratitude List:
1. The smell of those soaps I bought at Savemart today: Sandalwood, Rosewood Geranium, and Patchouli. Scent is one of my favorite senses. These three beauties have flipped on the happy switch in my brain.
2. My students. I was reminded today of some of my students from last semester who were wild and disruptive–not at all meanly or even rudely, but enough to tire a teacher. And thinking about this particular trio, I realized how incredibly fond I am of them all, how something in the challenge of working with them day-to-day and treasuring them rather than letting them get my goat makes me feel a particular delight in the memory of them.
3. Have I mentioned daffodils?
4. Fresh spinach, right from the field. Give me a few more weeks of this and I might even be an acceptable blood donor again. Call me the Woman of Iron.
5. Mockingbird has found his springtime voice. I wish my ears were a little more discerning, and could count the number of calls in his repertoire. He’s a pretty vociferous polyglot. (Yeah–purple. It was fun to say, though.)
May we walk in Beauty!
I am not planning to make a habit of waiting until the next morning to post. But here you have it. I am coming to terms with how much daily events and needs can take over the poetic process, even when I am managing some personal writing time each day. I do not mean this as a complaint, just an observation–I feel pulled lately between the extreme neediness of a three-year-old and the writing of the poem. My heart and soul are bound up in figuring out how to meet his deeper needs beyond the moment-to-moment challenges, and so what is left for poetry is my head. Here’s the glosa from yesterday:
Be Melting Snow
“Be melting snow.
Wash yourself of yourself.
A white flower grows in the quietness.
Let your tongue become that flower.” –Rumi
To pursue the path of the poet
apprentice your soul to nature.
Mark how she moves, moment to moment
dance her wheeling rhythms
follow the pathways of water
wander down to the meadow
taste the nectar of the poppy
listen for the scree of the hawk above you
stand silent in the shadow of the crow.
Be melting snow.
Be the thrust of the thaw
the clashing of ice on the river
the flow and the flood
the bursting of seed, the forces of growth
the blood: vitality, fertility, health.
Be the fire at the heart of the sun
the raging, whirling winds of summer.
Become the heartbeat of the Earth Herself.
Wash yourself of yourself.
Then let it go.
Be wide and open as the ocean.
Let the sky unfurl within you.
Be the whine of the mosquito
the whisper of an owl’s wing.
Be patient, forceful, fearless.
Be the dream of the trees
the secret hope of the sparrow.
Go into the stillness.
A white flower opens in the quietness.
Hold that perfect form
within your soul’s eye.
Unhitch the horse of your brain.
See it with your heart
with your hopes.
Feel the bud’s birthing power.
Long for its blooming.
Feel it quiver with wakefulness.
Begin to open, hour upon hour.
Let your tongue become that flower.
Prompt
Today I am going to write a list poem. I like lists, and I like the stacking together of images to see what sort of house they make. Care to join me?
Gratitude List
1. Grandparents–the kids get a day to re-set after almost two weeks of quarantine and crankies.
2. Spiders
3. Stretching and yawning
4. Radiance–what a marvelous place to spend a day!
5. Sunrise.
May we walk in beauty.
I found a Random Word Generator online that spit out eight words for me to choose from in my Ten-Minute Spill. It gave me
hat
cooling
classic
jived
avast
spitefully
motel
thwart
Fine Kettle
Avast! That’s a fine kettle of kale,
she jived, tipping her hat with a wink.
It’s a classic twist on an old saw,
an artful attempt at redirection.
You’ve no idea–
absolutely no idea–
how I have worked to thwart
your bumbling good intentions,
she added spitefully.
And now–
where have you gotten us?
Here in this kettle of kale,
this stew. This mess of fish,
if you will.
Work your way out, if you can,
with your words–
forkful by forkful.
Add sea salt and sesame oil.
Braise until bright green.
And here’s a poem from 1997-1998, the first time I ran across this prompt:
Chasing Chickens
I’ve counted my chickens.
A dozen times or more they’ve dashed–
Dashed, I tell you–
Into blackberry canes,
Wings whirring.
White clouds of dust engulf me.
Their voices chuckle
from the cliff’s edge.
Don’t tell me about chickens.
I’m green, baby. Green.
And I don’t know how
I’m getting home from here.
Prompt for Tomorrow
I am feeling like my poems this round are fluffier and more slapdash than the batch I worked in November. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been sick. Perhaps it’s because the prompts were from outside myself. Perhaps. . . Anyway, I am going to try a glosa tomorrow. Here are the rules, if you choose to play with me: Choose four consecutive lines of poetry and use that as the epigraph of your poem, crediting the poet. Then write four 10-line stanzas of poetry. The four lines of the epigraph provide the final lines of the stanzas of the poems, consecutively. And the 6th, 9th, and 10th lines of each stanza rhyme. Here is my example from November: Song for a Change of Heart. It’s not nearly as difficult as it first appears. If you’re intrigued, give it a try!
Gratitude List:
1. Gratitude Lists, to keep me working and processing even when I am tired and cranky.
2. Clean laundry
3. The NYT Sunday Crossword is back in the paper this week.
4. Chapstick
5. Anticipating busting this cabin fever tomorrow.
May we walk in beauty.
Mockingbird Chronicles 