poem

Aunt Eliza’s Advice for Lost Children

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 1 Comment

<Prompt 13: Write a Self-Help Poem>  Oooh.  I am tired, but I am loving the wildness of where this one is going.  So I will write down what I have and come back to it later.

Once upon a time there lived a golden child
who followed a trail of bright flowers
deep into the heart of the forest.

That’s you, in case you hadn’t picked it up,
and the forest is the life you are wandering in.
This is the story you chose for your own
in those rainbow days before you were born.

Oh, for most of us, and much of the time,
the forest is fairly navigable, and not too scary.
But sometimes we get caught in the brambles,
overwhelmed by the shadows, befriended
by suave and creepy fellows in wolfskin.

We forget how to find our way,
forget that we are the main character,
the child of the glorious day,
forget our identity,
forget our destiny, our star
forget how to follow our guides,
forget who they are.

So step into the clearing, Dearies.
Have a seat by the fire.
Here’s a little advice:

Keep following the flowers,
the butterflies, the little birds,
whatever drew you in here in the first place.

Go ahead and flirt with the wolves,
but don’t give them Grandma’s address.

Breaking and entering is still
breaking and entering, Sweetie,
even if it’s a cute little cottage.
You never know what’s in the oatmeal.

Listen to the doll your mother gave you.
Your mother’s voice inside yourself
will always lead you true.

Beware of riddling with old women.
Always remember your manners,
and always be kinder than necessary.

There’s a happily-ever-after
right around the bend,
but you might have to travel
half a lifetime and complete
three impossible tasks
to reach it.

 

Gratitude List:
1.  Appearing in a friend’s dream.  I feel like my day and night selves are working in tandem.
2.  Cozy clothes on a cold day
3.  Sourdough bread–I finally got the stuff baked, after two and a half days of proofing and rising and prepping.
4. Coalescence
5.  Irridescence

May we walk in Beauty.

Throw Myself in

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / Leave a comment

<Prompt 12: Two in one–Write a happy poem, and then write sad>  I’ve wandered a little far afield with this one.  The idea for a Passion/Calm poem started to work on me this morning as I was headed to work, and I decided to follow that rather than the specific happy/sad prompt.

Now I realize that I must fling myself
into the center of my life
with a fierce intensity
and passionate joy
or risk dissipation.

And all while holding the center,
embodying the nature of the tree.
This, too, helps to hold it all together.

That still small place cannot exist for me
without the passion that feeds it.
Nor can I maintain the fire
without the quiet and glowing core.

Gratitude List:
1.  Venus.  At least I think that’s who it is, like a bright flower, these nights.
2. Warm hen eggs on cold fingers
3.  My sourdough starter fluffied up.  Tomorrow, sourdough bread.  Mean while, my mother’s amazing banana bread.  My brother is running a marathon on Sunday, so I am carb-loading for him.
4.  John Tavener.  May he be finding the deeply spiritual music he always sought.
5.  White sage and rehmannia root and lavender and hyssop.  Dandelion root and birch bark and whole dried chilis and lemon balm and St. John’s Wort.  Peppermint and elecampane root and dried elderberries and hawthorn berries and juniper berries.  Chamomile and jasmine and helichrysm blossoms.  I weighed and packaged herbs today at Radiance.  What a marvelous day.

Blessings on the blossom.  Blessings on the root.  Blessings on the leaf and stem.  Blessings on the fruit.

The Other Names

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<Prompt 9: Write a Poem titled “The Other _____”>  I feel like this one is only a sort of a beginning, but it will have to suffice for today.

What if the other name of God is Magic?
If the other name for Magic is Science?
Is Wonder, is Awe, is Hope?

What if the other name of Goddess is Art?
Is Music, is wailing, is howling, is bells,
is the sound of the wind in the branches?

What if you call out Oh Beauty!  Oh Marvel!
and the Voice Ineffable answers, Yes.  I Am.

Or this: What if the other name for Divine is
I Want, is I Need, is I Can’t Take It Anymore?
And you call it out and the Mystery
at the Heart of Everything answers
I Am Here.

 

Gratitude List:
1.  York’s amazing musicians and artists and poets.  What an honor it was to share the stage with such intense forces of artistry.
2.  How everybody’s secret nests are suddenly so visible, so vulnerable, without the leaf-cover.
3.  Betsy’s words about what the farm means.  This has been a day to feel deeply honored by the ways people feel a connection to this piece of land.
4.  Tomorrow we are buying a family fish, and the boys are anticipating it like Christmas.  Thank you, Sandra.
5.  Revising, re-visioning

Blessings on the roots.

Weathervane

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<Prompt 8: Write a poem about an inanimate object>

Sentinel upon the rooftop,
proud in his green patina,
in his view of the valley’s upper story.

We make up stories about a rooster
who challenged the sun and the wind
with his shiny feathers
and powerful crow, the poor boaster
doomed to tell the changeable mood
of the wind for eternity, screeching
from E to N, to south, to west.

I am inexplicably grouchy and edgy tonight.  These are the times when a gratitude list is really hard.  These are the times when a gratitude list is really important.

Gratitude List:
1.  My fingers and toes are toasty again.
2.  Jon Weaver-Kreider.  He works so hard, and still manages to keep us all laughing.
3.  Rooster Weathervane
4.  Schnoogly cats
5.  The sharp tang of radish

Blessings on the roots.

Eight of Arrows

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<Prompt 7:  Write a Hardship poem>
tanka

Such a fragile light
you carry in the blizzard
through the growing dusk
stumbling over the arrows
of the day’s grievous battle

Now you must endure
and slog your way to safety
knowing the struggle
is actually the point
step by agonizing step

Gratitude List:
1.  Back to working at Radiance!
2.  Lancaster City, even on (especially on) rainy mornings when the gingko trees are yellow (I copied you, Sarah!) and the happy little oak tree on the corner of James and Water is getting all burgundy and I can look in the window and see the light shining on the bookbinder’s hands on the corner of Water and Grant.  Little magical bundles of street art nailed to a light post.  Artfully painted rain barrels.  Crosswalks–people actually stop for you!  (I know I am SO cheating here because this one alone is more than five. . .)
3.  This one is going to seem strange to you if you know me well and how ranty-ravey I get about the news, but: Tonight’s News.  On the way home from work, I heard a story about people fighting to keep recess in their schools, another about a big food manufacturer that is responding to consumer demand and removing the yellow dyes from its products aimed at children and adding more whole grains, and a third about how the FDA is considering removing the Generally Regarded As Safe label from foods containing trans fats.  The people are finding their voice.
4.  That focused kingfisher sitting on the wire above Kreutz Creek yesterday.
5.  Letters of acceptance.  Even if I might go ahead and publish the book myownself, it sure is nice to be accepted.

May we walk in Beauty.

Nests

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<Prompt 5: Write a poem about something concealed/write about something unconcealed.>
All through the verdant season
the nest-builders have concealed
within the thick cover of leaves
their great treasures, crafted
of vines and twigs, cobwebs, grasses:
their work of the season’s passing.
Then, mystery and secrecy–
the eggs, dappled and speckled,
and suddenly, ravenous nestlings.
But now, all is revealed.  The trees
have dropped their golden skirts
about their ankles, and the secret is spilled.
There, in the yellow maple,
a random twiggy pile of mockingbird nest.
A bedraggled clump of matted grass
at the furthest dangling limb of the poplar
is all that remains of oriole’s art.
In the tree at the top of Ducktown Road,
a gray orb, nest of a colony of paper wasps.
“Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have.”
–Rainer Maria Rilke
In the sky, those rippled clouds,
ribs of the gods, and birds gathering,
riding the sky-road south for winter.
2013 November 001

Mockingbird’s secret

(Blank) Sheet, a Grouchy Little Poem

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<Prompt 4: (Blank) Sheet> I really did have this one finished yesterday, but I fell asleep in the recliner while I was waiting for my turn at the computer.  I am having a little more trouble trusting Mockingbird this year.  I want my poems to be just a little more polished before I post them.  I don’t want to go with first impulses, which feel flimsy and light.  Instead of trusting that writing will bring the inspiration, I am waiting around and pushing for it.  Then I get stuck.  So this poem turned into a complaint.  Here goes:

A sure-fire method to freeze the gears,
to gum up the fine workings of the Muse:

Tell the poet to write
about the Blank Sheet.

The Blank Sheet is the yawning chasm
we stare into, the poet’s dark
and treacherous Void.
It draws me in like a moth
to the challenge and the danger.

Tell me not to think about the elephant
and suddenly everywhere I see an elephant.

 

I need to keep reminding myself that the first time I did this, lots of days were duds.  The whole point is to keep the lines open, to keep fluid and hopeful, to begin to shape the inner work of the daily life into pieces of a poetic puzzle that fit together.  Even though something in me is cringing at my early attempts, this grouchy little poem is exactly what I needed today, even if it won’t make the chapbook.  Today’s prompt (I will try to be more prompt in execution) is a two-fer: Write a concealed poem.  Unconceal everything.

2013 November 008

Gratitude List:
1.  Pushing through
2.  Those leaves!  I feel as I if I died and went to Vermont.
3.  Rilke
4.  Elephants
5.  Endings and Beginnings: Today begins the last week of CSA shares for the 2014 season.  Now we gear up for December shares.

May we walk in Beauty.

Just a Minute

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 2 Comments

After yesterday’s lai, my friend Mara sent me a link to an interview with the poet Cathy Smith Bowers, who worked with another short form, the minute.

A minute is three stanzas in length, each of twenty syllables (60 total, like a minute).  The rhyme scheme is aabb, ccdd, eeff.  And the kicker is that the meter is iambic: ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.  Sort of like Shakespeare, but with fewer feet.

This one’s tricky.  Even when the meter and rhyme seem to come easily, it’s a real challenge to get it to dance rather than stumble.  But Mockingbird says that you learn to dance by taking those first stumbling steps.

Out in the dawn, a misty sea
in walnut tree
a silent crow
will dream of snow

will ruffle feathers in the chill
will wait until
the first bright ray
begins the day

then with a final shake will rise
from branch to skies
and this will be
a memory

Ha!  Well, that was fun.  Mockingbird says I am not supposed to make fun of it or try to explain its inadequacy, so I’ll let it stand for today’s poem.

2013 October 081

Gratitude List:
1.  Getting a card in the mail!  Just for hello-and-I-love-you.  What a delight.  And there was a tiny picture of an artist’s palette on the back that inspired Ellis to draw and draw and draw.  Thank you, Auntie Mary!  I love you, too!
2.  New soft. warm rug underfoot
3.  Faery-light.  I don’t know another word for it–the way the vegetables glow and shine from within, even when there is no obvious light source nearby.  Yesterday, the tomatoes seemed to glow from within.  Radishes, potatoes, carrots, when they’re wet, take on a light and color that seem to be beyond the capacity of the available light to create.
4.  New perspectives.  Rearranging the furniture, literally and figuratively.
5.  The way frost outlines every leaf, every blade of grass, every bud and vein.  My children say Jack Frost is just a made-up thing, but I’ve seen some of his best work.

Beauty all around us.

Back to Form

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2013 October 058

Winter is coming on, and I am feeling the pull to go inward, to explore new poetic forms.  This one I discovered on Robert Brewer’s Poetic Asides blog.  It is a French form called a lai.  It’s good for me to get back to the anxious thrill of writing something for the fun and playfulness of it, and not simply because there are words knocking at the back door of my head asking to be let out.

It’s 9 lines.  The 5-syllable lines (1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8) are rhyme A, and the others are 2 syllables and are rhyme B.  Here goes:

Either moon or frost
has whitely embossed
the field.
I wake, having crossed
the sea of sleep, tossed,
concealed
within my own lost
ark.  Now, waking’s cost.
I yield.

Hmmm.  Perhaps I ought to have been a little more intentional about choosing rhymes instead of diving in head first and letting the rhymes find me.  Nah.  That was fun.  Sort of like a tanka, but with the added imperative of rhyme.  And that happy little skip in the last lines of the triads could be used comically or very seriously, I think.  I started with the first thing that jumped into my head, so I was stuck with -ost as my major rhyme.  Initially I typed “grass” instead of “field,” but was limited by that rhyme.  Now that’s an exercise to wake me up.

 

Gratitude List:
1.  The artistic power of limits
2.  Colored pencils
3.  Warm rug for winter
4.  Cleaning the attic
5.  Civility

Beauty All Around Us.

Prodigal as Love

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yellow walnut leaves
twist and twirl silently earthward
lavishly giving themselves to breeze, to breath
prodigal as love

 

Gratitude List:
1.  Dreams.  And dreams.
2.  Passages, fledgings, relinquishments
3.  Raisin bread toasted
4.  Swallows migrating through
5.  New rhythms

May we walk in Beauty.