Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Some souls sigh--
sigh in safety
wrapped in rum,
rummaging in ruminations,
safe as safehouses
where we can hide
safe from all we aspire to
avoid
like minus fifteen degrees of
frozen internal tundra
that is/is not
the oven of insincere overtures
"I love you but not you."
"I can't take the cold (substitute heat)
options from column A (real !@#$)
or B (intense !@#$)
or C (honest !@#$)
No it isn't safe anywhere
when we are addicted --
all of us --
to being alone
|
Jan/11/2015, 4:25 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Skipped last week as I was out of town but this morning came upon a poem in a book of my daughter's -- by her poetry mentor, April Bernard. I opened the book right to this page and was floored ... for all kinds of personal reasons as well as non-personal reasons (or are there ever reasons that are not personal?). It is a poem that seems to reveal a huge history subtly just in its small story of sending an anonymous letter to someone loved-and-lost, a gesture of love and selflessness (though it surely serves the narrator in some way too). I guess I want to try that. To say only this, but have it mean THIS as well. Way too hard a task for me I'm sure. But as this poem offered itself to me I thought I should honor it in some way. Here is the poem:
quote: Sonya to the Messenger
(aria from Claude DuFarge’s The Cossack’s Bride)
by April Bernard
I have written a message of love,
suitable for Saint Valentine’s Day,
but I have disguised my handwriting
and it is unsigned--
Alas, he despises my name.
Please take this sealed to the village in the south,
ask for the blacksmith,
see that he receives this note,
but swear you do not know who sent it--
Alas, he will never forgive me.
May the light love words make him smile,
may he think of a pretty girl in the market
or some milkmaid he likes to watch
as she swings down the lane with her bucket yoke--
Alas, he despises my name.
Will you make sure the ruffians
at the tavern do not rob him
when he gets so drunk he can’t walk?
Will you see him safe home to his wife?
Alas, he will never forgive me.
Please, with these extra coins,
buy him a sheepskin hat.
See for me if his eyes are still soft,
his cheeks smudged with soot from his forge.
Never, never, say my name.
Last edited by spiralwoman, Jan/25/2015, 11:54 am
|
Jan/24/2015, 12:48 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
She feels like a girl
whenever Southern melting air
holds her face in its sweaty palms.
In this place,
the January sun holds onto the day
like a lover who can’t let go.
She feels like a girl
when a found poem says “sweetheart”
from the discarded fold of a circular.
In this place,
everything reminds her that
she cannot exist.
|
Jan/25/2015, 11:18 am
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Maybe it needs to be in 1st person. And some other tweaks.
I feel like a girl
whenever melting Southern air
holds my face in its sweaty palms.
In this place,
the January sun holds onto the day
like a lover who can’t let go.
I feel like a girl
when the crushed folds of an old flyer
whisper “sweetheart” for me to hear.
In this place,
everything reminds me that
I cannot exist.
|
Jan/25/2015, 2:48 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Okay for this weekend I guess I'll suggest another prompt that I will tackle later on today or maybe even tomorrow as the snow will probably keep me at home from work! Lately I am very inactive--forced by a post-surgery injury to my foot which requires 6 more weeks off of it, basically. I crave activity and exercise much more now than when I can get it whenever I want. Naturally. You'd think I was an athlete by how much I think about going to the gym or taking a long walk. Anyway, so let's write a poem about a physical activity. Anything. It does not have to be exercise related, I mean it could be cooking or cleaning the house. But physical-- for example, not reading, writing, or napping! I'd love to find some examples of poems like this to share but I am posting this right before heading out for a bit, so will leave it at that.
|
Feb/8/2015, 10:08 am
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Okay I'm finally getting around to posting something on this thread! sw--your prompts are wonderful. Here's my attempt at your most recent one. I figured creating the world definitely qualifies as a physical activity.
On Creating the World
Floating in primordial nothingness,
she dreamed of stars and human love,
collected atoms in her palm to swallow,
a handful of pills that bloomed
worlds in her womb.
She gave us Earth because she loved it best,
greens and blues and belt of clouds at its waist.
Like any good parent,
she waits for us to learn from our mistakes.
She is still waiting.
|
Feb/8/2015, 2:57 pm
|
Link to this post
Email magyproductions
PM magyproductions
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Magypro: Yay! Thank you for participating again in this playful thread. I've missed you. Yes -- this creation poem counts as an activity! LOL. I love it, especially the atoms collected in her palms.... Lovely. Come back soon.
sw
|
Feb/9/2015, 1:14 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Here is my improv poem about a physical action.
A deck of cards
slick block of layers
that slip against each
other
under my fingers
The smoking oracle bowl
on one mute side,
underneath,
the unknown unbegotten
spoken card
of chance
Sliding across my palm
unruly cards
black and gray
they fan into a
whorl
of immaculate geometry
a two-dimensional mollusk spiral
Then they slip into chaos
on my lap
retrieved, disciplined
into the sturdy block
tap,
tap on the table
My nails cut
into the deck
cut it in half
splitting it into its parts
a card laid open
like a dream of the underworld
|
Feb/9/2015, 4:45 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
I thought of a fun prompt and thought I'd post it here for this weekend. Elizabeth Bishop (my fave poet) wrote this poem for a friend of hers who was scared of thunder storms. She wanted to turn the storm's power into something less threatening for him--so she wrote him this little thought exercise.
Little Exercise
BY ELIZABETH BISHOP
for Thomas Edwards Wanning
Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily
like a dog looking for a place to sleep in,
listen to it growling.
Think how they must look now, the mangrove keys
lying out there unresponsive to the lightning
in dark, coarse-fibred families,
where occasionally a heron may undo his head,
shake up his feathers, make an uncertain comment
when the surrounding water shines.
Think of the boulevard and the little palm trees
all stuck in rows, suddenly revealed
as fistfuls of limp fish-skeletons.
It is raining there. The boulevard
and its broken sidewalks with weeds in every crack
are relieved to be wet, the sea to be freshened.
Now the storm goes away again in a series
of small, badly lit battle-scenes,
each in "Another part of the field."
Think of someone sleeping in the bottom of a row-boat
tied to a mangrove root or the pile of a bridge;
think of him as uninjured, barely disturbed.
I thought it might be fun this week to try and write your own "little exercise" where you try to work through a fear, or help someone accomplish something. I have a poem inspired by this Bishop piece that I'll post next... Have fun writing!
|
Feb/13/2015, 6:16 pm
|
Link to this post
Email magyproductions
PM magyproductions
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Here's my go at the prompt I just posted...
How To Leave Her
Walk into the woods
clear snow off a bench
and light a cigarette.
Notice how the wind
pulls on the smoke chain
trails from chapped lips,
kicks up loose snow
into pointed drifts
and think about the wind
collecting smoke and snow
into the same shapes
over and over
like a little girl making
sand castles that crumble
before her mom stands up
from her beach chair.
Get up and leave the woods.
Write a poem about how she is a castle
with all the lights turned out
in a city that breathes fluorescent.
|
Feb/13/2015, 6:18 pm
|
Link to this post
Email magyproductions
PM magyproductions
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
sw--I just got around to reading some of your earlier stuff on this thread. Love this one in particular:
I feel like a girl
whenever melting Southern air
holds my face in its sweaty palms.
In this place,
the January sun holds onto the day
like a lover who can’t let go.
I feel like a girl
when the crushed folds of an old flyer
whisper “sweetheart” for me to hear.
In this place,
everything reminds me that
I cannot exist.
I agree it's stronger in first person. Some beautiful images...like the January sun holding onto the day. Wonderful.
|
Feb/13/2015, 6:32 pm
|
Link to this post
Email magyproductions
PM magyproductions
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Magy, Thank you for posting a prompt this weekend! I am excited to try it. I really love your own response to it. The final image is crushing. I mean that in a good way. Oh yes.
And thank you, too, for your kind words on my poem responding to the April Bernard prompt!
SW
|
Feb/15/2015, 6:07 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Darkness looks orange
from the inside.
Remember that,
and the voice of someone
who loves you.
Yes, maybe he will wake up one day
and know how to be your eyes.
His voice will stroke you
with images, like ostrich feathers,
until you tingle all over with vision(s).
The smell of warm broth,
the minerality of wine,
bitter coffee
will make you see
how lucky you are.
Have you ever been blinded
by light? Or love?
It hurt, I know.
But the stab gave you
the whole wide world.
|
Feb/16/2015, 12:15 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Weekend prompt for 2/21/15.
Here in the northeast we are crushed by a fist of cold with more snow in the forecast. Just thought I'd mention that.
I look forward to writing an impromptu poem based on the idea of leaving everything out. A poem that attempts to get at an idea or feeling without ever mentioning it directly. I mean, lots of good poems do that. I just thought that having that goal in mind might lend itself to something interesting or even good. Here's hoping. See you next time.
SW
|
Feb/20/2015, 5:53 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Sun sits still,
a ball abandoned by careless children
it forgets how to roll
it forgets the way
to play
resting, hollow
murderously hot
the heat rolls
the danger—it does too
but the sun will never roll through its courses again
sitting still,
searing its singular message into me
|
Feb/22/2015, 12:55 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
sw--really like your prompt and poem for this! there's a lot of juicy imagery in there...and i think i might have an idea of what that message in the last couplet might be...
i was just messing around with a "reply" to William Carlos Williams astounding poem "This is Just to Say". that exercise in itself could probably serve as a prompt all on its own, but it also works for this idea of leaving everything out and not actually saying what you're saying. here's the poem. i had a lot of fun with it
This is Just to Say
I have not made
the chicken
which I
defrosted
and which
you were probably
expecting
for dinner.
Forgive me.
There are more
plums
in the icebox.
|
Feb/22/2015, 2:40 pm
|
Link to this post
Email magyproductions
PM magyproductions
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
You got a chuckle out of me, Magypro. This, especially for Williams aficionados, is charming. Thanks for joining in. xo
SW
|
Feb/22/2015, 3:24 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Solemn turns
This world has its ways
Stalls, squalls, snow that buries
clumsy intentions, undelivered applause
Wan Sun smiles in passing,
intimates renewal
|
Feb/22/2015, 5:07 pm
|
Link to this post
Email libramoon
PM libramoon
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Oh, Libramoon! Be still my heart. Thank you for this precious offering. This world surely does have its ways....
XO
SW
Last edited by spiralwoman, Feb/25/2015, 3:19 pm
|
Feb/22/2015, 6:03 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
A pleasure to read these three poems--what an intriguing prompt. Welcome Libra! It's good to see you here.
best,
Chris
|
Feb/25/2015, 2:46 pm
|
Link to this post
Email Christine98
PM Christine98
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Hey Chris,
Lovely to see you.
|
Feb/25/2015, 3:38 pm
|
Link to this post
Email libramoon
PM libramoon
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Something I miss in the dead of winter is the vast array of smells available to my appreciative nose. There are smells, of course. Wood smoke, wafts of pine, and even the air before it snows has a kind of smell. And the indoor smells -- cooking soup, incense, shampoo-infused steam, coffee being poured from my press. (Actually, I might have just talked myself out of a prompt. There are always smells I guess!)
But anyway, for some reason I am feeling smell-deprived so I want to write something that contains smell or the hint of smell or a memory of smell... or whatever. I'm gonna think about that for awhile as I look out my big window at (yet more) snow falling down. (Since I'm virtually house-bound, I am not entirely sick of the snow as it does --somewhat--justify my gimpy, hobbling, snow and ice averse situation.)
sw
|
Mar/1/2015, 6:14 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
I came upon a deconstructed pine,
40 feet of it divided into logs, cast-aside branches.
The snow was sawdusted, needled green.
As I stood, sinking in stages
below the snowy crust of mid-winter,
the quixotic sun dropped,
and the temperature in quick pursuit.
A fleck of pale amber glittered in
the dying daylight,
on two inches of bark,
tossed aside by a saw, before
I arrived on the scene.
Ringed by hairy logs and the singed smell
of hot pine in the air,
I knelt in the condensed late-winter snow
to touch the droplet—crystal blood—
fallen from a severed limb
waiting here until I lifted it to my face
to breathe the caustic resin
and taste the bitterness of death.
|
Mar/1/2015, 6:47 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Deep snow, layered in sense memories.
Soft waft of stove top simmering flirts with
oven's virtue of caloric feast.
Out in winter air, plow exhaust competes with
smirk of pregnant clouds ready to burst.
Bluster-spiced swirls journey in happy
meeting with mint-tinged trees, frozen noses.
Wood smoke, chimney parolees at play invoke
warm fantasies steeped in lavender.
Last edited by libramoon, Mar/1/2015, 7:00 pm
|
Mar/1/2015, 6:57 pm
|
Link to this post
Email libramoon
PM libramoon
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Libra, Thank you for this. I love it. Special favorites: "bluster-spiced swirls" and "warm fantasies steeped in lavender." That second one makes me drool for the fragrant warmth of spring that (I hope) awaits.
Love, SW
|
Mar/2/2015, 11:38 am
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
I realize I have been in a condition of waiting. Waiting for spring, as we all have, not even aware of how desperately I long for it (but that longing is part of what I love about winter). Waiting to get my mobility back after a long recovery from foot surgery with complications. Waiting to figure out what to do next with my life. You know, little things like that. So this weekend: a poem of waiting, or a poem of anticipation, or both. Or impatience? Anything along those lines.
sw
|
Mar/7/2015, 8:57 am
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Dear Spiralwoman,
Thank you for the prompt! I responded to it by using the technique of anaphora and wrote the first poem I've written in a very long time:
Post Chemo Now
Waiting
for my hair to grow.
Waiting
for the cold to go.
Waiting
for my mind to clear.
Waiting
for an end of fear.
Waiting
for strength to run.
Waiting
for the luxury of fun.
Waiting
for word(s) to come.
Waiting
for that old ho-hum.
Waiting for a new
normal to commence.
Waiting as if the future
is not an electric fence.
Last edited by Katlin, Mar/10/2015, 5:03 pm
|
Mar/10/2015, 1:24 pm
|
Link to this post
Email Katlin
PM Katlin
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
Katlin! It does my soul/heart/mind (you name it) good to see you here again. All of the things you await will return to you, I know!
Awesome and wonderful poetic prayer of patience.
sw
|
Mar/10/2015, 5:25 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
And here is my offering for the waiting poem prompt. It turned out to be something I did not expect. Had another thought originally when I posted the prompt but then this is what I wrote. Go figure.
Waiting
sometimes words
tangled together like
paper clips
jam up
longawaited
they come out during dreams
floating out
of my mouth
on satin pillows
I run to catch up with them
but my feet are weighted
by blocks of graphite
the words puff into glitter
as I watch
later on
if I am very sure
and open my palms
against cool sheets
most of the words return
tucking themselves
into my mouth
where they belong
|
Mar/10/2015, 5:27 pm
|
Link to this post
Email spiralwoman
PM spiralwoman
Blog
|
|
Re: Weekend Poetry Improv
SW,
Thank you for your poem offering. I love the image of words tangled up like paper clips. Was surprised, in a good way, when they turned into glitter. Dreams are such fertile ground for poems. Glad you captured this one.
|
Mar/11/2015, 10:17 am
|
Link to this post
Email Katlin
PM Katlin
|
Add a reply
Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6
You are not logged in ( login)
|