Tag: read write poem
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A video poem
http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=2903105&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=00adef&fullscreen=1
my poem came with me on a dream run from christine swint on Vimeo.While running along my usual route, I took video images of some of the sites that wound up in my poem.
read write poem
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Recurring Walkabout
In my dreams there’s a house on fire,
and though I try to translate the flames into syllables,
the hiss and pop aren’t recognized this side of sleep,
in my head there’s a bed of rivers, murmuring a language I don’t speak.And though I try, I still can’t translate the flames into syllables.
The meaning of dogwood petals floating along
in my head, a bed of rivers, murmuring a language I don’t speak,
whispers, the click of heels in empty rooms. When I’m there I knowthe meaning of dogwood petals floating along –
but now those places are phonographs engraved by a midnight shaman,
whispers, the click of heels in empty rooms. When I’m there I know
the lay of that tribal in between, where specters dance with tambourines.But now those places are phonographs engraved by a midnight shaman,
the hiss and pop aren’t recognized this side of sleep.
The lay of that tribal in between, where specters dance with tambourines,
in my dreams, there’s a house on fire.recurring-walkabout (click here to listen)
Check out Juliet’s translation prompt this week at read write poem. I also had in mind an image prompt you can find there as well.
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Fun stuff on the web
During January I get very sleepy, just like a possum or a bear. Three things help shake off the lethargy: creativity, laughter, and long walks in the sunshine. I can’t take you on a walk with me, but I can share a few things that might make you smile.
- Do you admit to others that you watch American Idol? I won’t tell anyone, I promise. But you must go to Collin Kelley’s Modern Cofessional to read his ‘snark’ as he calls it, about last night’s program. Collin has a tradition of blogging about Idol, so stay tuned for his appraisals each week during the season.
- I have a post up at Read Write Poem about how I began making video poems. There’s a link to a video I made for qarrtsiluni. Why not let a video poem be your next fun project? Or, I dare you to record yourself reading a poem, and post it to your blog. Hey, maybe I’ll do that. But first I need to get out of my bathrobe and go for a walk.
- Do you prefer static images to write about? There’s an image prompt at Read Write Poem for you. We have everything you need for writing poems these days. One-stop poem shopping.
- One of my favorite new sites is Postal Poetry. I usually submit one or two postcard poems a month to Dave and Dana, and they’ve been most gracious in publishing my wee lines. Here’s a link to the latest, called ‘The little robot that couldn’t.’ After you see the photo, you’ll understand how Dana’s friend Feldman inspired me to write.
- This postcard poem below was too small for Postal to use (I took it with my cell phone), so I thought I’d post it here. The photo is a detail of of the Crown Fountain in Millennium Park, by Jaume Plensa
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At the Source
At the Source
On the shady side of Horn Mountain,
round the first bend of Bonaparte Creek,
a bearded trout tells fairy tales to a cluster
of wavery eggs, his voice of water
on pebbles lulls the brood in their gravel bed.As angry Bass flicks his tail upstream,
the eggs quiver in their sacs,
but Bearded Trout’s eye looms larger
than the moon – “stay mum,” he bubbles,
“or Bass will purse his lips, suck you in,”“and you will be like the Sleeping Faerie
entangled in strands of Spanish moss,
dragged through currents, over slimy rocks
from foothills to the sea, never to breath
clay-tinged waters again.”The glistening eggs quiet in the cold
currents, listening to Bearded Trout
speak of their hatching day, small
fry loose on eddies, drinking air,
aware of shadows near dappled stones.***
This poem is a result of thinking about the above painting, some words describing the landscape of the foothills where I live, and Michelle McGrane’s contribution to the collaborative link at Read Write Poem, Diving into the Wreck, by Adrienne Rich. Thanks for an interesting collaboration, Nathan.
I think this is a children’s poem, but I’m not sure. Would the part about thinking eggs be too scary or obscure for children? Or the Angry Bass?
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A response poem to Holly
Dear Holly,
Mystic
Stand still long enough in the present
moment, and Border Town springs
to life, a mirage of mirrored souls
strolling down Main Street amid a sea
of glass-front shops. Twenty-four hours
a day, they say, it may appear,sometimes as near to you as a pear
in a bowl, a still life given as a present
we open by breathing, forgetting the hour-
hand, the minutes, the seconds that spring
to life in a primordial sea,
a briny home, birthplace of our souls.Border Town, Edge City, we don’t know it by a sole
name; a phantom place appearing
as Atlantis, tendrils of sea
anemone fingers waving the present
tense in our faces, until the spring
that winds us loosens, a slack Slinky in ourchest that slows the hour-
glass sands. We plant the soles
of our feet, grow roots, soak up spring
water until openings appear,
inner floodgates that present
a view to the hidden city of Eternal Spring.It’s a Shangri-La we thought we’d never see –
conjured countless times at happy hours,
downing gin and tonics to wash away the presence
of black marks on our mortal souls.
It’s like wind in the trees, or peeringinto a well, fed with a spring
meandering from underground seas.
A cavern in the ribcage, it once appeared
to us as the cauldron of a witching hour,
but now has become our sole
mio, a sunny bow on a wrapped present.Time is an unfurling spring, a malleable hour
in which we see the yards of our souls
uncurling, appearing to us as our own present.***
Holly (Lost Kite) and I have been responding to each other’s poems in what has become a series. Here is her poem.
The prompt this week at RWP was to collaborate on a prompt, and then mix up the prompts to write a poem. I’ve got to admit that although I contributed to the prompt, I chose to collaborate by responding to Holly’s poem.
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Round-up of thoughts
- Peace to my blogging friends in Mumbai. The world is wishing you well–we’re all in it together.
- For those of you in the US, Happy Thanksgiving, and to everyone else, I hope you have a delightful Thursday. Thursdays are usually good days. If I stay out late on a Thursday night, no matter, the weekend is just around the corner.
- Fiona Robyn has placed one of my little stones on her site, A Handful of Stones. Thank you, Fiona!
- Get Your Poem On is ready at Read Write Poem. Even if you didn’t write to their prompt, go ahead and link a poem. You never know what interesting people might come to your site to read your work
- I have a post titled, “what’s up with words?” at Read Write Poem you might like, with some links to interesting sites about language.
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Lament for Federico García Lorca*
You will always be a myth weaver
with coal-black eyes who sings to me
across the years of gypsies on shadowed roads,
of velvet dark, of orchid dreams,
of girls at night who wait downstream,
windows open wide for men on horseback
making their way down rocky slopes.But the riders have fallen–
their underwater faces
waver in moonlight cisterns,
their arms like lilies glow under silver beams.If I could hold your hand across the years,
lift you from the rivers where you wept,
I’d draw you to my chest,
wipe the tears you shed
for all the lovers
who slept before their time
on earth was due to end,
for children who died before
they learned the dance,
for men who were the darlings
of other men,
for Spirits of the Wind
who tore away the chokehold
of the trance.The stars began to fade
the night you died–
shot in a cave, tossed in a grave.
Now your words of passion
shine for you instead.*This title is in reference to Federico García Lorca’s poem, Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías.
I first wrote this poem as a sonnet:
Lament for Federico Garcia LorcaGarcia Lorca’s lambent words release
their light across the years – his gypsy songs,
laments for dying heroes now at peace
in moonlight cisterns shadowed all night long.
If I could hold his hand across the years,
and lift him from the rivers where he wept,
I’d draw him to my heart and wipe the tears
he shed for all the lovers who have slept
before their time on earth was due to end,
for children who were born to those who danced,
for men who were the darlings of their men,
for those who broke the chokehold of the trance.
The stars began to fade the night he bled–
his words of passion shine for him instead.***
The prompt this week at Read Write Poem is to break the rules. I took what I liked from the sonnet, and rearranged the lines to suit the spirit of the poem. Lot’s of rule smashing going on here!
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How I made friends with fear
How I made friends with fear
The four of us dress in stiff coats
to visit our father at his office, travel
by train to Chicago, the seventeenth floor
of a skyscraper wedged between
reachless towers of darkened metal.A hushed ride in a mirrored elevator,
plush carpet, we gather near his desk.
Before a glass wall
I stand apart from the other three,
eleven years old, the eldest
and by birthright the chieftain of our tribe.My sisters watch for signs–how to act?
But my breath catches at the top
of my lungs as larger people
shuffle papers in the outer office–I wish I were alone to practice
at being afraid, to carry out my solo
rituals in the basement of my house,
a place that draws me with an unseen corddownwards. In the dark I walk
backwards in a circle, round and round
three times to conjure up the Devil,
who I hope will rise from the black
smudge on my soul to fill up the pitch air.I know all about God the Father
and the Blessed Virgin from weekend
migrations to Our Lady of the Wayside.I want to understand that thorn in God’s side,
not the thorns in his crown.
I seek the one who gave Jesus hell in the desert.
If I am to be an implacable
ice goddess in this City of Restraint,
I’ll need to test my courage
against a hailstorm of fear.These thoughts hover on the edge
of my mind as I look out the thick glass
to the specks of people below,
watch toy cars inch along the asphalt,
wonder what it would feel like to jump, or fly.***
Balanced On the Edge 