I drafted a couple of poems in response to an actual old photograph on the shelf, but then this popped to mind while I was killing time in a coffee shop. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be too literal.
Lost and found
He doesn’t recall her
face, even in dreams. Their son brings him
old photographs, but he recognizes
no one, himself least of all.
What he remembers is burying
his face in her hair, the scent
and fall of it, the way his fingers
tangled in the curls.
I tinkered off and on with this prompt through the better part of a day until I thought to follow my own advice. I drew a couple of cards from two of my favorite decks, and the images immediately gave me an idea.
Dear Diary,
Last night I dreamed again I stood among tall firs, perfectly shaped, their branches weighted with snow. The trees covered a steep mountain slope, and through them I glimpsed other slopes and valleys, all blanketed with evergreen and white. My breath hung crisp in the air.
Beneath the heavy thatch of snow, needles living and dead absorbed all sound. I was enchanted; it was so beautiful and still. But a chill began to seep through my clothes, my skin: the silence was too complete. I was utterly alone in an indifferent wilderness.
My pulse throbbed in my ears, and then I noticed another noise, dim and muffled. It was the softest sobbing I have ever known, a weeping beyond all hope of being heard. I woke to find it was me.
(from Wizard’s Tarot, by Corrine Kenner, illustrated by John J. Blumen; Llewellyn 2011)
(from The Tarot of Trees, by Dana Driscoll, 2009)
Observations from the field
buttons and banners, bumpers and yards that sprout
the uncanny side shoots of this strange season
rallies, stumps, town meetings, carefully orchestrated
surprise appearances – the hooting and chest thumping
part of the mating ritual for that bizarre subspecies,
Homo sapiens diatribis, the American politician
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged elections, poetry practice, poetry prompts, prompted poetry, Writers Write, writing practice
When I saw this prompt, I was reminded of a blog post I saw last week at Tarot by Tina. Each week, Tina, herself a writer, draws a card to interpret from a writer’s perspective.
The Queen of Swords
proclaims your creature
self to be mind as well as brain: remember
that squiggly organ is more than
the body’s maestro, and thought
greater than the sum of firing neurons
she decrees that your intellect serves
your whole person, a loyal retainer
vital as her own chief counselor
and as powerful, because you are
who you think you are
so who do you think you are?
I recently found a wonderful resource for writers in South African-based Writers Write. The site has all kinds of goodies and support for both business and creative writing, including prompts, quotes, book reviews, and courses. I signed up to receive prompts for each month via e-mail, and February’s list arrived yesterday.
Unexpected
the offhand comment is not painful
because formulated
without thought or consideration
the offhand comment is painful
because of astonishing
insight and precision
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged poetry practice, poetry prompts, prompted poetry, prompts, Writers Write, writing practice, writing prompts
As I typed the title for this poem, my fingers kept keying in “medication” rather than “meditation” (just did it again – three times in a row!) I think that speaks volumes in itself.
Meditation for the day
Be still and know
the Unknowable Source of all Being
Be still and know
all being
Be still and know
the source
Be still and know
the unknowable
Be still and know
Be still
Be
Known
This is harder than it looks – so hard in fact that some days it is beyond our ability, though never beyond our capacity.
Graceful
to accept is to receive, to make a place in our
lives for that which is given, even when
it does not seem like a gift
Odd as it seems, this is a long poem for me. The first draft was shorter and much more dense and terse, but I feared it would be too opaque. Now I worry I may have gone too far in the other direction – did I draw this out too much? What do you think?
Precious
When she began looking, she was in high
spirits, cheerful and confident that it had simply been
mislaid. After sifting through clutter on table
and counter, she paused to consider when she had seen
it last and where.
She retraced her steps through several
rooms, spottily, not quite certain
which day was which, their sameness
as sad as it was bewildering. And still she believed
it would turn up.
She moved every piece of furniture, discovering
all manner of things lost but not at the moment
desired. She saw her cleaning had been lacking in certain
areas but did not allow herself to be distracted
by the shame.
Breathing steadily to quell
the panic she felt bubbling along the edges, she turned
all the rugs, shook them clear of dust
and hair and other small bits from shoes
and life.
At length she dropped to her knees
without hope in the center of the smallest
room in the house. A sob tore from her throat
as she glimpsed a metallic glint
beneath a baseboard.
Two novels I grabbed at random to read this summer feature works of Shakespeare as a motif. Coincidence? I think not.
Improvisation
There is no script, but the structure remains
obvious: deep darkness sets one act
apart from the next and even though the scene
changes are not always so clearly announced, everyone knows
when the action shifts. The trick to surviving
so much uncertainty is to trust the ensemble, the wit
and timing of the other players. This is also, not
coincidentally, the most difficult part.
As one who finds joy and deep meaning in cycles, I delight in the many ways we humans keep track of and celebrate the passage of time. I follow several different calendars and cherish them as interweaving lenses through which to see my life. Some days the view takes my breath away.
Upon leaving my firstborn at college
This is what it was about all along – the hopes
and prayers, the planning and wondering
where you would go and what you might
do. Eighteen years – more than that, really,
when you count the long, slow months in
utero and the decision before that to get off
on the parenting side of the fence and see
what would happen – all those years of work
and I still feel wholly unprepared.
The Daily Compost 