Salty like hot dogs (and tears). Sweet like marmalade (and life).
Lesley Scoble challenged us to write an Ekphrastic Poem based on a piece of music from Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde. Challenge is very much the operative word here.
I ended up with a concrete poem –a poem makes active use of the arrangement of the words to create a visual art object — that depicts a crescendo. Life is just one big crescendo and descrescendo.
“Three is my magic number,” Bea said.
“Why do you say that?” her father asked.
“Well,” she replied, using her fingers to count things off, “you write my birthday as 3-3, March 3. There are three of us in our family — you, me, mom. Our house is number three on the street –“
He interrupted, “That’s not our house number.”
“I know that,” she replied, “but if you count the houses from the turn-off, we’re the third one.”
She continued until she ran out of fingers. “I’m in the third grade. I have three cats. There are three letters in my name. I eat lunch with two other girls – that makes three. My friends have three-letter names: Ivy and Nia.”
She found a notebook. “I’m going to collect a hundred threes today,” she announced, and in her very best third-grade scrawl, she wrote numbers down in a column.
She listed off the three-letter names first: Bea, Ivy, Nia, Mom, Dad. Then she continued: “thrid [sic] house” and kept going.
Bea worked steadily all day on this project.
“Bananas.” Won’t eat one today, thought Dad.
“White rocks.” Only three? thought Dad.
“Broken fence rails.” Need to fix those, thought Dad.
“Letters in the mail.” Bills, thought Dad.
At bedtime, Bea was discouraged. “I couldn’t do it,” she told her father. “I only got to thirty-seven.”
“I’m giving you three stars for trying,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“Look in the fish tank,” he told her.
When she did, she squealed with delight.
This is my contribution to the Unicorn Challenge. It’s a simple challenge: write a story no more than 250 words. Base it on the photo prompt.
My darling,
Much better than quarreling
Is this: I will stroke your hair,
Swear
Devotion
To you while you’ve no notion
(Have you?) of whose side I’m on.
Yawn
My pretty;
Sleep on my lap. I pity
Your great surprise when you wake.
Take
Care, dumb thing.
Out of the strong came something.
Sweet fool, you yielded to me
Key
Expertise
That I might put you at ease
And take from you that which God
[prod]
Had conferred
On you. Soon the deed’s occurred —
Come take the hair of this mutt!
Cut!
The W3 prompt for this week was to write an ekphrastic poem about the Rubens’ painting of Samson and Delilah.
The more I looked at the painting, the more I disliked Delilah. She’s so false. What did Samson see in her? Well, I think that’s pretty clear in the painting, too.
This is an Irish form I’ve used before: deibide baise fri toin. Syllable count for each quatrain: 3-7-7-1. Rhyme scheme: aabb. The first two lines rhyme on two syllables, and the last two rhyme on one.
The poet of the week gave an additional challenge of including a line from Samson’s riddle: “Out of the strong came something sweet.”
Dear Barbara,
Remember when
We used to pray
And say amen
To all of our
Troubles and cares
Passing them on –
Gone – to “One Upstairs”
Who heard our words
Read our mettle
Enclosing us
Thus to settle
And face what came–
Oh! Life was hard
Especially
Yours. See — one card
Then another —
Life dealt you crap
Death, illness, hell
Fell in your lap
Week after week
We bowed our heads
We wept, we prayed
Life frayed to shreds
Why did we stop?
I don’t recall
Did we give up?
Our cups to fall
And break, as did
Our friendship? I
Wish I knew what
Shut that door. Why?
Why do people
Move on from God,
Friends, prayers, tears?
Fears? Fatigue? Fraud?
I am a fraud
Yes, yes. That’s true
But we did pray
A day or two
I was out for a drive with a friend the other night, and suddenly I recognized the landscape, the roads, the buildings. It had been years since I had driven out there but I used to meet weekly to pray with a friend. She lived out there.
We stopped meeting rather abruptly some 20 years ago — and I don’t remember why. I don’t remember a falling out. I don’t remember a lot of things from those years. They were so stressful.
But the stresses in my life were miniscule in comparison with hers.
This poem came out of the hashing around of those memories.
I need to add that faith failures — the doubts, the fatigue — they are all MINE, not hers. Pretty sure, anyway.
“That was NOT here yesterday,” Medina said, pointing at the large white castle.
Jim-Bob guffawed. “Castles don’t appear, darlin’,” he said. “Look — it’s got a name ‘n ev’rythin’.”
The stone marker read: Zastrašujuće Magično, 1234.
“Magic-no,” read Jim-Bob. He tilted his head toward the sign. “No magic, see?”
Medina stared at the building.
“Weren’t there some book about Zara-juicy by that Nee-Chee guy?”
Medina cringed. She couldn’t believe that she was traveling with such an ignorant yahoo.
“You’re thinking of Zarathustra, right? By Neitzsche?” she replied, emphasizing the correct pronounciation, Nee-chuh, of the philosopher’s name.
“That’s what I said!” he argued.
Medina spoke the words to him in her native tongue. “Za-STRASH-oo-yooch-na MA-geesh-noh.” In English, she explained, “Terrifyingly magical. That’s what it means. Don’t read the number aloud. It will open the magic.”
“Aw, darlin’, ain’t no such thing as magic,” he said.
To her, the building was proof that there was.
“Jus’ to prove it to ya, I’m gonna say that number,” said Jim-Bob.
She grabbed his arm. “Please, no,” she pleaded.
“Twelve-thirty-four,” he said, waggling his head as he did.
Nothing happened, and Medina exhaled slowly. Thank God, he hadn’t read the four digits individually, she thought.
“Ain’t no such thing as magic,” he said again. “Kind of a crazy year, though, ain’t it? It’s like countin’! One, two, three, four.”
Immediately, the ground rumbled. It opened and swallowed Jim-Bob. With a loud burp, the ground closed and the castle disappeared.
Medina smiled.
“Buh-bye, darlin’!” she said.
Another Unicorn Challenge done! No more than 250 words. Base it on the photo. You, too, can do this.
Plants weren’t watered while I was gone
My son forgot
The geraniums were wilted
So jilted, fraught
A good watering – life appears
Or reappears
I should say – its posture improves –
Life moves, cheers
Yes, cheers my heart. All is not lost
Tiny buds burst
Within days — I am delighted
A righted thirst
The W3 prompt this week: Write a poem of three stanzas inspired by the phrase ‘A Wilted Flower’ —Rhyming: Optional
The story in the poem is true. I didn’t know I needed to tell my son to water the plants. Geraniums are so resilient. I wish I could say the same of some of my other plants.
I chose another unpronounceable Irish form: the decnad cummaisc, a form that employs quatrains with both end and internal rhymes. Here are the guidelines:
“My legs aren’t that fat,” Bobby said.
“It’s HARD to trace a person!” replied Johnny.
Bobby stood back staring at the figure sketched on the road. “It looks like I have no neck. AND it looks like I’m holding a bottled water.”
“You WERE holding a bottled water,” said Johnny.
“You said you would make it look like a hand grenade. That’s why I put my other arm up over my head — so it’d look like I pulled the pin and was about to throw it.”
“I know how we can make it really realistic,” Johnny said.
Bobby narrowed his eyes. “How?”
Johnny leaned in before he spoke. “Use a real grenade,” he said in a quiet voice.
Bobby smirked. “Yeah, right,” he sneered. “I suppose you have a whole box of them in your house.”
“I don’t,” said Johnny, “but my great-uncle Toby does. I know where it is.”
“A whole box of grenades?” Bobby questioned.
“Well, no — but he has a grenade. I’ve seen it.”
The two boys walked the few blocks to where Uncle Toby lived.
“He’s not home,” whispered Johnny. “He’s in Florida, but I know where the key is.”
Once inside, Johnny headed straight for the bedroom and pulled a box out from under the bed. “See,” he said, pointing to an olive-drab device.
Bobby picked it up. He hefted it in his hand.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. This is real. Trace me holding this.” And he fiddled with the ring holding the pin.
My meager attempt at the Unicorn Challenge, which is write something (no more than 250 words) based on the photo.
Can you tell I struggled with this one?
Meh — got it done, though.
Exhilirating is the word I’d use
Walking on the beam to reach the loft
Yes, barefoot! I had no use for shoes
Down below, I knew the hay was soft
Walking on the beam to reach the loft
Having climbed up, up, up in that old barn
Down below, I knew the hay was soft
My brother grabbed my arm as if to warn
Having climbed up, up, up in that old barn
What we were about to do seemed unsure
My brother grabbed my arm as if to warn
But we both felt the danger was the allure
What we were about to do seemed unsure
The warm and musty hay beckoned below
But we both felt the danger was the allure
The pigeons cooed, outside I heard a crow
The warm and musty hay beckoned below
Would we do it? Would we take that leap
The pigeons cooed, outside I heard a crow
Our knees shook, we took a breath quite deep
Would we do it? Would we take that leap?
A silent prayer, a silenter amen
Our knees shook, we took a breath quite deep
And once done, we’d do it all again
A silent prayer, a silenter amen
Exhilirating is the word I’d use
And once done, we’d do it all again
Yes, barefoot! I had no use for shoes
This is my response to the W3 challenge this week: write a pantoum about a childhood memory. A pantoum is made up of a series of quatrains rhyming ABAB in which the second and fourth lines of a quatrain recur as the first and third lines in the succeeding quatrain; each quatrain introduces a new second rhyme as BCBC, CDCD. At the end, you loop and grab those A lines again.
When I was 7 years old, my parents bought a non-working farm with 100 acres and 4 barns to explore. It was idyllic — truly. One of the things my brother and I did was climb up into a hayloft in one of the barns and jump down into the pile of hay below. So scary. So much fun.
She ran as if her life depended on it.
In fact, she thought it did.
She couldn’t put her finger on any answers to all her whys. Why did he scare her? Why did he approach her to begin with? Why did he follow her when she veered away from him? Why did he quicken his step when she quickened hers?
Now she was running. Cutting through alleys, slipping through hedges, afraid to look over her shoulder in case he was still there.
She paused as she emerged from yet another alley. She could no longer hear him, but she was thoroughly lost. It looked like Uncle David’s neighborhood, but all the houses looked so much the same.
What was that rhyme he used to tell her?
If ever you’re lost in Uncle-David-land
Keep your eyes open for the Eyeball Band
She had been so little when he made her memorize those silly words and showed her the secret door on the side of the garage.
Now she was, indeed, lost in Uncle-David-land. She stared around the street trying to decide where to go when she saw the scary man again. She ran in the opposite direction and ducked down another alley.
When she emerged, she spotted the Eyeball Band painted on the garage door. She ran straight to it and found the secret door.
Inside the garage stood Uncle David and her dad. They seemed to be waiting for her.
“Told you she was ready,” said Uncle David.
This is my response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge. It’s a simple challenge every week: no more than 250 words based on the photo prompt.
Is that a strange photo or what?
But, being someone who navigates using landmarks, I could SO picture someone using that door as the landmark where you should turn or stop or something.
What’s the meaning of my story? I have no idea.
“Please select
Me!” She wanted to direct
The gardener as he scanned,
Hand
Already
Full of flowers, gaze steady.
He looked for one final bloom.
Gloom
Just settled
Over her. Her gold petaled
Head drooped in an oh-so-sad
Bad
Way. Downcast,
Rejected, again outcast,
Passed over. But then he stopped
Dropped
His pruner
“I wish I’d seen you sooner,”
He said to her. “You are sweet!
Meet
Your sidekicks.”
[snip!] She joined the spray, transfixed
By the beauty around her.
“We’re
Delighted
You can join us!” She sighted
A welcoming rose and mum.
“Come!”
This is for the W3 challenge this week. Heather (Sgeoil) challenged the participants to do a little personification. I had an idea for a flower being plucked from the garden for a bouquet (inspired in part by the bouquet that was on my bedside table when I stayed at my son’s house). My idea involved going in that sacrificial direction of losing life for the sake of something bigger. But, as you can see, it went in a totally different direction.
I wish I understood my own process.
AND — because I like Celtic forms, I went with a Deibide Baise Fri Toin, and Irish form with aabb rhyme scheme and syllable count of 3-7-7-1 for each stanza. The first two lines rhyme on a 2 syllable word and the last two lines rhyme on one syllable.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 