poetry

Pantoum for My Child

Sally13 Comments

I wish I could see inside your head
The swirl of thoughts all tangled there
I would take one tiny thread
I’d follow it to who-knows-where

The swirl of thoughts all tangled there
Twisted, matted, snarled, knotted
To follow one to who-knows-where
To open that which has clotted

Twisted, matted, snarled, knotted
Hopes and hurts and harms and healing
I want to open what has clotted
To understand what you’ve been feeling

Hopes and hurts and harms and healing
I wish I could see inside your head
To understand what you’ve been feeling
I would take one tiny thread

Any parent would understand this, but especially parents of older kids, parents of adolescents, parents of introverts, parents of kids who struggle for words.

This is in response to the W3 prompt — write a pantoum with at least four stanzas. A pantoum is a interwoven poem with repeats lines circling through the stanzas. Here’s the rhyme scheme for mine:

ABAB BCBC DCDC DADA

Blather · Life

One

Sally2 Comments

I’ve been focusing so much on trying to write poems that I almost forgot to blather write a prose-y stream-of-consciousness post. (By the way, did you know that prose as a verb means writing in a tedious, dull way? Hmm — I’ll have to save that for an appropriate occasion.)

The prompt is one/won. Well, I haven’t won anything this week so that narrows it down. Here are some ones, though.

Number of dragonflies that I rescued from the cat: One.

I thought for sure that the dragonfly was a goner, but when I took it away from the cat, I could see that it was still alive. It flew away. Seriously. And I was left with amazement and questions and wonder and all sorts of feelings that are so hard to describe.

Number of operas that I attended: One.

On a bit of a whim, I went to Candide yesterday. I know it’s not really an opera; it’s musical theater. But it was at the opera house. I loved my seats — cheap seats that allowed me to see the orchestra — except I couldn’t see the French horns or the timpani. Ah well.

IMG_6284

Earlier in the summer, I had met the actor who played Candide. Now, mind you, I knew literally nothing about the show, the story, the music — nothing. This guy came into my office to purchase a short term membership at the gym. For the summer. He was with the opera.

“Which show are you in?” I asked, trying to sound like I knew something about it.

“I’m Candide,” he said.

“You’re in Candide?” I replied.

“No,” he said, “I am Candide.”

Silly me, I thought Candide sounded like a female role.

But let me say this — that same wide-eyed cheerful attitude that he brought to the stage sat in my office that day. I highly recommend the show.

Number of times that I swam in the lake: One.

Actually, that’s the number of times for the whole summer. Friday was hot, humid, and miserable. I jumped in the lake and swam back and forth along the rope at far side of the swim area. It was so refreshing.

And those are the ‘one’s that stand out to me.

But then, there was the one time that I got drenched because the heavens let loose and I hadn’t an umbrella and I had to get to my car.

And the one time that fruit flies took over the kitchen because I hadn’t emptied the compost bucket.

The one earring I lost.

The one earring I found.

The one guy who got under my skin in a 20 minute complain-y phone call. I can listen to people, but when you’re calling to complain, please understand that I don’t make the policies.

The one former neighbor who moved back to the area and came in to get a membership at the gym and I couldn’t place him in my mind until two hours after he left.

The one turkey reuben that “hit the spot” as my mother used to say.

The one young man from Romania who tried to teach me how to pronounce his name and I couldn’t.

The one woman from Russia who told me that the rolling hills of upstate New York remind her of home.

This could go on forever.

Must. Stop. Now.

photography · poetry

Dragonfly

Sally16 Comments

Dragonfly
In my hand
Delicate
Fragile and

Beautiful.
I took you 
From the cat —
Still you flew.

I’m awed at
Your mettle.
You shimmer,
You settle,

And then you
Fly away —
The nothing
That you weigh

That fluttered
In my hand
Lingers — so
Fragile, grand

This is my second attempt at a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire, an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.

It is in response to the W3 prompt this week from Sadje —

  • Write: a syllabic poem or: a poem in free verse;
  • Topic: “What inspires you to write?” or: “What inspires you to write poetry?”

It’s funny — but I think what inspires me to write a poem is often something that I can’t put into words. Like holding a dragonfly.

I scoured my photographs for dragonflies. Here are two:

poetry

A Trip to the Museum with a 4 year old

Sally12 Comments

Let’s study some art, okay? Can you count the cows?
One, two, three, four — yes, that’s right! How about the swans?
One, two. Now I see some ducks. Can you count them, too?
I agree — they’re hard to count, but good job looking!

Tanka Tuesday prompt: Write an ekphrastic poem about this work of art by John Constable.

This is another Imayo: 4 12-syllable lines, broken 7-5. Literal, no symbolism or metaphor.

Children are SO literal, don’t you think?

Plus — we had a Slow Art Day talk back in April here with our seniors. We just looked at a painting in silence for 5-10 minutes before sharing what we saw. It was very literal. One lady said to me afterwards, “It’s the first time I’ve felt comfortable talking about art.” Too often people jump into the symbolism which is intimidating for those who are concrete thinkers.

Life · poetry · Stewart

Life happens to all of us

Sally14 Comments

You know this could be you, right? You, too, could
Be buffeted by winds and beat up
By trees and cars and birds and kids.
Life could happen to you in
Mean ways. Your student debt
Insurmountable
When medical
Expenses
Overtake
You.
Bank
Account
Empty. Cards
Maxed. Marriage bro-
Ken. A move. All the
Degrees in the world can’t
Float you high enough to miss
All the brutality of life.
That fatal heart attack was mercy.
Don’t judge. Don’t judge. Don’t judge. This could be you.

This was the prompt from Sadje’s WhatDoYouSee? post this week.

This week, in sorting through papers, I came across a box of unopened mail from my brother’s apartment when we cleaned it out after he died from a heart attack nine years ago. Most of it was bills and debt collections notices. Yes, depressing.

poetry

Red-tailed Hawk

Sally7 Comments

High on a telephone pole, your aerie was built
Stick by stick plucked from the ground and flown clumsily
To its new home with a view – where you can spot prey
A mouse or vole or rabbit, and scream from on high

I’ve been watching this nest while it is being built.

The Tanka Tuesday prompt was to write a Imayo about a bird. An imayo has four lines, each line 12 syllables, but divided into two sections: 7 syllables and then 5 syllables. This is my attempt.

Blather

Pas

Sally4 Comments

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “sap/spa/asp/pas/PSA.” Use one, use them all, use them any way you’d like. Bonus points if you use them all. Enjoy!

Je ne sais pas what to write. I suppose that’s the purpose of stream of consciousness writing, right?

I kind of like that Linda included a French word in her prompt.

Please don’t assume that I know French. I took it for a year in high school and recently started learning it on Duolingo. Pas (noun) is a step. Pas (adverb) negates.

Pas — all sorts of phrases run through my head.

  • Pas de deux — a dance for two. Literally, a step of two.

    When I was in high school, one summer our school arranged some trips to Saratoga Performing Arts to watch the NYC ballet. That’s where I learned what a pas de deux was. I’m not sure I know which ballet it was, though. Was it Swan Lake?

    My best memory from all the ballets that summer was watching Edward Villella perform “Prodigal Son.” The fact that I can still remember his name and that performance says something because it was close to fifty years ago. The man had more muscles than I ever remember seeing on any human being.
  • Faux pas — literally, a false step.

    A social blunder. Saying the wrong thing, or having something come out totally wrong.
    Since I’m telling high school stories, here’s a faux pas that I still remember all too clearly. I was maybe 14. We were in high school band and discussing uniforms. Had we ordered new uniforms at that point? I don’t remember.

    When we started talking about what to wear on our feet, the band director suggested overshoes that we could put on over whatever shoes we wanted to wear. It would be cost-effective and give a uniform appearance. You know what I’m talking about, right? Galoshes, aka rubbers.
    I never liked those things. They were hard to get on and hot. I couldn’t imagine marching in them.

    I raised my hand and said, “I don’t like rubbers. I don’t like the way they feel.”

    The sniggering that ensued started small. It grew and grew until it totally surrounded me. I didn’t know what I had said wrong, but my cheeks burned with embarrassment.

    That was the day I learned that a condom’s nickname was “rubber.”
No true band uniform, no overshoes
  • Je ne sais pas — means I don’t know. It’s a useful term. There are a lot of things that I don’t know. I’m still learning.

    Je ne sais quoi — a term I like even more –is something indescribable. I love this phrase, but it captures the feeling I have when my mind is searching for the right descriptor but there isn’t one.

Now I’m off to do my Duolingo. I have an 1134 day streak going — mostly Scottish Gaelic. Today I’ll work on my French some more.

family · poetry

Inheritance

Sally17 Comments

In
Eighteen
Ninety-four
Great-grandmother
Pedersen arrived
In the United States
From Denmark with three dollars
And four children under the age
Of seven to join her husband who
Was a tailor working outside Boston

Her super-power: hospitality
Her home became a hub where Danish
Women gathered to drink coffee
And converse with each other
Without all the mental
Gymnastics that go
With translation
They relaxed
And smiled
[sigh]

My
Mother
Received that
Super-power
Hosting dinners and
Welcoming newcomers
And people in need to our
Home, church, and the community
She made it look so very easy
I thought I had missed that DNA

One day I was sitting at my desk when
A person peeked around the corner
“Can I talk to you?” he asked me
“Of course,” I said, so he came
In the office and told
Me a small story
A wee sliver
Of something
That was
large

I
sat and
I listened
To his words, awed
That he had chosen
Me to share his thoughts with
One day a woman sat down
With me and she started to cry
She told a wee sliver of her story
And I listened, gently holding her tale

They come. I listen. So many people
Some sad, some angry, some joyful, some tired
They all share different stories
“You should get paid for this,”
One man said to me
He doesn’t know
It is my
Super-
Pow’r

This is a double etheree times three. Does that make is a sextuple etheree?

An etheree is a syllabic poem — 10 lines with syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. A double etheree has 10 more lines, counting back down 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.

For the record, I work at a gym and when I’m in the office, I sell memberships.

And listen.

This is in response to this week’s W3 prompt: Write a poem of any style and any length on the topic of “Power.”

poetry

A Day at the Beach

Sally11 Comments

SPF
Thirty-three
Slathered on
Sun, sand, sea

Sound of surf
Hitting land
Whoosh shhh ssss
Sea sun sand

Sinking down
I can’t run
Grit twixt toes
Sand sea sun

Red as beet
Seaweed scent
Sandy feet
Day well spent

Tanka Tuesday prompt was to use this picture as inspiration and concentrate on imagery.

This is a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire, an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.

Haven’t spent a day at the beach in a long, long time.