Salty like hot dogs (and tears). Sweet like marmalade (and life).
I woke up this morning with another ee cummings poem running through my head.
God forbid I be beaten by a Golden Shovel! I set out to write another one with ee cummings as my inspiration.
scent of mown hay —i
close my eyes, drink it in, thank
-ful for smells and You
who give us senses. O God,
I am filled with longing for
more of You and most
of all just grateful for this
moment. amazing
A photograph of a sunflower was the prompt for Tanka Tuesday. I immediately thought of the sunflower field near us. People constantly stop to photograph it — it’s so lovely. Recently, on Facebook however, there were a number of nasty comments about the people stopping to look at the sunflowers. It’s dangerous, they said — and they were probably right.
But doggone-it, the sunflowers are so pretty.
I wrote a poem about the controversy (kind of) and shaped each stanza like a petal, using syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1. Then I cut them out and put them in a collage.
Below, the poem in text form. Below that is my collage.
some
people
see the field
of sunflowers
and are in awe of
their beauty but
others see
the cars
that
pull
over
to the side
haphazardly
because somebody
in the car caught
sight of the
flowers
and
could
not help
but to slam
on the brakes and
climb out of their car
to draw closer
to the gold-
en beaut-
y
they
are drawn
by flowers
and more flowers.
they’re intoxicated
by the beauty
and don’t see
danger
to
self
or to
others – the
ones who are just
on their way to work
and don’t have time
for flowers
or they
are
weighed
down by
too many
cares — so they don’t
care or remember
to care, to see.
this world is
so so
rich
rich,
I say,
in beauty
golden yellow
living miracles
that came from seeds
and grew taller
than even
you or
me
I
Don’t sing.
My cat of
many years, Olaf,
Is always glad
To sing, to meow and yowl and
act like he is big
The W3 prompt for the week is to write a poem based on the piece of artwork show above, and, if possible, make it a Golden Shovel poem.
In a “Golden Shovel” poem, the last words in each line are, in order, words from a line of another poem. I chose an e.e. cummings poem. And struggled. Or should I say, i struggled
be-
causeif
ever
there was a poet
whos(tyl)e
set him
a- – – -part
it
was
eecummings
I wrote about an entirely fictional cat. I’m not really happy with it –the poem, that is. About as happy as I would be if I had a cat that yowled all the time. But I wanted to participate. [sigh]
The poetry form is called a Cadence. The rules are that it be written in 7 lines, that the lines follow this syllabic pattern 1-2-3-4-4-8-5, and that the end words be strong (no articles or prepositions). Well, two out of three ain’t bad, right?
Door half-open
Door half-closed
Shadow – light
All transposed
Cup half-full
Cup half-empty
Is it lacking?
Is there plenty?
It’s too hot
It’s just right
It’s too cold
What a plight!
Close one door
New one opens
Toying with
My emotions
Happy, sad
Frightened, brave
Peaceful, mad
Giddy, grave
Rarely I
Am only one
I’m a mix
Shadow-sun
This is my response to Sadje’s “What Do You See?” photo (above)
I spend way too much time with my counselor talking about emotions. At one point, she gave me a list of emotion words to help me identify what I’m feeling. It’s not that I don’t have feelings — it’s that I have trouble naming them. Well, I take that back — when I was going through a particularly challenging time, I shut down my feelings, and, as they have come back, they’ve sometimes re-emerge in a tangle.
The bagpipes loved the little girl
O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklirl
He hoped that he could catch her eye
As she went traipsing merrily by
She barely slowed, and so he sighed,
O skirly, whirly, sklirl
’twas lonely waiting to be seen
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleen
The blue-eyed girl was now long gone
Off in the distance he could hear the song
Of bagpipes playing nrrrnn nrrrnn nhawn
O skirly, whirly, skleen
But who should now come into view?
O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklooo
The little girl tugging her mother’s hand,
“Mama, I want to be in the band!
To play these pipes would be so grand!”
O skirly, whirly, skloo0
She picked him up, nestling him dear
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleeer
“Please, can I take this home with me?”
Mom started to say, “Let’s wait. We’ll see.”
But didn’t. She heard the lassie’s plea.
O skirly, whirly, skleeer
And now the rest is history
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleee
Each is the other’s sole desire
Scotland the Brave, Mull of Kintyre
Making music all day — a girl-bagpipe choir
O skirly, whirly, skleee
This is in response to the W3 prompt this week: Write a nonsense poem with at least one invented word of your own.
Tigers don’t like groups, you know
Company isn’t something they seek
It may seem strange, but it’s not unique
Most animals draw strength from their pack or crew
Being alone is strength that only a few
Understand. For loneliness does not ensue
When aloneness is simply a part of you
Groups of tigers are called Streaks
Or Ambushes. Silly names — and weak
Tigers don’t like groups, you know
This is in response to the Tanka Tuesday prompt to: Select an animal collective noun and write your syllabic poem using the collective noun.
The poetry form that I used is the Symetrelle.
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
Doors open
Gentle rill
Steady Stream
Come — they will
Some yawning
Some to swim
Some to lift
In the gym
They come here
Start their day
In the most
Healthy way
Surge has passed
Quiet, still —
Then more come —
Gentle rill
Tanka Tuesday prompt: use synonyms of Flow and Wave
This describes my mornings at the front desk at the gym.
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 —
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:
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.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 