Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ The Flower: Rose



   “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet” — William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 2.2.


SOURCE



“Can anyone remember love? It’s like trying to summon up the smell of roses in a cellar. You might see a rose, but never the perfume.”— Arthur Miller



Midweek Motif ~ The Flower Rose



Say it with Roses today.
          
Write whatever it means to you. You might even focus on its thorns if you so wish.

Such a gentle, beautiful and aristocratic flower has deep rooted ties not only with love but also with religion and politics.

In April, 2011, NASA celebrated its 21st anniversary by releasing an image of spiral galaxies positioned in a rose-like shape.


SOURCE


Now a few Rose poems for you:


Song of the Rose
by Sappho

IF Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth, 
He would call to the rose, and would royally crown it; 
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth, 
Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it! 
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers, 
Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair, 
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers 
On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware. 
Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup 
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest! 
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet leaves for the world 
Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up, 
As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west. 
                    

My Pretty Rose Tree
by William Blake

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore; 
But I said 'I've a pretty rose tree,'
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night; 
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight. 
                 


Nobody Knows This Little Rose
by Emily Dickinson 

Nobody knows this little Rose—
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it—
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey—
On its breast to lie—
Only a Bird will wonder—
Only a Breeze will sigh—
Ah Little Rose—how easy
For such as thee to die! 
                  

 Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—
                (Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Bittersweet)     

     

Monday, November 20, 2017

Poems That Sing! by Rosemary, Mary and Truedessa

In the same week, three poets, Rosemary, Mary and Truedessa, posted poems about singing that lifted my heart. I thought they might do the same for yours, so I swiftly gathered them together in a bouquet, just for you. Enjoy!






I Sing

I sing softly and sadly
I sing sadly and softly

I sing in the middle of your delight
and at the edge of your last anguish

I sing as if the day would never end
I sing slowly at midnight and quickly at dawn

I sing to the wind and the stars and the dark
I sing to the treetops and to their trunks

I sing to small frogs in the rainwater pipe
also to the bees that visit my clover

I sing in the cities, among their towers
I sing in rainforests and alongside rivers

I sing with the sea and with thunder
with jagged rocks and rising mountains

I sing in the language of a cat
and in the colours of a butterfly

in the pouring rain I sing
in the burning sun I sing

I will never stop singing



Sherry: This is so beautiful. Yes, never stop singing, Rosemary. We are always listening for your song.

Rosemary: I became aware of something that felt like a little tickle in the back of my mind, about my poetry. I felt that perhaps I needed to try a new form – maybe a short form. Hedgewitch started a 'Friday 55' prompt at her blog. It began in September, but I had such a busy September that I was rarely online and didn't find out about it until the end of the month. It sounded like just what I was after, so I dashed off four (for the four Fridays I'd missed).


But then I pretty soon realised that I wasn't very thrilled with them. They struck me as banal and boring. I assessed myself as having fallen, over time, into a mode of cosy domestic realism which had become my default position. Not where I wanted to remain! For sure it has its place, but please, not for the rest of my writing life. What is it to be any kind of artist, if we don't keep exploring new possibilities?

I decided to just open up my mind and see what poured forth from the subconscious. It was a little like channelling. Several intensely emotional pieces flowed on to the page. They’re not autobiographical – except that at my age I've experienced a range of human emotions, so I guess they're all still in there somewhere. 

'I Sing' was the third of these pieces, which all happened in quick succession. This one goes beyond describing an emotional state, to something more spiritual. 

I have no idea where it came from. Some deep place inside me? A gift from the angels of poetry? I didn't know, ahead of writing them, what words I was going to use nor the shape they would take on the page. 
I am no singer in the literal sense. I have a poor ear for music, and am told I don't sing in tune (something my listeners can hear but I can’t). But it's clear to me, and I hope to readers, that it isn't about singing with the voice.

I thought my friend Raeline's response (serendipitously, the first comment made) expressed a perfect understanding. 'In the key of the heart and melody of the soul,' she said. It felt like that.

Sherry: And the reader feels it, as we read, Rosemary. It is so beautiful. It is a breathtaking piece of writing, and such an affirmation of life, of living every moment we are here. Thank you so much.

Let's read Mary's poem on this theme. I love it so much.






I Sing

I sing in the morning
and all the day long

I sing softly or loudly
I cannot stop my singing

I sing of my sadness
and of my delight

I sing of the memories
to brighten my day

I sing of the sadness
I cannot forget

I sing of my hopes
may they not be dashed

I sing of trees
and colorful autumn leaves

I sing of water
and the essence of life

I sing to my dogs
they always understand

I will sing to you too
when you need a song




Sherry: I love this, Mary. It lifts the heart. As I read both of these poems, I think what a nice prompt "I Sing" might be, one of these weeks. We all need a song to sing these days!

Mary: First of all, I wrote my poem “I Sing” after having read Rosemary’s poem with the same title.

I then decided to write my own ‘singing’ poem! After deciding to do this, I no longer looked back at Rosemary’s.  I just wrote what my ‘muse’ inspired me to write as I thought about the occasions that might inspire me to sing, and the feelings I might have as I sang. 

I was especially pleased with the last stanza I came up with, the way I wrote it TO the reader:

"I will sing to you too
when you need a song”

I intended it to be a personal and uplifting ending. And the more I thought about it the more I also realized that our poetry IS personal.  We are all ‘singing songs’ to one another in our poetry, aren’t we?  We all hope that somehow our poems affect others in a personal way. 

Perhaps sometimes we are even fortunate enough to write the poem (song) that someone really needs that particular day.

Sherry: And that is the very best feeling of all. Thank you for this, Mary. And for your years of dedication and hard work, keeping Poets United chugging serenely along.

Soon after Rosemary's and Mary's song poems, Truedessa posted one, and this feature formed in my mind's eye. Smiles. Let's read.





My photo



searching for you in the depth of night
crossing realms into our parallel world
lying in your arms, everything felt right
in stillness, romantic thoughts swirled

I'll give you this song it's all I've got
I'll give you my heart and that's a lot

surrendering my love, traveling fast
sharing my soul, sometimes I cried
wondering if the magic would last
in the dead of night, part of me died

if this is a dream, forget me not
if this is a dream, wake me not
if this is a dream we've shared a lot
if this is a dream, we've loved a lot

I've watched your life twist and bend
an evolving star in this earthly show
when lights dimmed, I was your friend
always on the sideline, never front row

I'll give you this song it's all I've got
I'll give you my heart and that's a lot

caught in mists of suspended reality
afraid to open my eyes, fear of losing you
breaking the boundaries of normality
tell me our wondrous journey was true

if this is a dream, forget me not
if this is a dream, wake me not
if this is a dream we've shared a lot
if this is a dream, we've loved a lot

searching for you in the depth of night
crossing realms into our parallel world
lying in your arms, everything felt right
in stillness, romantic thoughts swirled

I'll give you this song it's all I've got
I'll give you my heart and that's a lot

surrendering my love, waves of delight

waiting for you in our secret place
on wide wings my heart takes flight
soft fingertips, outline your face

if this is a dream, forget me not
if this is a dream, wake me not
if this is a dream we've shared a lot
if this is a dream, we've loved a lot

I'll give you this song it's all I've got
I'll give you my heart and that's a lot

twas, just a dream it seems



Sherry: How I love "I'll give you this song, it's all I've got / I'll give you my heart, and that's a lot". This poem would make the most beautiful song, True. I can almost hear it.


Truedessa: Thank you so much for featuring my poem. This particular piece is about a journey that intertwines two souls in a deeper level of consciousness. It represents a connection that seems to have crossed some kind of parallel world, and the writer and reader wonder if it is reality or fantasy. "I'll Give You This Song" is a gift of unconditional love in bittersweet circumstances.

Sherry: Unconditional love is the truest love there is. I love the idea of two souls meeting at a deeper level of consciousness. Those connections are always life-changing.


Thank you so much, ladies, for these wonderful, uplifting poems.  They truly sing. You have heartened us for the week ahead. Do come back, friends, and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Poetry Pantry #379



Source

We have had another active week at Poets United.  I do hope you have enjoyed Susan's Midweek motif -- "Meteor Showers."  I hope  read Sherry's "I Wish I'd Written This:  Lee Maracle - Speaking Truth to Power" about one of the foremost writers of Canada. 

Monday Sherry will be sharing a blog update, featuring a prolific Poets United poet.  And next week Sumana's Midweek Motif is "The Flower - Rose."

This week many of us in the US are celebrating our Thanksgiving holiday on Thursday.  If you are one who celebrates, I wish you a happy day.

Now, with no further delay let's share poetry.  Link your one poem below.  Say hello in the comments.  And do visit other poets who share their poetry as well.   See you on the trail.

Friday, November 17, 2017

I Wish I'd Written This: Lee Maracle, Speaking Truth to Power




This powerful poem is read by Lee Maracle, one of the foremost poets and writers in Canada. Ms. Maracle  is from Vancouver, B.C., a member of the Sto:lo Nation, of Salish and Cree ancestry. She is a granddaughter of the renowned Chief Dan George, of North Vancouver. She was one of the first aboriginal writers to be published  in Canada in the early 1970's. Ms. Maracle now lives and teaches in Toronto.

I could not have written this, as I am not a member of First Nations. But I empathize with how this beautiful nation of people - the first who lived on this land for thousands of years - was displaced, marginalized and oppressed by those who arrived here much later. And I so admire Ms. Maracle's strong voice, speaking truth to power.




Her above poem, "Aboriginal Apology", is a triumphant response to the Canadian government's lame attempts to address reconciliation these last few years. So far apologies have been inadequate. Perhaps because reparation would go further than words in addressing the injustices done to an entire people since colonial times.

In articles I have read about her, one of her quotes stood out for me:

"Where do you begin telling someone
their world is not the only one?"

Exactly.

Ms. Maracle has written many books: novels, works of nonfiction,  and poetry. She has edited several anthologies.  She is also an educator, social activist, performance artist, storyteller, playwright, songwriter and Artistic Director of the largest aborginal theatre in Canada, in Toronto.




Ms. Maracle has given hundreds of speeches on political, historical, and feminist sociological topics  related to native people. She has conducted dozens of workshops on personal and cultural reclamation, serving as a consultant on First Nations’ self-government. She has an extensive history in community development.

Lee Maracle is one of the most prolific aboriginal authors in Canada. Her life and her voice are inspiring to all generations. I thought I would introduce her to you, so those outside of Canada can hear her voice, speaking truth to power with such strength.

The long list of her works can be found here

Here is another example of her work.


         LANGUAGE


Do you speak your language?
I stare—I just said: how are you?
I thought English was my language
apparently it isn’t
I thought Halkomelem was gibberish
the devil’s language
that’s what the nuns said
apparently not
Some white guy sets me straight:
Aboriginal people are losing languages
Funny, I thought I had it just a moment ago
maybe it’s in Gramma’s old shoebox
maybe it’s sandwiched between papers
in plastic bags hidden under mom’s bed
Hey, has anyone seen my language?
              Will my words dangle from empty raped mountains?
               laid waste on dead seas
              Or will they sing sweet from the skirt of winds
               remembered songs of hope not realized?

              I weave this imagined dream world onto old
              Suquamish blankets,
              history-hole-punched and worn—
              to re-craft today,
              to re-member future in this new language.
             And I sing I am home again.

              Lee Maracle, from Talking To the Diaspora, 2015



I do hope you enjoyed meeting this amazing and powerful woman.  



Material shared in 'I Wish I'd Written This' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings remain the property of the copyright owners, usually their authors.


Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Meteor Showers

Fireball from the 1998 Leonid meteor shower on Nov. 17,
Photo by astrophotographer Lorenzo Lovato, 1998. (SPACE.com)


"The night is falling down around us. Meteors rain like fireworks, quick rips in the seam of the dark.... Every second, another streak of silver glows: parentheses, exclamation points, commas—a whole grammar made of light, 
for words too hard to speak.” 
― Jodi PicoultMy Sister's Keeper

I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me                     

in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.” 
― Jack London

“Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.” 
-- Virginia Woolf



The November Meteors by Étienne Léopold Trouvelot, 1868


Midweek Motif ~ Meteor Showers


According to Wikipedia: 
meteor shower is a celestial event in which a number of meteors are observed to radiate, or originate, from one point in the night sky.  . . .   The first great storm in the modern era was the Leonids of November 1833. One estimate is over one hundred thousand meteors an hour,[3] but another, done as the storm abated, estimated in excess of two hundred thousand meteors during the 9 hours of storm[4] over the entire region of North America east of the Rocky Mountains.  
Imagine that!
or have you actually seen them?  

(In November, because the single point of origin is 
in the constellation Leo, they are called the Leonids.)  


Your Challenge:  Employ a meteor shower or a meteor in your new poem, whether historical, fantastical or metaphorical.  



Here are all the details you need for 

2017’s Leonid meteor shower, 
November 17 and 18.

The Meteorite


Among the hills a meteorite
Lies huge; and moss has overgrown,
And wind and rain with touches light
Made soft, the contours of the stone.


Thus easily can Earth digest
A cinder of sidereal fire,
And make her translunary guest
The native of an English shire.


Nor is it strange these wanderers
Find in her lap their fitting place,
For every particle that's hers
Came at the first from outer space.


All that is Earth has once been sky;
Down from the sun of old she came,
Or from some star that travelled by
Too close to his entangling flame.


Hence, if belated drops yet fall
From heaven, on these her plastic power
Still works as once it worked on all
The glad rush of the golden shower.

🌠

In the middle of rolling grasslands, away from lights,
a moonless night untethers its wild polka-dots,
the formations we can name competing for attention
in a twinkling and crowded sky-bowl.

Out from the corners, our eyes detect a maverick meteor,
a transient streak, and lying back toward midnight
on the heft of car hood, all conversation blunted,
we are at once unnerved and somehow restored.
. . . . 
(Read the rest HERE.)

Image result for Meteor Showers Nasa
2003: The Leonid meteor shower

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night; 
What immortal hand or eye, 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies. 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand, dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, & what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain, 
In what furnace was thy brain? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp, 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 

When the stars threw down their spears 
And water'd heaven with their tears: 
Did he smile his work to see? 
Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 
In the forests of the night: 
What immortal hand or eye, 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
🌠

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community.

(Next week Sumana’s Midweek Motif will be ~ The Flower: Rose)


Monday, November 13, 2017

POEMS OF THE WEEK by MAMA ZEN, ROMMY DRIKS AND JAE ROSE

We have a treat for you today, my friends, a poem each by Kelli Simpson, well-known as Mama Zen, who blogs at  another damn poetry blog(which is anything but! Smiles), Rommy Driks, of  Kestril's Rhythms and Groove, and Jae Rose, who writes at her blog  of the same name. Each poem took my breath  away, and I thought the combined effect of all three together would certainly brighten your day. Enjoy!






Old Mother Wichita wets with twilight.
Blackjacks bruise purple but for the green

lichen half-rubbed away hip-high
to an old bison's itch.

A rich robe of Indian Blanket sways and drapes
the hill to hollow hovered

by a red-tailed hawk circling
in the blue becoming gold becoming thick

with cicadas, fireflies,
and mockingbird song.

Summer light dies slow,
lingers lazy and long.

Then she sighs herself into a star
for night to wish upon.



Sherry: I am sighing myself, at your beautiful closing lines. Your imagery is so vivid, Kelli. This is beautiful.

Kelli: "Mother Wichita" is about the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge near where I grew up in southwestern Oklahoma.  The Wichitas are one of the oldest mountain ranges on Earth; the Wichita tribe believed that their first ancestors sprang from the rocky points of the range.  

Today, the refuge is home to a large herd of bison and acres and acres of untouched mixed grass prairie.  To say that it is beautiful, inspiring, and humbling, is to say the very least.



Sherry: It is such a beautiful landscape. I can see how it inspires your muse. Thanks, Kelli, for this wonderful share.







In Samantha's Shoes

Dinner’s in the fridge.
Don’t forget Tabitha’s bedtime story.
Make sure Darren Jr does his homework.

I’ve laced up my take-no-prisoners,
Valkyrie-on-a-broomstick, hell-yes
you’ll-hear-me-roar boots.

You smiled at me,
while I decided between
belladonna or datura -
made me want to reach
for damania instead.

I love these boots.
But I also love the slippers
we’ve made of our love -

the warm, mmm-so-cozy,
love-rare-lazy-afternoons-with-you,
strong-enough-to-go-through-the-wash,
still-sturdy-after-so-many-years slippers.

But tonight, there are great, odiferous, pestilent
hydras to contain and a coven waiting for me to rise.
“The hydra doesn’t stand a chance,” you say
before we kiss and I fly.


Sherry: I love this! Especially, "the hydra doesn't stand a chance". 

Rommy: In Samantha's Shoes came about as a response to a prompt given over at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads, Poetry Through the Eyes of Carol Ann Duffy. The prompt asked us to pay homage to Duffy's style by creating a love poem using a common every day image. 

I don't know what specifically called to me about creating a poem around beloved TV witch Samantha from the show Bewitched. Perhaps it was a perverse need to add an element of the fantastical anyway to the main conceit (the idea of a mature love being as comfortable as a cozy pair of slippers). Perhaps it's just that I love playing with a bit of pop culture from time to time in my poems. I've written about Molly Grue (from The Last Unicorn) and Phaedra no Delaunay (from Kushiel's Dart). Either way, I really was charmed by the way it turned out.

Sherry: And we are charmed as well. Thanks for this, Rommy.







Autumn

Autumn licks at the corner of our existence 
We are all at once ready and able 
Time ticks on 
Hatter sings and Joker dances 
The peppermint clouds and cinnamon dust waft through the window
Another day
Another day 
Crisp leaves and gentle breezes 
We gather them up like treasures 
Keep them in our pocket
Wait for another year
Another year
I am sure that the breeze will come and wash away the darkness
Autumn comes
Winter stays 
Summer lingers in the background 
We will wait and gather stones 
Open the window and let the light prevail.


Sherry: I love the hope in this poem, opening the window to let the light prevail. Beautiful, my friend.

Jae Rose: This poem came to be solely from the prompt at Midweek Motif: Autumn. I tried to make it more upbeat than my usual scribbles.

Sherry: And you succeeded, my friend.  Thank you for the share, and for lifting our hearts.

Thank you, Kelli, Rommy and Jae Rose, for the wonderful poems, which we very much enjoyed. And for your faithful participation at Poets United through the years. We so appreciate you.

Do come back, my friends, to see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!