Poetics of the Road

     Image: Northern Ireland by Mary Bach

Step out my dear and don’t look back

adventures gather ’round the bend,

and they’ll make up for what we lack.

Step out my dear and don’t look back

with sturdy shoes and rain-proof pack,

a map, a compass and a friend.

Step out my dear and don’t look back

adventures gather ‘round the bend.

 Over at dVerse Poets' Pub we have been asked to write "poetics; of the road" in eight lines.  I've chosen the eight line form called Triolet, which is defined as a stanza poem of eight lines where the rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB, and often in iambic tetrameter: the first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines.

Inspiration, Post Haste

Dear St. Cecilia,

I could really use some help here.

My muse took off

with a two-bit musician and a bottle of hooch,

and here I am just a week and a day

into Poem-a-Day month.

I’m desperate!

Could you sprinkle a little

magic dust from an old thesaurus,

whisper sweet nothings

(or bitter, sarcastic anythings)

in my ear?

Please, do something!

Desperately and Uninspiredly Yours,

-Other Mary

P.S. If I don’t hear back from you soon my next letter will be to Bacchus. 


Abhra over at dVerse Poets Pub has asked us to write a letter.  Oh, and in case you're wondering, St. Cecilia is the patron saint of poets, writers, muscians and artists in general.  And I'll bet you know Bacchus is the Roman god of wine.

Phases of the Moon

Under the full moon

come join the party.

Dancing, singing, glittering

laugh and toast the company

But as the moon wanes

shed the mask,

leave the fete,

run

into new-moon dark

This is for Victoria's prompt at dVerse to use an active voice with more verbs and fewer flowery descriptions.  As she suggested, I went back to a piece I wrote earlier (2010) and pared it down.  A lot.  I will post it below, but honestly it's a bit embarrassing, so feel free to skip it (please!).

So here's that old version:

I  have been out with the full moon,
Out among the revelers:
We dance and sing-
Cavorting beasties
On a microscope slide,
Bright and shining;

The sounds of clinking glasses,
And Laughter –
Silly, flirtatious and hearty-
Fill my head with ‘other’
It is great fun.

But now, as the moon wanes
And empties itself of light,
I too, shed the lights of society.
Donned to impress, attract,
The glittering mask,
Of my social self,
Is left at the door
To the party.

I run into new-moon dark,
No longer held by the
Bright silver circle of society
But free to explore the vast heavens,
I delve deep
Into the spaces between
The stars

The moon does not diminish,
When no longer circumscribed
By sun’s reflected light.
Matter mingles with spirit,
Flows out
Into the night-
And so do I.

Walking Back

     Photo by Mary Bach

Snow steps carry me home,

not just the mile or two back to my house,

but all the way home

back to where Grandma waited

with warm hugs and hot chocolate,

back to the little, stone house

on the edge of town

surrounded by fields of corn,

back to my climbing tree

that reached across

the path toward the hen house,

back to my childhood.

This is for dVerse where Marina Sofia asked us to write about some aspect of the snowy weather.

A Path Appears

    Photo by Mary Bach

A path appears

beneath your feet so move along
my darling dears.

A path appears,

though you've been stuck for many years

and wonder if it’s right or wrong.
my darling dears

your time has come, move from the throng –

a path appears.

Over at dVerse we were asked to try breaking bad, sort of.  Actually, Brian asked us to try taking form poetry and "breaking" or changing it in some way to make it uniquely our own.  For this I've chosen the form called Rondelet.  This consists of seven lines.  Lines 1, 3 and 7 are a refrain, in the traditional French form this consists of four syllables, in English it's usually two iambs.  The remaining four lines all consist of eight syllables, or four iambs. Line four rhymes with the refrain while the other lines all rhyme with one another. This gives us a rhyme scheme of:  AbAabbA.  I have broken it by adding two more lines of two iambs that rhyme with the refrain.  This changes the form to something like this: A1,b,A2,A1,a,b,A2,b,A1

tenWord Winter

    Photo by Mary Bach

Tracking my grief

through winter woods

this all looks familiar

       ~ ~ ~

Time stops

in the winter temple

drifting at the door

       ~ ~ ~

We shiver

in the winter room

while dreaming of green

       ~ ~ ~

As dusk curls

around my shoulders

stars beckon me, "Come!"

These are ten word poems about winter, sort of.  The tenWord from is in response to Victoria's dVerse prompt.  The form itself is from another member, Brian, who (rightly) stated,     "...after ten words no one is listening anyway." The subject of winter is from Fireblossom at Real Garden with Imaginary Toads.  I'm not sure if I quite captured the human emotion she asked for but, oh well!

Black Holes

What are our chances?

We could look

for the primordial lifetime.

Although far away,

we observe such intensity,

frequency,

as if

there were

positive evidence.

Tell us

there can be more.

Make one source,

draw toward common times-

even if…

   Image by Mary Bach

Over at dVerse Bjorn asked us to try Blackout Poetry.  The idea is to find poetry in others’ words.  Simply select a book-page, print it and black out everything you don’t want. Copy down the text (keeping it in order). Add line-breaks and or punctuation marks as you want.  In keeping with the title I chose for my source A Brief History of Time (page 113) by Steven Hawking.  Here he talks about, among other things, black holes!  

November Thanks

     Words and image by Mary Bach

There is a clear, cold light

this November morning,

and last night’s powdering of snow

transforms the ridge.

The trees weave an intricate

design of branches 

studded here and there

with chickadees, jays, cardinals.

Walking through the garden

I am warmed by

your hand

in mine.

Over at dVerse Poets' Pub Brian asked us to write about something we are thankful for.  

Election Angle

What convenient conviction

will you wear today?

Which way will you tell

the facts?

Which way will you sell

your acts?

What convenient conviction

will you swear today?

Mary, over at dVerse Poets' Pub asked us to write about some aspect of news.  It seems that all I'm hearing is campaign rhetoric.  Click on the link and see what news everyone else is sharing.

Wondering

Where are you going and

what will you do on a

windy Wednesday evening,

without your slippers or

wand or beans?  Can you still

whisper the stars to sing?

Will you order the waves?

Over at dVerse Poets' Pub Vandana Sharma has introduced us to a for called Pleiades.  It is a seven line poem with each line beginning with the same letter as the title and having six syllables in each line. The title must be of one word only.  Follow the link for more.

HiStory

“Johnny was smart, you know,”

Grandma said

a thousand times

as she looked into me

with her worn, knowing blue eyes.

“I know Grandma,” I always answered,

but I couldn’t really remember him anymore.

I was only three-and-a-half

when he died.

He wasn’t yet two.

Enough for a memory,

but not enough.

I remember bright, orange hair,

blue eyes, big smile with drool,

and, “Oof black!”

his declaration

as he pounded his thumbs

on the high chair tray.

I remember

watching him while Mommy

hangs wash on the line,

and running to her calling,

“Mommy, Mommy,

Johnny’s turning blue again!”

Then Mommy drops the clean, wet clothes

on the grass and runs to call the hospital.

We rush to the car, and drive fast.

They have the oxygen tent ready

when we get there.

We run past the ladies with the forms.

It is a small hospital.

They know us.

I don’t think this memory is mine,

but the memory I created

to go with the story

told to me so often.

I remember

sitting and drawing

while Mommy goes with Johnny

as they try to fill his blood

with oxygen.

After the first time

I don’t cry anymore

when she leaves me alone.

This must be my memory, because

no one else is there to tell it to me.

And I remember

going to school,

when kids ask if I have

any brothers or sisters,

or if I am an only child.

And I remember

never knowing how to answer.

Over at dVerse Grace asked us to share a part of our family history.  I ended up writing about my brother, Johnny, who was born with Down Syndrome, and died 22 months later from several congenital heart defects that often accompany it.  I thought my mom said he had three separate ones, but I can only remember Atrioventricular Septal Defect (AVSD) and Tetralogy of Fallot.  Both my parents have died, so I really have no one left to ask.

Questions of Identity

1. Who are you and whom do you love?  That's what MarinaSofia asked us at dVerse.  

I love my family and friends, of course,

and I love things unseen, spirits and souls, Creator

I love trees and flowers, oceans,

skies, rocks and autumn,

new snow – but not in March,

fresh spring mornings

sunsets and sunrises all year long.

I love horses, dogs, cats,

and my particular dogs and cats,

Otis, Rusty, Emma, Maggie, Chevy, Lars, Dante, Frank

and all the others.

(Yes, I know I didn't list the people.  Don't read too much into that)

I love elephants,

just about all mammals,

lovely snakes and reptiles,

and flying and travel,

drawing and painting,

music – but not all music,

the smell of fresh bread, cinnamon, lilacs,

solid things,

and also liquid

and ethereal things.

I love the smell of new, clean babies.

I love stars

and I love the blue-black night

that surrounds them,

and I love the moon especially.

And I love tiny frogs and fireflies,

and laying on a big, flat rock after dark

on a cool summer night

and feeling the warmth radiating from it,

warming me though.

I love the smell of wood smoke,

the feel of flannel against my skin,

 and cashmere and silk for that matter.

I love the way little children draw,

before they have been taught

that drawing is hard.

And I love riding very fast

on a strong, dark horse,

the feel of the reins in my hands,

saddle leather against my legs,

 and the motion beneath me.

And I love baths,

very warm steamy baths.

I love Sunday mornings

in bed with strong coffee

and the crossword,

newspaper pages scattered

across the bed,

sun streaming in.

I love the blues and greens of the ocean,

and color…vivid, soft, psychedelic, muted,

and black and white,

and form and line and shadows…

I love shadows.

And I love very cold beer,

and dry red wine

and silver earrings

and “I am not really a waitress” nail polish,

and men,

I do love men.

And women,

and men in kilts,

and men in bowties,

because bowties are cool.

I love umbrellas – red umbrellas,

and rain and thunder and lightning…

I love starting.

I love books and reading and writing

and words.  I am in love with words.

And trains… I love trains,

and toast, and dragons and…

Well, I've sort of gone off the rails here, haven't I? I can’t seem to get past who and what I love in the questions of identity.  There is just so very much cool and lovable stuff in this amazing universe!  And I love that you've read this, even though it's not exactly a poem but more of a list.  

Reflected in the Water

     From lifewithelise.blogspot.com

I have always loved water;

grew up on the border

where land and river meet.

I delighted  

in water sounds,

in its feel, cool and smooth,

in things living

in the shallows and depths,

and the off-chance

of spotting a water sprite.

I’m not a strong swimmer

 anymore,

living inland

and growing old.

But I still love the river

and I am not afraid of drowning,

so why do I just keep treading water?

 This is for dVerse where we were asked for some kind of self-portrait.  Check it out, the examples given really helped shaped what I came up with.  Also for PAD and NaPoWriMo Day 18.

Note Worthy

I am selling my past

on ebay

to the highest bidder.

My son insists on calling it

de-cluttering.

He reminds me:

they’re only things.

Packed neatly in yesterday’s box

I find an old Hummel,

“für Mutter” for mother

along with a card

from my dad,

his penmanship was still perfect

when he wrote:

To Mary, for your first

Mother’s Day.

Love, Dad xoxo

I hand over the statue

and put the note in my desk.

This is for IGRT, where Shay has asked us to write, "a poem that includes a letter, or stamps, or a mailbox, or a mail person."  It's also posted at dVerse, where Claudia asks us to write about emotion without mentioning the emotion directly.   And finally, this is my #4 poem for PAD.  Click on the links and check them out! 

Un-civilized

     Inspire Wings by Ella of Ella's Edge

There is a place

no steel-tongue, stone-eyed

traps are set

no barbed-wire boundaries strung

nor poisoned pans

laid out

there is a place,

a compass-cornered alcove,

where grey wind goes

as it rushes past

there is a place

in star-crooned skies

the moon resides

with all her lovely faces 

there is a place

the waters gather

to listen to the sirens sing

in deep-chambered blues

there is a place

behind dream-kissed eyes,

each night,

I slip the leash

This is for the Sunday mini-challenge over in the garden at IGRT.  Click on the link and check it out.  We were instructed to write about our inner wild woman, and I didn't really do that.  Instead I ended up writing about these lovely, wild havens.   Oh well.... And, I should add I've also tried my hand at kenning (creating a new word by combining existing words...sort of), which Bjorn Rudberg explains so well at dVerse.  Once again I am too slow to link up, but you should still check it out anyway.  Besides his interesting and thorough explanation you'll find some brilliant poems. 

Village Life

     Happy Tree by Sunita Khedekar

Underneath the Happy Tree

we build our village:

cozy houses

whose stout roofs never leak,

warm, copper kitchens

that smell of fresh-baked bread,

and bedrooms

with down-filled dreams

folded at the foot

of each and every bed.

We are so snug and smug

sometimes we forget

to look to the sky

and see the souls fly home.

This is for both G-man and his FF55  and Grace at dVerse.  Click on the links and check them out.  Ok, I missed the dVerse deadline to link up, but you should still go there and check out all the beautiful art work and the talented writers' responses.

Manifesto-Shamanifesto

I write to order the storm

I write to save myself

I write to know 

what I think

and what I feel

I write the way NASA sends signals into space

offered up

without expectation

This is for dVerse, where Gay asked us to come up with a writing Manifesto.  I don't know if this is quite a manifesto, but it's why I write, mostly.

Morning Chores

I feel a little unfinished with my posts today, but here goes.  I have two versions of a poem, one for dVerse I in the Looking back/forward I chose the previous 'hearth, home and common speech' prompt.  The other, shorter version is for my very favorite G-man and his FF55.  I think they need a little settling and tweaking, but here's what I have so far:
(I appreciate your feedback and/or suggestions, including which version you prefer.)

#1

I enter the barn.

Smells of hay and horse,

warm and sweet,

fill me.

Barn cats wind around my legs

in timeless figure-eights,

purring their thanks.

Horses whicker

low, intimate, impatient.

Water, grain, hay;

most are gracious,

a few greedy,

as I go down the aisle.

Then I pause and live

for a moment

in this contentment.

#2

Today is bone cold;

wind snatches my breath

as I walk to the barn.

Inside, smells of hay and horse,

warm and sweet,

like summer pressed

between the pages

of a book,

fill me.

Barn cats wind around my legs

in timeless figure-eights,

purring their thanks

for the breakfast

I will provide.

The horses whicker

a low, intimate greeting,

impatient for their breakfast.

Water first,

then the grain, then hay.

Most are gracious,

but a few are greedy,

as I go down the aisle

murmuring good mornings

 and doling out sweet feed,

along with a scratch or a pat.

There are more chores

to be done,

but I pause and think

that I could live forever

in this contentment

that fills this

space.

New York at Night

    New York at Night by Vivian Gucwa

Take my hand

and walk with me

into the night of the world.

Take my hand

and walk with me

into the simmering stars.

Take my hand

and walk with me

into the light of my wound.

Take my hand

and walk with me,

and I will make you whole.

Written for Tess Kincaid at The Mag creative writing group.  Also posted at dVerse Open Link Night.  Click on the links to check them out. 

Skipping Past Time

     Image by Mike Worrall

Next year,

when we were children

we loved

skipping time:

double Dutch forward,

peppers back,

criss-cross applesauce 
back and forth again.

Who could keep track

of when we are?

Not the jumper,

or swingers,

or those in line

waiting their turn.

This is for Grace in the Imaginary Garden.  She asked us to write about one of the many, delightful paintingsof Mike Worrall.  And it's also for Mary's prompt involving childhood toys or games over at dVerse Poets Pub.  Click on each of the links for more responses.