POETIC BLOOMINGS

POETIC BLOOMINGS HAS MOVED TO WORDPRESS!

2011-12-31T08:28:00.002-05:00

If you've wondered why Poetic Bloomings suddenly fell silent, it could be that you have not followed us over to Wordpress. Our membership dropped by approximately half after our move, even though the number of responses to our prompts increased, as well as interaction among our fabulous poets.

Our new addess is http://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/welcome-to-poetic-bloomings/.

Come sign up! See you there!

POETIC BLOOMINGS HAS A NEW HOME!

2011-08-15T08:08:00.002-04:00

We have moved to Wordpress!

Our new addess is http://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/welcome-to-poetic-bloomings/. See you there, poets!

PROMPT #15

2011-08-06T21:18:00.006-04:00

Every ending is a new beginning. This week exemplifies that clearer than most. As summer starts its slow fade to fall we are reminded to recharge and in some instances start fresh.

This week's prompt concerns a new beginning in a way. For the Sunday Seed this week, we are going off page for your instructions.

Your poem however has nothing to do with beginnings, restarts, recharges or such.

The link to your new prompt is below. It will take you to our new Poetic Bloomings home at Wordpress! Click on it when you're ready! Good Luck!

PROMPT #15

BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS - PROMPT #14

2011-08-06T06:04:00.006-04:00

Our search is over, and we have found that there were no words lost in the expression of such things for the Week 14 prompt. We have come to expect excellence here, and we are harvesting that by the bushel. We found these poems to stand a wee bit taller. The Beautiful Blooms are:

Marie Elena's selection:

Amy Barlow Liberatore’s “ Lost in the Weeds” garnered my vote for this week. Amy combined our seed prompt with a dozen words selected from the Sunday Whirl Wordle (http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/). Amy’s non-preachy message and use of allegory appeal to me in this lovely piece. I am particularly drawn to her final statement, “She shakes off the weeds, uproots them, and splinters the yolk of despair.” Outstanding work, Amy!

LOST IN THE WEEDS by Amy Barlow Liberatore

She is lost in the weeds.
She’s good wheat, but what sprouts near her
possess voices that pierce and keen.

No matter how strong her fortress,
an unfamiliar, frightening force
rattles the bars of her gate.

She needs an image to cling to,
wholly holy, distinctly divine.

A steadfast vision beyond this
jangling jungle of fear becomes clear.

She shakes off the weeds, uproots them,
and splinters the yolk of despair.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Walt’s pick:

I “found” this poem to really touch a chord with me. Maybe just recently losing a family member I am a little more sensitive to the final line, but I thought the depiction of the last moment of a life well lived was gentle and respectful and loving. With that, I find myself choosing the poem by Jennifer Jackson. Her work is making great strides of late, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

A LOST AND FOUND POEM by Jennifer Jackson

Her hands unfold
Pages from her book of life
Words whole lines
Sporting spots faded
Every rough patch suspended
On gentleness between

Refuge once for babies
Harbor to friends lost in seas
Overflowing from
Inner storms
Lovers basked in touches
Fed food grasped by
Once-strong fingers

Her hands unfold a
Map of everything
She is or was
Before a syllable is
Uttered
And the pen scribbles
Its last entry
In her book of life

CONGRATULATIONS AMY AND JENIFFER FOR YOUR BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS!

***

The obvious has slipped detection. No one had come up with the challenge for the CD of WOOD. What I was looking for was for someone to write a Found Poem (poetic form). It had to have been identified by our poet as such. The "prize" will have to be dangled another day. But, I loved the effort by all this week.

You'll want to check in for the Sunday Seed as early as you can tomorrow. Marie and I have something special planned which we are very excited about. Join us for our weekly walk in our poetic garden!

WEB WEDNESDAY - NANCY POSEY

2011-08-02T23:41:00.007-04:00

Our last Web Wednesday featured a self-proclaimed poetic “newbie.” This week, we present to you an accomplished veteran of the craft, Nancy Posey.

We asked Nancy to select a poem that she feels best expresses her personal writing style, and explain why she chose that particular poem. She chose “Phone Calls 3 A.M.”

Phone Calls 3 A.M.

Daddy would never even consider

letting us ride on a motorcycle,

let alone own one, because the preacher’s

the first one they call after the trooper

stops by the house with the bad news.

He ruined more good suits climbing

through kudzu into ditches with

Stanley from the funeral parlor.

Our phone would ring at all hours

with news of machinery accidents

on the night shift, a hunter found

dead in his tree stand, deer tracks

all around, the only sign of blood

his own. We were the first to know

about overdoses and car wrecks,

heart attacks and the occasional

knife fight at Sammy’s Cellar.

He’d take the calls on our one phone

hanging on the wall in the kitchen,

stretching the cord into the pantry,

as if we couldn’t hear. No one slept

through 3 a.m. phone calls. We knew,

we always knew. We just didn’t know who.

A lot of my poems come from those little backward glimpses into my childhood. My dad was a preacher in a small Alabama town, and our phone rang at all hours. For a year or more, a young woman we knew only by her first name, called regularly. She was a heroin addict who wanted help and saw the motto “A Concerned Church” in the Yellow Pages and called him. He always kept confidences, but we were aware of so much simply through osmosis. A lot of my poems incorporate humor. This one doesn’t. I do like to use specific details in my poem. Sammy’s Cellar, for instance, was a downtown dive. Later, the location was bought and renovated into corporate offices for a trucking company—my first employer. The local undertaker was also an unsung hero, going to such great lengths for families at the worst times of their lives.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1. So you’re an Alabama Tar Heel, eh? One of your blogs is even named as such (http://alabamatarheel.wordpress.com/). Being an avid (rabid?) fan of THE Ohio State University, I can understand the loyalty and excitement. Yet, besides mixing loyalties, it seems a peculiar name for a poetry blog. Is there a story at the helm?

I’m an Alabama native, and have always been a big fan of the Crimson Tide, but we moved to North Carolina sixteen years ago and have not only assimilated but have learned to love Tar Heels basketball. (The football team is fun too, but fortunately, being in different conferences, my loyalty is almost never challenged.) Ben, my younger son, a UNC-CH grad is such a rabid fan that he blogs before, during, and after every game during basketball season. It can’t help but rub off. I’ll have the grace to make no comments about Auburn, UT, or Duke.

2. When did you begin writing poetry, and do you recall your first poem?

I wrote all the usual high school poetry (which I still have in a notebook), but I started writing a little several years ago. One of my first poems I loved best from that time, “Parlor Weddings,” is in my chapbook. Since my dad was a preacher, we often had little weddings at our house—what seemed like impromptu affairs to me at the time. I actually signed as a witness in the second grade. Only later did I start to wonder why they were in such a hurry.

3. One of your favorite quotes is, “Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.” –W. H. Auden“Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh. (W. H. Auden)” What a great quote! How much does your sense of humor influence your writing life?

My sense of humor affects all aspects of my life. When I first started teaching, I was given that old stale advice for rookies: Don’t smile until Thanksgiving. I quickly learned that isn’t my style. As I started doing poetry readings, I’ve often found myself paired with other poets whose entire body of work seems to focus on childhood abuse, parental death, and such. My poems can be serious, but so many of them are fun too. I don’t always go for the belly laughs, but I like to tease out a smile. My poem “Breast Milk and Frozen Okra,” for instance, is a tender little poem, but I couldn’t avoid what I think is a funny title. In fact, my sister Jeannie gave me the title before I had the poem.

4. Another of your favorite quotes is this: “A. A. Milne said, "Ideas may drift into other minds, but they do not drift my way. I have to go and fetch them. I know no work manual or mental to equal the appalling heart-breaking anguish of fetching an idea from nowhere. Ideas may drift into other minds, but they do not drift my way. I have to go and fetch them. I know no work manual or mental to equal the appalling heart-breaking anguish of fetching an idea from nowhere (A.A. Milne).” I’m afraid many of us wait for the ideas to wash over us, which may or may not ever happen. Do you have any idea-hunting tips to give us?

I honestly believe that I have written so much more—and as a result, I’ve been able to mine some good poems from the body of writing—because I have joined communities such as Poetic Asides and my “Baker’s Dozen” group—many of whom also participate here at Poetic Bloomings. As a teacher, too, I feel I have to be a writer to teach writing with any authenticity. Jane Shlensky and I have presented a session at our state and national conferences that we call “How Can You Teach What You Don’t Do.” We encourage other teachers to find ways to channel their own writing. I’ve always loved to write. I don’t feel comfortable without a pen in my hand (or at least behind my ear). With the positive peer pressure I find here online and with some of my writing friends, I find ways to push it a little further.

I also know writers who don’t read when they are writing. I might as well say I wasn’t going to eat. Reading fuels my writing brain.

5. Walt and I both have great respect for teachers, of which you are one. As an English teacher, what are your views on “poetic license?” Do you feel poetry should be grammatically impeccable, or is Walt still safe?

The analogy I use is NASCAR (I am in North Carolina, after all): I tell them before they learn to drive at 200 mph, they have to learn the rules and how to stay within the law. When it’s time to break the rules or laws, they should be aware of it.

Fragments for effect and e. e. cummings-style capitalization can work well. However, sloppiness and failure to know or care about grammar and mechanics can get in the way of what one is trying to say. I try to be a generous reader, but I’d advise anyone to take the time to learn—or at least to run your work “for show” past someone who can look at that aspect.

(I judged a student poetry contest once in which a student had let spell check take over, leaving in a reference to the “genital winds blowing in [her] face.” Eeewwww!)

6. You told us, “As a teacher, I also feel I'm on a crusade to defend poetry's reputation and to kindle a love and appreciation of poetry, not just with my students but with teachers who'd rather skip that unit...” Hmmm … “skip that unit” … Do you believe this to be a growing and intentional omission?

Face it, with all the pressure on testing, it’s easier to focus on anything that can be tested with a multiple choice format. There’s also a tendency to avoid material when we lack confidence. I think, though, it’s fair to approach a text admitting to my students that I am not sure about it. I love to model the discovery process. I make work for myself sometimes by changing up my own syllabus to get a chance to read new poetry.

I assign a poetry paper for which my students are directed to read at least eight poems by a poet “still living or, if dead, still warm.” (I had to add that last little bit in case a poet died in the middle of the unit—it really happens sometimes.) Mostly, I want them to realize that poetry is still happening—lots of good poetry. With current poets, they are also less likely to happen upon pre-written essays, that vile temptation.

7. On the same note, what do you do personally to “defend poetry’s reputation?” Do you have any advice for the rest of us on how we can help “kindle a love and appreciation of poetry?”

First, I try to dispel the myth that only English instructors have the answer key. When I cease being the expert, poetry becomes less intimidating. Then I try to expose my students (and family and friends) to as much poetry as possible. I’m always running across poems that I send to someone I know—my son’s band teacher, a former colleague, the math teacher around the corner. Since most poems in anthologies are short, even reluctant readers can read enough samples to find something that speaks to them.

To that end, I also sometimes use an assignment I took from Carol Jago, past president of the National Council of Teachers of English—the Goldilocks Project. I ask them, after reading LOTS of poems, to choose one that is too easy, one that is too hard, and one that is just right, and to explain why in each case. That leads them to read widely without the threat of a test. It usually works like a charm.

8. Being an avid reader, do you feel poetry is best “read,” and not “heard?”

The answer depends on the poem. Some just beg to be read aloud. Concrete poems, complex poems, those that need to be seen or re-read, play better on the page perhaps, but I believe in the music of poetry. I always go for the subtle sound tricks, although I don’t do a lot of rhymed poetry. I do pay attention to rhythm too. I also pay close attention to my line breaks and the way the poem looks on a page.

9. I was impressed to discover you have presented programs on poetry at some of your local book clubs. What can you share with us on how one goes about this? What were your expectations, and how were they met?

I was first invited by a local lady to a book club that had run continuously since before WWI. The club actually started the local Red Cross chapter. I picked poems with a narrative turn, some that played well out loud. I also avoid that affected poet voice I heard so often. I tend to read with what my former high school students used to call “Story Time with Miss Nancy”—a little dash of drama. I’m actually working on a project of a poetry collection aimed for book clubbers.

10. Many in this group know that you won the Writer’s Digest 2009 November PAD Chapbook Challenge, with Let the Lady Speak. Congratulations again, Nancy! The idea behind Let the Lady Speak is a fascinating one. Please tell us about it, and how you determined which women to give voice to.

I didn’t start with the theme in mind, but I kept coming up with these voices—literary, historical, biblical—as those of women in my own life. I’ve always loved books written from a shifted point of view. I love John Gardner’s Grendel and Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea (from the point of view of Bertha, the mad wife of Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester.) I like to put on my Atticus Finch shoes and imagine what goes through the minds of those figures known universally—Eve, Anne Frank, Hamlet’s mother. I have also been working through boxes and boxes of pictures and letters passed down to me from both sides of my family and my husband’s family, and I like to work their stories into poetry when I know them. Too often, all I have are bits and pieces—not enough for a family history, but just right for a poem.

Some of my most recent ancestors seem to keep speaking until I listen. Since I’m a voracious reader, too, I have an endless supply of personas. Lady Macbeth and Lot’s wife have surfaced since the chapbook was published. I take a lot of liberty with facts, too. I often use first person from other perspectives than my own, but I’ll take my own story and shift it to third person. I never let facts get in the way of a good poem.

I’ve been so amazed that almost everyone who writes or talks to me after reading my chapbook has a different favorite. Just recently, a friend who is a very successful novelist said his favorite was “Thankful,” adding that his son is just leaving for his freshman year of college. I think we read for a sense of recognition (I think that’s a paraphrase—or a direct theft—from YA author Richard Peck.)

In addition to Alabama Tar Heels, Nancy blogs on the many books she devours. You may visit Nancy’s The Discriminating Reader at http://www.discriminatingreader.com/.

Let the Lady Speak is featured on our Poetic Bloomings Bookshelf, and may be purchased through http://www.highlandcreekbooks.com/lettheladyspeak/index.html.

Nancy, it has been such a pleasure! Thank you for giving us a glimpse of the poet behind the poetry.

POETIC FORMS

2011-08-02T22:13:00.004-04:00

I have compiled a file with approximately 300 poetic forms. I am willing to share this file with anyone who requests it though our e-mail poeticbloomings@yahoo.com. Walt.

LOST AND FOUND – Prompt #14

2011-07-31T00:20:00.007-04:00

Throughout our lives things that exist in our realm of influence by which we have been effected, fall into either end of that spectrum. Write a poem on something you've lost. If you've found something, write that poem. It could be something you thought you'd never see again, only to be surprised by its rediscovery. Either way, go to the lost and found to reclaim your poetic wile.

Marie Elena’s effort:

Nothing Lost

As I embrace One who was slain,

and forfeit self, what will I gain?

Eternal life in Christ is mine

not of my self, but His design.

His agony, my boundless gain

corrupted self cannot attain.

In death to self I gain no loss,

my life secured on Calvary’s cross.

~~~

Inspired by Luke 9:24-25. “For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit their very self?”

And by missionary Jim Elliot, who wisely stated, “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.”

Walt’s Re-Discovery:

RECLAMATION PROJECT

1.) Phase One – Losing Myself

Rev up the Delorean, I’m going back. We all have that defining moment, pointed and prescient that had set our course. The forces of nature were strong and one wrong turn could have sent me reeling. I have a feeling it did.

My temerity was the social end of me, for as far as I can see, High School defined that moment in time, where I had let the ball drop.Not regret per se, but sadness now for those would have, should have, and could have moments so fleeting. Those errors of omission were well hidden in my condition from which I’ve been extricated. Celebrated now for my abilities to see things, and write things and expose things about me that without, would not be me. Debilitating was this fear to connect, rejection not something I handled well, or handled at all. So my fall from grace saved me from the disgrace of “embarrassing” myself by letting loose and living my life.

The perpetual lost boy languished in Neverland.

2.) Phase Two – Righting the Ship

Looky, looky, there goes Hooky!

The ribald Captain has been dispatched with a swift kick in his steering mechanism. A discovery, a long time in the making has taken a stand as well as command of my journey; a life’s worth of yearning for solid footing and a direction much easier to navigate than blindly following burned out novas in the cosmos of my mind. For in the stars, paths that crossed each other unnoticed have found a circuitous path to intersect once again.

Older now, more aware of selves and of this moment and what lead each to move to embrace it. In the kindling of a reborn kinship, acquaintances long removed and left unseen, find a connection that closes unsure circles, and opens the world to new adventures. Both stand, with eyes open like the wide-eyes kids we were when we began. A familiarity which neither knew, comes through to ground us as the friends we never realized we were.

The gathering of spirits once left to roam those hallowed halls has stepped back to touch base and begin anew, assuring us of the fact that yes, you can go home again.

***

I'm looking for something and it has me willing to lose a copy of the CD version of WOOD in the process. This prize will go to the first poet to post what it is for which I am looking. Good Luck!

BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS - PROMPT # 13

2011-07-30T01:18:00.006-04:00

The choices for the Beautiful Blooms are in, so without further ado, here are the selections:

Marie Elena’s choice:

My choice for this week is Plays (Well) with Others, by Nancy Posey. This poem is trademark Nancy, penned with her usual class and grace. The goal speaks to my own heart, and may be taken literally and/or figuratively, I believe. The use of music to convey community is insightful, pleasing, and effective. Delightful!

Plays (Well) with Others
By Nancy Posey

No more playing alone for me.
Certainly I’ll still practice,
chasing up and down the scales,
arpeggios, finding chords all up
and down the neck of my mandolin,
but from now on, I’m with the band.
I’d rather play rhythm, chopping
in the back, than play a solo,
finding the melody alone in my room.

A social creature, I long to meld
into the music, that perfect blend
of harmony, tuning my ear to find
the notes, to play along, perhaps
a little improvisation along the way,
picking up the melody now and then.
Listening is no longer enough for me.
I long to return to the time when all
were expected to sing or play
or dance along, one body, many parts.

Walt’s favorite bloom:

In keeping with the theme of “Go For The Gold”, this piece reminds me of life as a marathon race, run over the course of 15 years. Perseverance and determination read through rather clearly with the goal being able to do enough good things to ingrain oneself into the memories of those left behind when our race is run. Well written and expressed takes my honor.

By VivInFrance

Fifteen years ago
my only goal was to survive
first heart attack,
and then survive again.
Smaller goals
first time outside
but just for the ride home
then walking, fifty yards,
a hundred, a kilometre -
it was extremely hard, but I won.

Little by little,
my strength regained,
other goals intervened
and were achieved.
Quilts were planned
cut and stitched, quilted and bound
Each stage a tiny target -
hung on the wall, exhibited,
laid on a bed, or sent to friends.

Eight years ago
my hardest goal -
adventure into academe
on-line study, degree my aim.
The friends I made,
virtual and in the flesh,
new habits formed -
research, draft, edit, refresh -
all were part of my achievement

One year ago
at seventy-two,
my goal was reached -
what now should I do,
what new goalposts put in place?
To stay as fit as possible,
to struggle up the hill.
To write at least one poem every day,
to publish, to be read,
so that when I’m gone,
there will be something left
to show that I was here.

Congratulations to Nancy Coats Posey and VivInFrance, our Beautiful blooms for Week #13.

IN-FORM POET - Etheree

2011-07-27T11:26:00.005-04:00

Today, we delve into a little more familiar form, the Etheree. Created about twenty years ago by an Arkansas poet named Etheree Taylor Armstrong, this titled form, consists of ten lines of unmetered and unrhymed verse, the first line having one syllable, each succeeding line adding a syllable, with the total syllable count being fifty-five.

Marie’s Etheree:

Comprehensively Incomprehensible

Row
Mix-up
Confusion
Disagreement
Misunderstanding
Misinterpretation
Difference of opinion
Speaking a "different language"
Powerless to convey one’s intent
Complete collapse in communication

　Walt’s Etheree:

STRETCHED THIN

Dad.
A man
standing guard.
Despite efforts
to be fair and firm,
sometimes he folds under
the pressure. Bright hazel eyes
flash their semaphore to signal
the next barrage to a Father's heart.
Daughters in tug of war for Dad's favor.

DISCUSSION: There's A Place For Us

2011-07-25T15:21:00.003-04:00

It seems that POETIC BLOOMINGS has found a niche in this poetic world. We've claimed our place.

What is your place? Where do you write? What do you need at hand to perform well? Is there an inspiration nearby to entice your mastery? Is your writing place "portable" or stationary? Tell us about your place.

***

We have been thinking of a slogan or catch phrase for POETIC BLOOMINGS. Through my fascination with the Beatles, and John Lennon in particular, I tend to lean towards his thematic "Power to the People" for my inspiration. I'm liking, "Poem to the People"! What do you think? Do you have any ideas in this vein? Let us know.

PROCESS VS. PAYOFF

2011-07-24T12:28:00.006-04:00

I blame the heat.

Rants and raves abound on other "private" sites about poetry. Read private as "closed group" of poets who have become acquainted on certain sites to develop this craft we
propose. Where claimed as supportive and nurturing, there appears to be a bit less of that out there.

There is a certain process for which we all as poets strive. Developing and instructive, yes, supportive and sharing. We all want that I'm sure. And though finding success through recognition or possible publication is the end game, it should not over-ride the process.

The truth is, we are poetry sites. We are not truly a "garden", or a "street" or bloody brothel, although it's cute to think so simplistically. As our masthead says, "Poetic Bloomings is a blog to nurture the poetic spirit in a supportive and inspired way. All poets are welcome to add their "poetic blooms" ... bring the beauty of the written word to the world, one expressive bouquet at a time." And so we will remain.

We propose poetry. It was mentioned early on in the planning of this site for a POSSIBLE anthology if the support and commitment were there. There are no promises offered here. We are "Unconditional Poetry" in a pleasant setting without any one voice dominating the conversation. Every voice is important. HOWEVER, rancor and vitriol are not AND will not be tolerated here. There is an editorial policy in place here that has never needed to be used and I hope it remains so. As Marie Elena and I have stated, we are here to suport and promote you the poets who have chosen to post to the prompts at Poetic Bloomings or wish to follow their development.

All poets here know that as fact and I'm sure appreciate that. So if you need reminding, click the WELCOME and re-read our introduction. We're all gifted poets. That is our badge of honor. Enjoy the process. The payoff is the exposure to your and other poets finery.

ON A SOMEWHAT PERSONAL NOTE: Marie Elena is the most caring, nurturing and supportive person I've never met. But the friendship that has evolved from our association with poetry is very strong. That's all we've ever needed to say about it. You are all aware of her manner and temperament. So take any criticism of her here or at any other blogs with a BIG grain of salt. One of the finest human beings and poets I've ever had the honor to share not one, but two blogs with. And that loyalty extends to each poet here with the above idea in mind.

That being said, we welcome you to post to the Week #13 prompt for a Goal-oriented poem.

This Wednesday will offer In-Form Poet with a new poetry form highlighted.

Saturday, we present our "Beautiful Blooms" selections for the Goal Poems.

As always, a new "Seed" will be planted every Sunday. Poem to the People!

Walt

GO FOR THE GOLD – Prompt #13

2011-07-23T23:07:00.002-04:00

The recent events surrounding the U.S. Women’s Soccer team has opened us up to a very direct pursuit with much of our lives, including our poetry. The first big story of the tournament was the amazing goal scored to put the team into contention for the cup. The second story was the rise of the Japan Women’s team to defeat the U.S. squad, causing them to fall short of their goal. What goals do you set for yourself? How often do you achieve them? Is it the effort that stands out for you, or is it all about the glory? What’s your story?

The prompt for week #13 is to write a goal-oriented poem. It could be your crowning achievement to date, or the never say die spirit that keeps you in the game. Go for poetic gold.

Marie Elena’s goal poem:

Introspective Perspective

Irrespective,
my prospective objective
and selective directive,
though defective, were effective.

Walt’s Shot at the target:

HITTING THE MARK

Hand steady,
you scope straight and true.
You pull your string taut,
your arrow quivers with the
tension your hand provides.
There is no such thing
as aiming too high.
Glad for the opportunity
to give it your best shot,
whether you hit it or not,
the prize lies in having
a goal in the first place.
Never meant to be a race,
just a leisure walk from birth
until the end of the day.

BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS - PROMPT #12

2011-07-23T21:20:00.006-04:00

Sorry for the late start crew, but had some family matters to clear up today.
Our Saturday excursion into the beautiful words that live within us has brought Marie and me to another wonderful dilemma. The poetry here is outstanding and we can only choose one apiece. So…

Here is Marie’s Beautiful Bloom for this week. This was the hardest week yet to choose.

~~~

So many exceptionally well-done poems this week made it even harder than usual to choose only one. I finally decided I simply MUST choose Iain D. Kemp’s “The Teacher’s Cat.” As he explains, “The Teacher’s Cat is an adjective game I play with students based on the old Scottish parlour game ‘The Minister’s Cat.’” This teaching tool is entirely too fun and contagious. Mr. Kemp offers this well-thought-out, smartly written, clever, rhythmic, story-telling, bittersweet-ending, TOTALLY FUN read. Standing ovation, Iain!

THE TEACHER’S CAT By Iain D. Kemp

The teacher’s cat is an adorable cat,
the teacher’s cat is a beautiful cat,
the teacher’s cat is a Charlie cat.

Charlie sat and looked and looked and looked,
all day every day Charlie looked at the outside world,
where he used to live.
He purred round the teacher’s legs as he worked,
he snuggled and slept on the teacher’s bed as the teacher slept,
he ate and played with his friend when it suited,
but mostly he looked out the window
and deep down inside the teacher knew.

The teacher’s cat is a delightful cat,
the teacher’s cat is an elegant cat,
the teacher’s cat is a furry cat,
the teacher’s cat is a garden cat.

A simple error with a door
and Charlie was house bound no more,
he went back to the garden where he was young,
he called back now and again but never did enter in,
his wild side had won through,
there was nothing for the teacher to do.

The teacher’s cat is a hopeless cat,
the teacher’s cat is an independent cat,
the teacher’s cat is a jumping cat,
the teacher’s cat is a kindly cat,
the teacher’s cat is a lonely cat,
the teacher’s cat is a magnificent cat.

For many long months he lived alone,
fed each day by a friend in need,
a friend indeed
and plans were made for future times,
twice he was brought home,
only to leave again.
The teacher’s cat is a naughty cat,
the teacher’s cat is an outside cat.

Hope rises as a home is found,
charitable friends of the feline form,
will take the homeless wanderer away,
to foreign climes where he will have a door that opens,
a garden to play in, to laze in and a bed to sleep and dream in:
the teacher’s cat is passported cat.

The teacher’s cat is a quiet cat,
the teacher’s cat is a runaway cat,
the teacher’s cat is a sneaky cat,
the teacher’s cat is a travelling cat.

He boards the van, caged again,
not knowing his fate,
not content in his confinement,
not hoping for freedom,
the teacher’s cat is an unhappy cat.

The teacher’s cat is a vagabond cat,
the teacher’s cat is a wild cat,
the teacher’s cat is xenophobic cat,
the teacher’s cat is a yowling cat,
the teacher’s cat is a Zydeco cat – danse-toi!

And so a new life begins on German soil with doors wide open
and the food bowl full
and a warm bed when he wants it and a garden when he doesn’t,
the teacher’s cat is an absent cat,
but absence makes the heart grow fonder
and still he is missed
and still he is thought of,
but his happiness is paramount
and tears are wiped away with a smile, even though
the teacher’s cat is not a teacher’s cat.

Walt’s choice:

I love the heart wrenching love that is exhibited in this poem. It extends from the subject right to the viewer/poet and directly to every reader. Isn’t that the essence of our craft? I enjoy this poet's work immensely and am honored to present Linda Evans Hofke a Beautiful Bloom for her, “Elephant Observation”

ELEPHANT OBSERVATION by Linda Evans Hofke

Giant rolls of thick grey skin
parched by the blazing sun
refuse to budge. She remains there,
sitting next to a smaller one,

her baby, who remains still as stone,
its rounded body, trunk and ears
reduced to a lifeless 250 pound clump.
The sight brings me to tears.

We watched the same scene yesterday,
and the day before--nudging its back,
pacing slowly around it, waiting,
protecting it from risk of attack--

and, yet, we think she knows. She
mourns her loss, as would you or I,
but she must do it all alone. Alone.
I stray from the group, continue to cry.

Congrats to Iain and Linda and all the Poetic Gardeners for your fantastic work!

WEB WEDNESDAYS and BLOGS and such!

2011-07-20T10:32:00.006-04:00

If you haven't already, please read this week's Web Wednesday interview with Paula Wanken posted below. The little forays into our poet's minds have been insightful and encouraging and we appreciate your participation.

Our intent is to interview everyone who wishes to be heard and discovered. The first criteria we look at are your personal blogs. If you have a blog and do not see it highlighted in the "Daisy Chain" please send us an e-mail at poeticbloomings@yahoo.com. However, if you are currently not blogging, we are still interested in your poetic life. Send you contact information to the same address and tell us you would love to be interviewed. We need to be able to find you to honor you.

Also as always, we are about promoting your work. If you have a chapbook, book, short story or compilation you want us to know about and have it added to our "Book Shelf" give us a shout as well.

Our other features at the moment include (but will not be restricted to) In-Form Poet (every other Wednesday alternating with Web Wednesday), Beautiful Blooms highlights two favorite poems which we honor every Saturday. Our Sunday "Seed" is the prompt for the week. Help nurture it and let's see what you "grow".

All are welcome to the Poetic Bloomings garden. For further information check our "Welcome" link.

Walt

WEB WEDNESDAY - PAULA WANKEN

2011-07-19T22:45:00.007-04:00

For this Web Wednesday we have chosen someone who considers herself a neophyte in the poetic world. Her expressive flair and viewpoint is a refreshing journey through her eyes. This is Paula Wanken.

We asked Paula to share a poem she feels best expresses her writing, and tell us why she chose that particular piece. Here is her response.

a loss of knowing

she rides
with cards in the spokes
and colorful strips of plastic fluttering from the handlebars
tangles of long, brown hair flying freely and wildly behind her
for the moment
all is right with the world

she reads
sitting carefree in the pasture
resting comfortably against Dotty, the spotted pig
lost in a world of Ma & Pa on the prairie
for the moment
all is right with the world

she writes
in the corner of the classroom
using her best handwriting to tell the story
even drawing pictures to match
for the moment
all is right with the world

she hides
in silence she protects herself from being known
feelings are pushed aside
passions have died
for too long
all is not right with the world

when did it occur?
this loss of play
this loss of passion
this loss of knowing
when did she forget who God made her to be?

she writes
in the quiet apartment
her cats curled up, sleeping soundly next to her
she listens to the heart of God
while tapping out her words on her computer she remembers
and once again, for the moment,
all is right with the world

2011-01-06
P. Wanken

dedicated, with deep gratitude,
to the One who created me
and the one who has helped me remember

This is one of the first poems I wrote, and I’ve not chosen it because of how it expresses my writing, but who I am. You’ll note in this poem that my early days in life were carefree; full of fun and creativity. And then “life happened.” It has taken a long time to find my way back to knowing who I was created to be: a writer. I am meant to put my words onto paper (or a computer screen).

~~~~~~~

Paula is relatively new to us, and considers herself a newbie to the world of poetry. From this “newbie,” the following flowed, and afforded the title of her blog, “echoes from the silence.”

for years
thoughts have gone unspoken
my voice, unheard
i have longed to put words together
to speak, unhindered
yet
when words escape me
i am left in silence.
by writing
my thoughts find words
and when words escape me
they are found in
echoes from the silence.

These poignantly lovely and inspirational words introduce us to the poet’s blog. Let us introduce you to the poet, herself.

Paula, your “echoes from the silence” seems to have been inspired by something deep inside you. Can you share with us highlights from the road that brought you here?

First of all, Marie and Walt, thank you for this incredible opportunity. I am not joking when I say this: when I was reading your interview with Barbara, I thought to myself, “I’m glad I’m such a newbie—it will be a long time before I ever have to think of how I would answer questions like that!” That you would want to hear from me—so soon in this journey that I am on—is truly an honor.

Yes, “echoes from the silence” was indeed inspired. I wrote it in early January, a couple of weeks after I started blogging.

When I created my blog in mid-December 2010, I was using a different hosting site. However, after exploring a friend’s WordPress site, I decided to move over. When I did, my friend encouraged me to pick a different blog name than what I was originally using. Brainstorming with him, we came up with “when words escape,” which is in my blog address. But WordPress had a second place for a “title” to appear.

I had only been writing for a couple weeks, and still was not sure of my purpose/goal for blogging. I looked back over what I’d written so far and realized I had been silent for a long time. Yet those years of silence were filled with words that had never escaped. Words I had not spoken—nor written. Writing them now—now that they are escaping—makes them feel a bit like echoes…echoes from the silence. That is where the name came from, which then inspired the poem.

As noted above, you consider yourself a newbie to the world of poetry. How long have you been writing, and what “prompted” you *winkwink* to publicly participate in the Poetic Asides April Poem-a-Day Challenge?

“How long have I been writing?” Hmmm…do my annual Christmas letters count!? J

“Newbie,” indeed! Until I started my blog, I had written only one poem in my adult life—which was only two months prior! And because I grew up in a very small farming community in the middle of Iowa, with an English teacher who had already retired (yet stayed working, if you know what I mean), my English/literature/creative writing classes through high school were limited to grammar, vocabulary, spelling, and one research paper! No real study of literature or poetry. No creative writing. The closest I came to a “form” of writing? Diagramming sentences! J (Do they even do that in school anymore?)

All of that emphasis on vocabulary and sentence structure has helped me in my work (I am an administrative assistant), so it wasn’t for naught, as I have had to write numerous business documents over the years. And of course, my Christmas letters! J Colleagues and friends have suggested I “write more.” However, to me, “writing” meant writing stories. A book. I would think, “Me? Write a book?? I have nothing to say!” So I would shrug them off with a chuckle at the thought.

Yet somehow the suggestion would resonate deep within me somewhere. The kind of resonance that lasts a while, taking its time to work out of your system. And just when it was nearly out of my subconscious thought, it would come around again. Yet I remained silent.

With the advent of blogging, my interest was piqued. I had worked for many years in a ministry setting and the missionaries I knew were making great use of blogs to keep their supporters and family and friends updated on their work: a great purpose for a blog. But I didn’t feel I had a “purpose” to write anything. And I still had the thought of “I have nothing to say.”

Then along came my friend and his blog. It was a collection of random thoughts and observations, with a smattering of poetry mixed in for flavor. I was inspired. I thought: “I can do that. I can be random. I don’t have to include poetry, but I can write about observations or things I ponder.”

I was literally surprised by the fact that one of the first times I sat down to write something, it was a poem that showed up on my computer screen. And I liked it! I would look at the poem and re-read it and think: “I did that!”

As poems came more frequently (and were being tagged as “poems” on my blog), I started getting traffic…and people started commenting! I thought, “Who are these people and how did they find my poems?!” (And then I learned what “tagging” does!)

It was through the process of surprise visitors to my blog and paying them return visits that I discovered the world of “prompts.” The first couple sites were Three Word Wednesday and Theme Thursday. Then I found Sunday Scribblings. Thanks to the encouragement from the likes of Jingle, Altonian, Old Egg, Sheilagh Lee, Jae Rose, LadyNimue, and many others, those became my designated poem-writing days. Other days were spent writing random observations and ponderings.

But the prompts continued to call to me. And I hunted for more. And boy did I hit the mother lode toward the end of March when I stumbled upon something called “NaPoWriMo.” (“What in the heck is THAT!?” I wondered.) And I found out…and I found Poetic Asides. Hungry for daily prompts, I jumped in with both feet!

There were many days in April when I was sure that I had lost my mind and wondered how I got in so deep over my head…but I was not about to back down from the PAD challenge!

As an aside, I had a conversation with my mom recently; I told her about my blogging and new interest in writing poetry. Her reply? “I always knew you would be a writer. You were always writing stories when you were young.” (I don’t remember her ever telling me that before now.) So…I guess I started writing early, but it didn’t follow me out of elementary school. It just went dormant waiting for a re-start.

“echoes from the silence” attracts foot traffic and comments that would make most poetry bloggers jealous. Are you willing to share your secret to success with the rest of us?

Most days I wonder, myself! I really am quite astounded. But blessed.

As I’ve pondered this question, I think it would be the fact that I frequent the prompt sites. And the poetry/writing community is very generous with their time and attention to what I have gleaned to be the “golden rule” of online poetry blogging: reciprocal visits and encouraging words.

Some of your best work seems to rise from moments of a melancholy muse. Is this a correct analysis? If so, does writing help lift the blues?

One little gem was written to a “Carry On Tuesday” prompt:

Little I ask, my wants are few ~ a day without tears, maybe two?

As I often point out, I adore strong messages portrayed by few words. You certainly captured this nicely in this Oliver Wendell Holmes-inspired Monostitch.

Because I am so new to writing poetry, there is still SO much for me to learn. I know so little about form and structure ( yes, I just Googled “monostitch!”), style and voice. I’ve just been writing, writing, writing. And my work has been reflective of my day-to-day life and experiences. The joys…and more recently, the pains. It’s where I’m at, so it’s what is reflected in my poetry.

I’ve gained some incredible friends through this online community. Those who have traveled this path of poetry (and life) longer than I. Their insights, encouragement, and challenges have helped me grow as a writer. So…has my best work been a product of growth? Or the melancholy muse? Or both? I think both. However, I do look forward to discovering whether or not I can write from a similar depth of JOY one day.

And speaking of few words, I see you participate in “A River of Stones” (http://ariverofstones.blogspot.com/). Please tell us a bit about this, and how you see your small stones contributing to this river.

One of the poets I’ve met online (Margo Roby) I actually had the pleasure of meeting in person. She posted on one of her blog entries that she was passing through my city for a couple weeks of vacation. After exchanging some emails, we decided to meet for dinner. It was during that meal I learned of “A River of Stones.” Many people making “small observations” and writing about them. I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I felt like it would be a good opportunity for me to write something that was NOT from a prompt. I decided it would be good practice for me. As for contributing to the river…just like anyone else who is writing small stones, being a part of increasing awareness of the world around us is a good thing.

Your faith is evident in your responses above, as well as on your blog site. Do you consider yourself a woman of faith, and what role does that play in your work?

Most definitely. My faith has gotten me through some difficult times in life…which in turn builds my faith in knowing I will also be able to get through whatever lies ahead of me.

As for the role of faith in my work – it is my hope that my faith is such a natural part of me, it will be seen woven throughout my work. As I said at the outset of this interview, I believe I was created to, among other things, be a writer. With the gifts and abilities God has given me to do so, I want my work to honor Him and be an encouragement to others.

Who is your favorite poet, and what is it about their work that attracts you?

This question is really hard for me because my experience with poetry is so limited. No one ever really taught me about poetry. Whenever it was briefly touched upon in class, my answers about what the poems were about were always “wrong.” I didn’t understand poetry—so I chose not to read it. So for a favorite famous poet? I will refrain from choosing based on my limited exposure.

However, that doesn’t mean I have not come to have favorites! Many of them are probably reading this interview. They are the people I have met through blogs like Poetic Bloomings. I cannot pick just one, and I shouldn’t name any for fear of leaving someone out who deserves mention, but I will anyway:

· Mike Patrick (my new big brother, for his mastery of metrical rhyme!)

· Mr. Walker [Richard] and De Jackson (for their mastery of free verse)

· Laurie Kolp and Kim Nelson (for their consistency in writing as women of faith)

· Viv Blake, Margo Roby and Elizabeth Crawford (for their commitment to growing as writers and encouraging others along the way)

· Tilly Bud (for her amazing ability to say so much in so few words)

· Amy Barlow Liberatore and Ron [Scrambled, Not Fried] (for their ability to see, and then write from, unique perspectives)

· Andy Sewina (for his ability to write acrostic anagrams)

· Henry Clemmons (for his incredible gift of matching image to words)

· Pamela Sayers (for her beautiful use of metaphor)

· Mary Kling and Judy Roney (for their examples of “prompt writing” through NaPoWriMo, and beyond!)

· Charles Burbank (for the depth of his thinking)

· Gordon Bowman (for his stark honesty)

· …the list could really go on and on!

I have so much to be thankful for in learning from the varied examples of such fine poets (I have links to most of these poets on my blog), who are ALL famous in my book!

But I would be remiss not to include another group in my mentions: the purveyors of prompts. They are in a class all their own! To have been influenced so early in my writing journey by the likes of Robert Lee Brewer (Poetic Asides), Rob Kistner (Writer’s Island), Brenda Warren (The Sunday Whirl), more recently the contributors at We Write Poems and Poets United, and of course the two of you here at Poetic Bloomings!

What are your own, personal goals for your poetry?

First and foremost, to continue to learn and grow. Three or four times in the past week alone, I have heard some variation of: “You have to know the rules before you can break the rules.” I have much to learn!

I also believe a part of the process of learning is to see where I can go. Recently I received a gentle nudge from a fellow blogger, encouraging me to begin looking at submitting my work. I chose a few of my pieces and sent them off to a couple places she recommended. I really have no idea if it will lead to anything, but thought I should at least give it a go!

Another goal, as I’ve already mentioned, is that my poetry would somehow be an encouragement to others.

And finally, to continue to just have fun with it!

There has been a conversation among some of us about what constitutes “success” for a poet. How would you answer this question?

A year ago, writing (anything!) was nowhere on my radar. Had you told me then that I would be answering interview questions today about my poetry blog? Me, writing? Poetry, no less? And someone would be interviewing me about it?? I would never have believed you.

So…for this very moment, “success” is: being acknowledged for doing what God has given me an ability to do.

However, even before this request to be interviewed, I was feeling the success of being a poet. I have been able to string words together in such a way that they convey something of myself, yet still have the ability to resonate with another. It’s an exhilarating feeling that has kept my fingers on my keyboard, tapping out another…and another.

If you could tell the world only one thing about yourself, what would you want us to know?

You mean besides all I have already shared? Or: one thing, period?

I suppose it doesn’t matter which one, because the answer is still the same: All that I am and all that I do is because of our awesome Creator.

Oh…and I have two cats, Tigger and Lucy, who keep me company while I write.

PROBLEMS POSTING TO POETIC BLOOMINGS

2011-07-19T11:27:00.005-04:00

Good morning, all!

So many of us are having trouble posting to this site, including me. This morning, I decided to try entering through Mozilla Firefox, rather than my usual Internet Explorer. I was able to easily post two different ways: logging in as a PBs administrator, and logging in with my personal Marie Elena Google account.

Perhaps it's just a fluke, or perhaps Internet Explorer has been my problem all along. We'll see, but I'd like to suggest that those of you who have problems try a different server, and see if it helps.

Thanks, Walt, for the advice that it took me too long to try out. *winkwink*

ANIMAL, VEGETABLE OR MINERAL? - Prompt #12

2011-07-16T23:32:00.006-04:00

All of life falls vaguely under one of these categories. Write your poem with one of these aspects as your inspiration. Be as literal as you wish, or take them to extremes.

It could be a person, pet, a wild beast, Sasquatch...
It might be asparagus, a fern, bread mold...
Possibly something from the periodic table, table salt, or **BLING**

If it grows, breathes or carries its weight, make it rhyme.

Marie’s Sweet Children’s Poem:

NONNA'S CHERRY TREE (A poem for children)

A limb that’s low enough for me,
Lifts me up so I can see
Nonna, picking sugar peas,
Apron blowing in the breeze.

A comfy spot to read my book
Overlooks a lively brook,
Where the water froths and foams,
Tadpoles scurry to their homes.

In a hollowed knot, I spy
Rotting wood, and ants that fly.
Up above, I spot a nest.
Momma bird fights off a pest.

Cherries, juicy-ripe and sweet,
Some for baking; some to eat
Just-picked with my own two hands,
Dropping into metal pans.

Oops! I find a worm in one
That’s when I decide I’m done.
So, I climb down from my spot;
Dump my cache from pans to pot.

Nonna helps me carry them,
Then I help her pit and stem.
Next, I help my Nonna bake
Cherry pie; black forest cake.

Nonna lets me spend the night,
Tucks me in, and says, “Sleep tight!”
Then I dream I’m flying free,
Smiling down on Nonna’s tree.

(Note from Marie Elena: Though this poem is make-believe, it was inspired by my own Nonna's cherry tree, which was quite special to all of us grandchildren.)

Walt’s Elegy:

HEADSTONES

Your place marking time,

I trace your name with a finger

and linger long in thoughts of you all.

I miss you and ache greatly for it.

But it is the way life transpires.

I never tire from coming to spend

a moment with you; a minute, an hour…

I water the flowers we had planted here,

as you had always done for your parents

who lay next to you. And you two together,

a forever shared in the embrace of Him who made

us all. He had called you all home. Leaving me

to roam between these stones of marble and granite

marking this time; my words marking this place

until we are all face-to-face in the renewed Light of Love above.

My heroes all in one spot and a lot of love still remains.

(Waltz Notes: I have finally gotten my chapbook, WOOD, into the hands of all my siblings and they were astonished by its honesty, weight and heart – their words, not mine. I visited the cemetery this afternoon and spent time reading it aloud to the people who mattered the most. A nerdy thing to do, I know, but something I needed to do. WOOD lives on, as do my parents and grandparents in these heartfelt words.)

BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS - PROMPT # 11

2011-07-16T01:42:00.002-04:00

This week’s reversal of fortune presented many varied views and poems. And again we are reaching new contributors to our fine corral of poets. You are all stars that make this a glowing place to bloom. Speaking of “Blooms”, it is time once again for our Beautiful Blooms selections.

Here is Marie’s "pick" for this week:

I want to begin by saying how thrilled Walt and I are with the new talent on display here! One VERY fine example is Dyson McIllwain, whose piece I picked for this week’s Beautiful Bloom. Yes, I invited Dyson to please check out our site and consider contributing his poetry. And now you know why.

I also must admit that I had to look up “neeps and tatties,” “dram,” and “haggis!” Learned something new. What fun!

I chose Dyson’s poem for the flawless flow, rhyme, humor, and innovation. Thank you for joining in the fun, Dyson! I hope to hear more from you here, as well as Poetic Asides.

CHANGE OF ADDRESS (with apologies to Burns) By Dyson McIllwain

Neeps and tatties, neeps and tatties,
a dram, and a dram, and a dram.
The foulest tasting haggis
’tis too much for any man. I have had
my fill and lost the thrill;
’tis certainly a waste, there is not
enough whiskey to kill this haggis taste.

To kill this haggis taste, one surely must be tested,
To not partake is no mistake, your taste buds will be bested.
As for this man, forgive me clan, my solution’s not absurd,
the golden archway beckons me, over 30 billion served.

Walt’s Bloom:

I know the pros and cons of putting her on a pedestal. The adulation is fine for a while, but has a way of stealing her smile. I found that partners are better when side-by-side and eye-to-eye. Michael Grove’s poem, Up on a Pedestal, invoked memories of two such instances and the different result of each. For that, I place Michael on the lofty perch reserved for this week’s Beautiful Bloom.

UP ON A PEDESTAL by Michael Grove

A hungry tiger without a meal.
The messenger missed the call.
A vision lost was once so real.
He places her up on a pedestal.

He places her up on a pedestal.
Her head now has his heart to steal.
The purple curtain shall tear and fall.
An ivory platform to cold to feel.

An ivory platform to cold to feel.
The juggler drops his bowling pin.
A peasant’s begging for a meal.
A joyful song can now begin.

A joyful song can now begin.
The mystic breaks her crystal ball.
The bird of paradise flies in.
He places her up on a pedestal.

IN-FORM POET: Dodoitsu

2011-07-12T23:31:00.002-04:00

This week our featured form is the Dodoitsu.

The Dodoitsu is a fixed folk song form of Japanese origin and is often about love or humor. It has 26 syllables made of four lines of 7, 7, 7, 5 syllables respectively. It is unrhymed and non-metrical.

Marie’s Dodiotsu:

We speak of falling in love
and falling again from there,
while seldom coming to rest
on dedication.

Walt’s example:

A LONGING HEART

I’ve waited for your return,
which surely will not occur.
Cruel-hearted orb turns slowly
leaving me alone.

Phoenix Rising – Prompt #11

2011-07-10T00:06:00.002-04:00

We're picking ourselves off of the ash heap and restoring ourselves to prominence. Choose a moment you've experienced that had put you in a dour place, and write the poem as the first stanza. Then, take your last line and use that as your first line in the next stanza that holds your positive resolution. Use any style or form, but mirror the bad image with a good reflection. We're seeking balance here; the yin/yang of our poetic chi.

Marie’s Week 11 poem:

REMAINS

All that remained was
a torn life and shattered dreams.
And then he entered.

And then he entered,
bonding fragments together,
stronger than before.

Stronger than before,
and ready to trust again,
confidence returned.

Confidence returned,
life was regained, and his love
was all that remained.

Walt’s resurgence:

LEGIONS OF LESIONS

Spotted and flecked,

a torso as canvas for

an artisan affliction.

A family’s predilection

hangs in haunting shadows.

Pre-cautionary; but scary all the same.

a lame excuse of invasive intrusion.

Pre-cancerous determination

charting a course to remove

as much as possible.

Remove as much as possible,

for the thoughts that preoccupy lie

by the wayside; you hide your fear

and adhere to life as usual.

The abuse is manageable

as long as there is a table

on which to operate. It is

never to late to pray;

“Hey Lord, don’t forget me!”

as sunbeams play across

your worry-wrinkled face.

They say you are never forgotten.

Be assured, you’ve gotten all

you’ll need to survive.

Just be glad you’re alive

BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS - PROMPT # 10

2011-07-09T00:37:00.002-04:00

“A friend in need, is a friend indeed!”

Such was the premise of out last prompt. What value do friends hold for you? How are you touched by a friends companionship? How are YOU a friend? The depictions vary greatly, but all are great poems. Here then, are our “Beautiful Blooms:

Marie’s selection:

My choice for this week is Salvatore Buttaci’s “My Dearest Friend.” This extraordinarily tender piece opens with two lines that beg burning reflection: “How dark a time, you ask? The weight that crushed my heart, how heavy?” Then this: “What slush of wordy drivel dares to speak of woes this son laments!”

Salvatore’s words seized my heart, and brought tears to my eyes. My profound love for my own father connects deeply with Sal’s longing heart. Even now, my eyes continue to well.

Outstanding work, Sal. Thank you for this.

MY DEAREST FRIEND
Salvatore Buttaci

How dark a time, you ask? The weight that crushed
My heart, how heavy? None can say in prose
What words describe the void he left. What slush
Of wordy drivel dares to speak of woes
This son laments! Verses hardly come near
The telling. My papa, hero of my youth,
Has died. The door was shut. He disappeared
When cancer’s pain became the stronger truth.
Explain a life in words just leaves me cold.
I cannot speak the language of my heart
Where sorrow deeply stirs, and words untold
Remain unspoken. Silence plays the part
Of mourner. What can be clearly said now
About a father and son, both good friends
Who shared some happy years that fate allowed?
Why waste the ink in all that I could pen
To stay the dark hand of grief. Why bother.
Enough to say, I miss him…my father.

Walt’s choice:

In most cases, I go toward the simplicity of a poem. The message is clear and I can relate to how this friendship develops. Striving for a good friend is enough. Within this prize package, we find a truth of conviction. We see our genuine personality rise to the occasion. As friends the joy of laughter is a shared offering. Kelly has depicted that quite well, and garners my vote as a Beautiful Bloom this week.

BFF by Kelly

I don't need a BFF
just a good friend will do.
We may have known each other for years
or our connection may be rather new.

I don't need a BFF
just a good friend will do.
Where platitudes are not accepted
and only the truth will come through.

I don't need a BFF
just a good friend will do.
Pretense and pride are dismissed
we are here for each other, it's true.

I don't need a BFF
just a good friend will do.
One who laughs with me and at me
as long as we can laugh at you too.

I don't need a BFF
just a good friend will do.
I'm careful when choosing good friends
could my non-BFF be you?

Congratulations Sal and Kelly! Great work to every one of my poetic friends.

WEB WEDNESDAY - Barbara Yates Young

2011-07-05T23:31:00.013-04:00

We come upon another Web Wednesday, and our choice this week is as interesting a poet as you’ll want to know. Her wit, humor, sarcastic edge and attention to detail puts her work on the fast track to which poems I read with regularity. She is truly one of a kind. Join Marie and me in welcoming Barbara Yates Young.

***

Barbara, we have been enjoying your work at the Writer’s Digest Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer for quite some time now. And you seem to pop up on many other popular poetry sites. Your exposure has broadened your appeal. You are one of the poets we both search out when reading time is limited, and one we’ve looked forward to getting to know better. So let’s get right to it.

"Is there a poem you feel best expresses your writing? Why did you choose that particular piece."

INSTRUMENTAL

If I could learn grace, watching your hands dance,
in that moment there would be one new waterfall
a small one. or a Doric column. I watched a potter, once,
pull tall clay walls, kicking the wheel all the while, foot and hands
seemed unimportant blurs. The moving clay became time,
malleable and magical forgiving of mistakes,
it rose, wobbled, and returned itself, to the dictates
of those graceful blurs. In such a way you tame
eternity, shaping it with strings bent to your will.
because you wove sound in such pauses and darts
I stood watching dragonflies shuttle and skirt
the green back yard and heard their flit and swirl
garnet and gold in the shadows and beams as song.
and I felt time bend like water around stone.

I suppose this will do as well as any other. I like it. Like most of the poems I write, it was for a prompt. I like prompts that bring things to me from somewhere I wouldn't go on my own. In this case, it was a YouTube clip of a pianist. I believe she was playing Chopin, but her hands caught my attention. They were beautiful old hands.
This is probably the closest I can come to a sonnet. Trying to write within the constraints gave me something that wouldn't have existed otherwise, but I do not like exact rhyme. It's like being hit over the head unless the poet is damn good.

You (humorously and poetically) describe yourself (the near-sighted broad) as follows.

“A southern woman of a–certain–age.
If crossed,
apt to become passive-aggressive.”

I find that amusing and charming. It’s brought a smile to my face more than once. You add to it that you are “... a boring person, sincere but flawed.” Flawed? Aren’t we all. Boring? I beg to differ. I’ve seen your poetry. I’ve seen your art. I’ve seen your style. I’ve seen your sense of humor. I’d be willing to bet the word “boring” wouldn’t cross anyone’s mind but your own. Which takes us to question #1.

1. How do you define “boring,” and what about you do you believe fits that definition?

I am boring. I never DO anything. I'm pretty much a mass of nouns and passive verbs. For example: When I was a kid, and read all of those horse books, I asked for a horse. I got one, but never learned to ride. Just looked at her. Possibly because of being too shy to ask how it was done. You can miss out on a lot by being afraid to ask.

2. On the flip side, what would you say is the most interesting thing about you? (Besides being married to a guy from Walt’s hometown, Lackawanna, New York!)

Really not much (aside from my Lake Erie husband, of course)
I'm a TV junkie. All the way back to Sky King. Television is such a comforting medium. I grew up on three networks in a precise grid. Everyone you knew would have been watching one of three programs at a given time. Now: True Blood. I mean, the theme begins: When you came in the air went out.

3. “Just minding my own business, and then realized the way out had disappeared.” This quote introduces us to Briarcat. Please tell us how you chose “Briarcat” as the title of your blog, and how this particular quote fits in.

It's a little roundabout. I wanted "Catbriar", but the blog name was taken. The quote goes with that word. I was walking in a pasture on my grandparents' farm, just wandering around, being a kid, following cow paths and rabbit tracks through the sedge grass and smilax (that's the catbriar). All of a sudden, the path I was following dead ended into a mass of blackberry canes, and when I turned around to go back the other way... it seems some paths only go in one direction. It's a lesson that keeps popping up. You know about B'rer Rabbit and the Briar patch? It's the Trickster element that blows my mind. Trickster's not safe, and you never know how your interactions with him will turn out.

4. One poem that shows off your delightfully quirky sense of humor is “farewell,” written in April of 2010. And, yes, it comes with a visual! *winkwink.”

farewell

unsure of how to say good-bye
she wore a proper suit, black,
to express her loss and sorrow.
the flat clutch, nubbed silk
matte silver clasp, contained
her nose-and-glasses mask
and red and silver glitter
just in case

This petite poem shows off not only your skewed wit, but your ability to tell a story while doing no-such thing. Your descriptions skillfully lead us down a formal corridor that makes a sudden and sharp turn toward madcap. Did this piece come strictly from your mind? Or is there a true story behind it? Do tell! I imagine you to have a great laugh. It usually comes with that whimsical attitude you possess. Describe your laugh.

That poem was for the last prompt at ReadWritePoem. I was in mourning. Really. I loved that site. It was something like a home. For all that Poetic Asides was a new beginning, writing poems after 30-odd years away, RWP woke me up and started me thinking in different directions. Diagonals and zigzags. That's the way my sense of humor works, but who knew you could write poetry that way?

The nose and glasses thing comes from way back. The same friend who used to throw great parties for Darwin's birthday. It seemed the perfect thing to go with the funeral dress and that purse. I love those tiny bags because they're beautiful, but--seriously--what is there room for inside them?

(alas, I do not have a clear, bell-like laugh. More of a snort, snicker, chuckler)

I have a new nose and glasses image. Stole the cartoon from one of those New Yorker add-your-own-caption things.

5. The artwork in Briarcat fascinates me, Barbara. When you considered having your own blog, did you visualize using artwork as you do? Is the art normally born of the poetry, or vice versa? Your look there is constantly in flux, in a high functioning way. Does that coordinate with your muse?

I really don't think of it as art. I play with Photoshop (Elements. Can't afford the real thing). It's all just moving pixels around and copying and pasting. I steal images from the internet take them for joyrides, and try to make them unrecognizable when I use them. Real art doesn't have an UNDO button.

I wish I could make things up whole. The idea of creating an actual, concrete thing from nothing. It is magic. All the spells in all the fantasy novels can't make that thing that never was before. An artist can. Does. Did. Will. It's so cool.

6. Who would you say is your favorite poet? Do you try to emulate him/her, or is your style completely original? (Walt’s answer for that last question is, “Yes, her work is one-of-a-kind!)

Okay. Confession time. I don't read poetry. Not really. Not for pleasure. Sitting down with my cup of tea and someone's slender volume. That's a pretty picture, but I'm not in it.

I had to memorize lines of poetry in seventh grade to bring an English grade up to a "C". Thirty lines would average in another point. Thank you Robert Frost and your snowy evening. Fast forward to college and a few poetry and creative writing courses: Dylan Thomas and Gerard Manley Hopkins. They are probably my influences. And e.e. cummings. (Ogden Nash, but don't tell anybody). I like Bukowski--had some years like that.

7. Approximately how much time do you spend writing poetry?

My husband Jim tells me Dylan Thomas would work all day on one line. I'm pretty much down and done. A poem may take ten minutes or four hours.
Revision. That's the diet and exercise part, and I am seriously overweight. My punctuation is sloppy. Every time I reread one of my poems, I will find something that needs fixing, and it's usually punctuation.

8. Is publication of a poetry collection in your future plans?

not (expletive deleted) likely. I mixed up a couple of collections for Jim and my brother, Glenn, for Christmas. That made me crazy. Plus, I really can't imagine anyone reading even so much as a chapbook of only my stuff. Maybe my cousin, Rita. She's a saint. In a good way.

9. Your feet are planted in Tennessee. What does that provide to your inspiration? The strong musical ties to the state as a whole brings a lyrical aspect to your poetry. Do you agree? Do you find you are most productive (writing-wise) during daylight hours? Or are you a night writer?

That's complicated.

Growing up southern does have its rhythms. We talk slowly. It takes a long time to get in all those extra vowels. (invisible). It's hard for me to imagine how my sentences would sound read by someone else.

The Tennessee I grew up in was black and white. And, like breathing, nothing you think about. I must have been seven or eight when I went to Rock City and noticed the water fountains. There was one labelled "Whites", and one "Colored", and a third for "Dogs". That bothered me for a long time. I had friends from Thailand before I'd had a conversation with a black woman of my own age. I became a cynic early.

As to habits and such, I used to be a night person. Finish the book in one sitting, even it it's dawn. Close the bar, and then move to coffee. I used to watch those crazy preachers with the incredible cadences who came on after the midnight movies, and then go to sleep to the cartoons. Depression threw everything off kilter for a while, and along with the habit of reading, I lost those circadian rhythms. These days, it's mornings when I write. I move back and forth between paper and iPad and laptop and paper and and and. Mistakes are more glaring in the blog.

10. If we could know only one thing about you, what would you tell us?

I'm superficial. I begin with words and find some sense in the way the pattern falls out. That makes for some mutable truths.

Thanks, Barbara, for that entertaining interview!

A FRIEND INDEED – Prompt # 10

2011-07-02T23:49:00.002-04:00

In the states, we will celebrate our independence day this week. Around Buffalo there is a celebration that spans from Buffalo to Fort Erie, Canada. Called the "Friendship Festival" it pays tribute to our Fourth of July celebration and Canada Day (July 1). Write about a friend and their influence on your life.

As a "wild-card" prompt, write an Independence Day poem. (For our friends outside of the Continental US, write about the big celebration from your locale)

Marie Elena’s Good work:

Changed for Good

“We’re just friends,” you said.
“We’re just friends,” said I.
And I believed you,
And you believed me.

“We’re just friends,” you said.
“We’re just friends,” said I.
But you doubted you,
And I doubted me.

Came tickles and pokes,
And glances and notes;
Then gazes and hugs,
And lingering goodbyes.

“I love you,” you said.
“I love you,” said I.
And I believed you,
And you believed me.

“I love you,” you said.
“I love you,” said I.
No doubt on your part,
No doubt upon mine.

“For richer, for poorer,
In sickness and health”
Eternally altered,
Our lives intertwined.

Walt’s Tale of Brotherhood:

BROTHERS BEFORE FRIENDS

Four abreast, a test
of our mother’s resolve.
That we would evolve
into the men we’ve become
is a testament to her temperament.

We came from the same womb,
shared the same room; bunk beds.
And instead of pulling together,
we fought to tear apart what
was expected of us.

Our fight was not without gain.
Dominance was the grail
in our never fail battle to rattle
our foundation. We were brothers
but our mother’s worst nightmare.

Grown to adulthood, it would stand
to reason that our seasoning would bring
a camaraderie that would meld us
into a band of unlikely souls
filling the holes that gaped our bond.

Now the friends that once tattered the fabric
have become strong and impenetrable,
iron-clad lads with a lot of bad blood
to transfuse. We can all use its soothing balm,
to calm and bring us healing.

Healing from the inside out,
there leaves little doubt that
being brothers brought us to be
the friends we always needed.
Brothers are friends indeed.

BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS - PROMPT #9

2011-07-02T10:11:00.002-04:00

As we return to terra firma, it has been a refreshing week of outta sight poetry here at POETIC BLOOMINGS. All of our amazing poets stretched their muses and imaginations and boldly went where few have gone before. In reading this week's work, there was stellar work by our regular contributors, but the emergence of many new names and viewpoints has added greatly to our expressive excellence. Without further ado, here are Marie Elena's and my Beautiful Blooms for Week #9.

In Marie Elena’s Orbit:

I have to wonder if there will ever be a week in which there is only one clear “pick” for me. Once again, I had a difficult time choosing only one … there were three out here that I could easily have highlighted. I finally decided on De Jackson’s “Celestial Notes to My Sometimes Self.”

This is classic De: A short piece dense with imagery, amusing phrasing, and excellent insight. Even if I read no further than the title, I’d be happy I didn’t miss out. Terrific work, as always, De. I read you.

CELESTIAL NOTES TO MY SOMETIMES SELF by De Jackson

It’s all clear
from up here.

So much doesn’t matter.
Feelings aren’t fact.
Spill your life out in ink, sweat, tears.
Just love. Especially yourself.

I’m writing it all in the stars.

Do you read me?

Walt’s telemetry:

We have all experienced the sensation of smallness; being a little minnow in the fishbowl of life. The beauty around us astounds us, and we feel inconsequential. The tendency is to just want to cut all ties and drift into the background.

This concept is beautifully described in this week’s piece by Jerry Walraven. Chev’s poem, “On Being Tethered in Space” is descriptive and imaginative, and gets my vote for a Beautiful Bloom…

ON BEING TETHERED IN SPACE by Jerry Walraven

The beauty of creation staggers me.

Unable to take in the enormity of space,
unable to touch down,
even on Mars (close enough to touch)
and taste Martian soil.

Or dance
with the Jovian moons.

This narrow focus
on human foibles
on one spec of cosmic dust.
There is no rising above.

So I close my eyes
and cut my tether.
Another piece
of human space junk.

****

As promised, the winner of the WOOD chapbook shall be revealed.

In many instances, the view from space always evokes comments about the smallness of the planets in the cosmos. Our own planet earth get referenced as a “blue marble”. In her poem, “I Concur”, Connie L. Peters mentions this blue marble and thus, wins the book. Connie, if you will e-mail me at poeticbloomings@yahoo.com with your information, I will send WOOD out to you as soon as possible. Thanks all for your enthusiastic participation!

TBA - Winner of the chapbook, WOOD

2011-06-29T17:23:00.001-04:00

For the curious at heart, there will be a winner named for the copy of my chapbook, WOOD. It will be announced along with Saturday's "Beautiful Blooms". It did not make the title, but was mentioned in the body of one of the poems. Great work all.

Walt

IN-FORM POET - The Monchielle

2011-06-28T22:54:00.006-04:00

The trend for In-Form Poet has been to highlight a uniquely different form than the norm.
Today’s offering is the Monchielle, a form created by Jim T. Henriksen.

The Monchielle is a poem consisting of four five-line stanzas where the first line repeats in each verse. Each line within the stanzas consist of six syllables, and lines three and five rhyme. The rhyme pattern is Abcdc Aefgf Ahiji Aklml.

Marie Elena’s Monchielle:

ORDAINED

Not all who dare to dream
Pursue the vision’s call.
Life dares obstruct their view,
Or taunts their fragile core,
And plans then go askew.

Not all who dare to dream
Take pleasure in the path.
Though they may first begin
With passion at the helm,
The process wears them thin.

Not all who dare to dream
Seek guidance from Above.
Bold faith begins to pale,
And expectations wane,
Then in the end, they fail.

Not all who dare to dream
Race on, and finish strong.
You dreamed, you sought, you vowed.
Your vision, now fulfilled,
You’ve reason to be proud.

Walt’s poem:

In The Distance She Stands (Monchielle)

In the distance she stands,
softly angelic, she.
Beauty beyond compare,
an ever-present smile
and windblown auburn hair.

In the distance she stands,
a lost soul, complacent.
Searching the horizon
for a glimpse of love’s shine;
compassion’s communion.

In the distance she stands,
a mournful heart, guarded.
Longing life’s sweet caress,
apparition most sweet;
whose love beats in my chest.

In the distance she stands,
dispersing in the mist;
a sad, sun-kissed farewell,
an ever-lasting love
here, where my angel fell.

Copyright © 2011 – Walt Wojtanik

DEEP SPACE NINE - PROMPT #9

2011-06-25T23:23:00.002-04:00

Vantage point plays an important part in firing up our muse. The view from the ground varies greatly from the treetops. We see things slightly different. Today we are exercising our imaginations and playing with our perspective. So let’s blast off!

Your tether has broken away from the command module, and you are adrift in deep space. You are Major Tom floating by your “tin can”. But, you are not in danger. Until they can reel you back in, you have nothing but time to poem; equipped with your message board and an extraordinary view of the universe.

Write your poem, remembering your vantage point and your over-active imagination. “Can you hear me, Major Tom?”

Marie Elena’s blast:

Peering down on earth
From my perch upon the moon
I see no borders.

Walt’s attempt:

The poem I had written as this prompt’s example came extremely close to what Marie Elena had submitted.

From up in deep space

It is very clear,

I can see my house from here.

I am keeping my eyes peeled for a special phrase in the poems. The first to mention it will get a copy of my chapbook, WOOD. If it shows up as the title of the poem, I will include the CD featuring the reading of the book. Good Luck.