Zhuangzi Dreaming of a Butterfly, Ming dynasty, mid-Sixteeth Century – ink on silk
A Man sleeping …
A Butterfly flitting…
Zhuangzi, dreamer of Butterfly,
ponders what joy there might be
in that tiny Butterfly brain
so subtle
too subtle to be perceived by I or eye
Is he dreaming me? Zhuangzi asks.
Imagine the Universe thus engaged.
THUNDER
a Cosmic Belly Laugh
Ho! Ho!
Then Zhuangzi knows: He is silent,
flitting from flower to flower in eternal spring.
coming and going, going and coming
This is called the Transformation of Things.
©2011, Jamie Dedes
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterlfy; a butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi
I love this allegory from The Book of Zhuangzi, one of the two greatest books of the Chinese mystical Tao. (The other book is the I Ching.) The allegory is about chi (qi), the energy of creation, which some might call God.
Write and share with us a poem or poems that illustrates your experience with or perception of transformation. It does not have to be related to religious or spiritual allegory unless that is what calls to you.
Share your poem/s on theme or a link to it/them in the comments section below.
All poems shared on theme will be published next Tuesday. Please do NOT email your poem to me or leave it on Facebook. If you do it’s likely I’ll miss it or not see it in time.
IF this is your first time participating in The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com in order to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-). These will be partnered with your poem/s on first publication.
Deadline: Monday, July 2 at 8 p.m. PDT.
Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, sharing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you. This is a discerning nonjudgemental place to connect.
Illustration credits: first illustration courtesy of Lu Zui and in the public domain/ second illustration courtesy of About Qigong.
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I have not been responding to your prompts but this one caught my eye with the forever changing weather here. Hope you are well and I enjoyed your poem.
The Usher
The wind bears no animosity
nor is it fickle
inherently
as appearances
are always in flux
though transformative it will be
ushering in both life
and death
for the Anemoi brings forth
all seasons
in turn
where one day the breadth of it
blows clear the darkest clouds
emanating life giving sun
sweet scented
flowers
erupting
the next morn could bring
a stillness of breath
pollution a miasma
of death
yet still always ushering in
tempests and squalls
a familiar to rain
leaving a swath of destruction
to change yet again
with the softest
of breezes
that seem to settle within
touching, reflecting
life’s gentle
rhythm
Anemoi the gods of wind
are the ushers of change
a transformative
jinn
© July 2018 Renee Espriu
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The Ultimate Transformation
Seniors captured by time
now prisoners in a body
no longer in sync with the mind…
A body transformed
through ages and stages
forming the persona that resides within…
That persona forever in search of new dominions
living out dreams and schemes
reaching heights of happiness
encompassed by depths of despair…
The body grows weary
eyesight becomes dim and bleary
days flee as hearing fades…
The bones no longer dancing
to the rhythm of the heart…
The bones captivated by a falling star
shoot through the galaxy
with a proclamation
announcing a new soul ready
for the ultimate transformation…
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My second contribution, first published two years ago in Ben Barnyard’s webzine Clear Poetry
The Shell
Yours was the first corpse I’d seen
though I wince at the word: harsh,
impersonal, which in a way it was
when I stood in the Viewing Room
that midwinter morning, half-afraid
to kiss you, say a final goodbye.
I recognized you at once, pleased
they hadn’t lacquered drifts of white
hair, replaced pink pyjamas and cardi.
But your arctic face chilled my lip
and I knew if I knelt close, pressed
the curl of my ear against your breast
I’d hear no crash of waves trawling
the coral and driftwood of ninety years,
no echoes of a gushing, hushing ocean
scooping your sacred breath in its tide,
turning at the moon’s far rim where
your soul left its shell and took flight.
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I enjoyed writing this, Jamie, thanks for the prompt.
Fern
How would it feel
to be you, green
and generous fern,
spores wind-lifted
last winter, rehomed
in my garden’s earth?
In July’s humid heat
I hanker to slip
from my carapace,
shrink beside ribbons
of grass, mingle with
star-trails of ivy.
Would I sense
my uncoiling,
my spearing upward,
fanning outwards,
filling spaces
of air and light?
Would I hold
race-memory
in my spores, dream
ancient forests where
ferns swayed billions
of years ago,
grew tall, wide,
helped shape
the landscape?
Patterns repeating.
Images imprinting.
Fossils in rock.
Fern, you’ll outlive
my flesh and bone.
I high-five
your nearest frond.
Sun warms
your silent nod.
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Constant Change
Everything you are made of begins
in a gigantic transition
as universe explodes into being
stardust becomes everything
transformation begets you,
your sister, your cat, the bees,
the tree, stones, water,
so: stop. Cease all striving.
Stop all struggle. Breathe: in, out,
like a butterfly coming and going,
to this flower, that flower.
Rest. Stay in this tender space. Before
you know it, without aid of will or anxiety,
you arrive in a new place
the right place, just the right
place. No harm will come to you
as your divine self
slides gently into that personalized
pocket on the overalls
of The Universe of Now.
Because what can we do but laugh?
Because what can we do but laugh?
Because what can we do?
Because what?
Because?
Be.
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Hellow every body,
Title of the poem is – AGAIN
https://dwivedivageesh.wordpress.com/2018/06/28/again/
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my fourth response:
Biddy To A Young God
You have planted fresh
delight in these eyes
that sprout visions again
as when I was a young girl.
You have breathed
through my cold embers
and stroked warmth
into this thin skin.
My face has plumpness
and reddens
as your hands find flesh
for my angled skull.
My limbs no longer bare
begin to dress themselves
with buds and colour
for your lustful eyes.
Perhaps these changes
are only in your eyes,
and this puddle reflection
may be false, a false Spring.
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Hi Jamie,
My third response:
Lass Is Stone
Spunk sees Cruel lass from afar
gobsmacked by her looks
he gets smitten hard
and determines she’ll be hooked
Asks her mates for her mobile number,
and all her social media pages,
scours internet for details,
winds himself up in rages.
Gets his message through once
or twice but she mocks him
” Fancy me. You do right. I’m gorgeous”
and promptly blocks him.
Finds her home and knocks
and her Dad answers and says
“She don’t want to know, son.
Thinks your a stalker. Away!”
Writes his first letter and posts
it personally through her door,
it tells her she’s won and he’ll be gone
she can celebrate and more
she can see him lose his life
which is all he has left for her.
Cruel scoffs at this but goes along
for the crack and laughter.
She sees him throw a rope
already knotted around a beam
put his neck in the noose
and let out a scarifying scream.
Then she feels herself harden
stone thoughts
stone mouth
stone neck
stone chest
stone limbs
stone heart
calcified flesh and bone
a statue.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my second:
a became a river
One day atta work,
a goes for a skinny dip
in a quiet stream
a knows
Unbeknownst to me stream
were a lad called Whitey or Gain
and he falls for us.
A flits naked from his wattas
an he changes into a fella
an chases atta us.
I ran until am cryin’
an shartin fo help
r boss covers me in a cloud,
but Whitey, waits watches
where ma wet footprints
disappear.
Am so afraid break art
in a cold sweat pouring
off of me a becomes a river.
Whitey changes to watta
an mingles wi us.
(From my “The Headpoke And Firewedding” , Alien Buddha Press, 2017)
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finally…..
https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2015/03/31/preparing-the-way/
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Thanks Jamie
https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2017/11/23/transformation/
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.altar.
late i came here.
as he changed his words,
the pictures changed. a new meaning ,
a new endevour.
i still think of him.
things move slowly
steadily as snails in the garden.
is this an animal track?
sbm.
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Hi Jamie, my first response:
The Gift
A small dark shape on kitchen tile
Stared at by our cat,
Move closer, it is a sparrow bairn,
Chest balloons out as my sigh releases.
Scooped up, as I take it out to the garden
It stands on the scoop.
Over the fence our neighbour stands hunched
in dark tears “My mam won’t be coming out of hospital”
My breath caught.
The sparrow flies away.
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I like this very much, reminds me of a poem I wrote a few years ago about the time after my Dad’s death .Would you mind if I sent you a copy of the poem or posted it up here?
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I would not mind you posting it here at all, Sheila. I’d. be honoured.
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Nice! 👏👍💛
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Thank you! It’s probably too late for the prompt so which is the best way I can send it to you?
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I think you were responding to Paul, Sheila. I’m just putting a wrap on the post and nearly 1 a.m. here, so I’ll figure it out and get back to you. Thanks!
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Oh, wait! I see what happened. Go ahead and send it to me in an email. Will post on its own. You might want to offer some explaination on the poem. Up to you.
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Thanks Jamie,yes,I was responding to Paul’s comment but I’ll email the poem to you and you can both read it!
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Do you have a Facebook or Twitter account I can access so you can private message me?
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Shiela is on FB, Paul. Go to The Poet by Day FB Page. You’ll find comments there from Shiela and can make sure you get to the right person. Happy day. 🌼
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Hi Paul,sorry,I’ve only just found this comment.Yes,I’m on Facebook as Sheila Jacob.
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my offering – sometimes transformation is not a beautiful process, but hard won
Once Upon a Time
Working with children is what I said I would do
Eight years of higher education said I was ready
Children from poverty, neglect, abuse
I’d create safety to help calm the unsteady
of their worlds where parents weren’t there –
out searching for something to calm their addictions
leaving the young ones abandoned and scared
easy to make that outcome prediction
I’ll work with the children and not the abusers –
the parents, their friends, whoever committed
these horrible acts – I am the accuser
and judge and jury – against them I’m pitted
’til I heard their stories of their own horror
and I realized abused children grow up
without anyone being their restorer
to sanity and filling their self worth cup
imitating was all they could know
trying to be different had no guide
resulting in return to the old ways, though
reassured them of something to hold on inside
so I’ll work with the children and just their families
but I can’t get involved in all the systems
that confuse and contribute their own brutalities
often retraumatizing rather than helping the victims
But who am I kidding when I say I will not
it’s all so related – system, child, family
there’s no way to separate it all out
that is what I’ve come to see
So whoever you are, whatever’s been done
I know there’s much to your history
No one has to go it alone
who can judge your journey – certainly not me.
deb y felio
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A poem I wrote earlier this spring seems to fit.
The Other World
At eighteen, I stepped into the other world,
the one that sounds fantastical but is not.
Drainage pond at the bottom of a hill on campus,
behind it a small straggle of winter woods,
beyond that, a path towards the sports fields.
Grass still green in the mild mid-Atlantic,
twiggy dried milkweed standing and fallen.
Plain as plain, just hidden, just waste.
An ordinary afternoon, and I felt surfeited with reading;
walking down the hill, I cast away my mind.
At the water’s edge I looked at the surface;
the water looked back at me. The world had eyes:
perceived me as I perceived it, all the same.
The bare treetops in the distance moved in my arms.
I felt the cawing of the crows that rose inside my chest.
But no crows there, no chest here, only that cawing,
that burning and empty annunciation
of how we too are the shine in the tufts of the cracked pods,
falling and lifted in the wind through everything.
All of this I could see, while I rubbed my eyes,
as if to dislodge a film that was not there.
This happened. I was a freshman, with no one to tell.
Why do we seek imagined worlds? We know nothing
of what is real, how wondrous and complete.
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After Reading How Poets Often Die, I Do Hesitate to Read
Ou Yang Hsiu’s “Reading the Poems of an Absent Friend”
Some old poet friends are not dead
Yet. One even lives exiled in far
Away Japan. Perhaps I’ll disappear
As I’m too old to be discovered
By any up and coming new
Lit clique. What part of friends
Stays in the sublime end of my
Old mind? Sometimes when I read
They’ve died I’d just as soon
Close the blinds and stay reclined.
Most all stayed up all night
Just to finish their new lines.
Now they’ve got their good books.
I do hate reading what they’ve
Spent their whole lives on
And I hate it that they’re gone.
Sometimes I have not written all
Year and when I do I know it’s
Nothing more than old oatmeal.
It’s incredible how long I’ve
Been drawn to this poetry life
And how often I can’t even
Find a word or two to make
Anew, and wonder, who turned
My brain into yummy worms?
Once I found an old Pole’s
Book of lines, left the day
For nothing else except to turn
More pages all the way to night.
I never am too keen to
Reread some old medieval
Gore but I could pick out
Any poem and think it’s
Something quite new. I wish
I knew what poets do.
Most men wouldn’t be caught
Dead writing with short lines
Would rather count the scores
Of grown men running plays.
I told my wife the other day
How long I’ve been devoted
To this quiet task of digging
Through what I already knew.
So if I could I’d just sit
Right here in our red room
And gaze outside to find
What brings such joy inside.
In fact I’d take my old dead
poet friends, and a few lines
made last night, catch the next
starry ride right out of here.
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And my second poem is also about a butterfly and transformation:
https://momentsbloc.wordpress.com/2016/11/17/afloat/
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Beautiful poem, Jamie. Love this: “Then Zhuangzi knows: He is silent,/ flitting from flower to flower in eternal spring.” Also, I like this double rhyme: “by I or eye” and the ending is very powerful with the “coming and going/ going and coming” that perfectly reflects the cycle of life with its various transformations.
Yesterday I posted this poem plus its dancing video as transformations:
https://momentsbloc.wordpress.com/2018/06/26/i-danced-the-night-ferociously/
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