“Nocturna” … and other poetic responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt
Westron wynde, when wyll thow blow
The smalle rayne downe can rayne?
Cryst yf my love were in my armys,
And I yn my bed agayne!
– John Taverner (1490-1545)
Readers will note links to sites if available are included that you might visit these treasured poets. The links for contributors are always connected to their blogs or websites NOT to specific poems. If the poet doesn’t have a website, it’s likely you can connect with him or her via Facebook.
Enjoy this Tuesday collection and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, whether you are a beginning poet, emerging or pro. All are welcome – encouraged – to come out and play and to share your poems on theme.
Petrichor
The parched earth, fissures formed designs
on the burnt umber landscape. Seeds dying
of thirst, the harsh wind sweeping the dust over
skinny cattle, goats that foraged on scrub.
The rattle of the thunderstorm, the beauty
of the threatening molten sky, leaden with
moisture as the drops fall one by one, cool
on the skein of a leaf. The shiver of excitement as
petrichor arose, the olfactory senses heightened.
Hope for new life as the tiny rivulets traced new
patterns, muddy-brown wet lines. In a few days
sprouting seedlings, the circle of life begins.
© 2019, Leela Soma (Leela Soma, Scottish Writer and Poet)
LEELA SOMA (Leela Soma, Scottish Writer and Poet) was born in Madras, India and now lives in Glasgow. Her poems and short stories have been published in a number of anthologies, publications. She has published two novels and two collections of poetry.
She has served on the Scottish Writer’s Centre Committee and is now in East Dunbartonshire Arts & Culture Committee. Some of her work reflects her dual heritage of India and Scotland.
Twitter: glasgowlee
Suspense
when you fly through rain in an airplane the rain does not fall. it is horizontal. and if each drop could contain a human soul, from any place or time in history, most of the drops would be human-soulless.
but every raindrop has an aspect. if your lower legs are bare, and an early sprinkle splashes against your calf, it talks to you at the moment it ceases to be rain. it encounters you unignorably.
if you ingest a quantum of “magic mushrooms” and then run in t-shirt and shorts barefoot on a sidewalk through cool summer rain, you seem to form thousands of relationships.
that is all for now unless another headcloud bursts.
© 2019, Gary W. Bowers (One with Clay, Image and Text)
As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative. He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured here. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase. Further details HERE. Note the business card. We appreciate Gary’s wry humor.
Nocturna
shame nestled in my throat
as night’s soft charcoal gray skin
was wrapped with a lofty nimbostratus shroud
upon her moonlit shoulders
emitting sweet earthy odor
not sure of what i did
uncertainty about my heart
were my deeds the cause of it
like bullets from an ancient time
to kill the peace upon the paths
her tears fell down from heaven
now through the teachings of that lady night
and her dusky priestesses along with a few hard knocks
i’ve come to understand that it wasn’t me who made her cry
but that Nocturna was the mirror of my sorrows
© 2019, mm brazfiled (Words Less Spoken)
Pickatree Rainbird
And the Boss said to all the birds,
“Excavate all the hollows,
release water to make
seas, rivers and pools.”
All obeyed, except Pickatree.
who sat still, would not move,
or flitted between branches.
“It is dirty work. I can’t
soil this bright golden coat,
or silver shine of my legs.”
And the Boss replied,
“If that’s the case, from now on,
your coat is sooty black,
you’ll sup only rain,
and your yaffles only heard
afore downpours.”
© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)
Rain Is Awake
when it falls
hits the snuggled earth
with wet caresses
Conscious movement
rippled determination
to move forward
once a route is found,
knows it must find rest
a place to sleep
but other droplets insist
on movement forward
© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)
Particles OF Rain
strike spark off the hill
tumble down charged, fall
an electric river.
Captured photon tracks
dot glass, world atom
accelerator.
Lost particles,
paper thin blanketed
homeless huddle
in doorways.
Tiny explosions
of heaven’s tears
across the nailed lake.
Day ends as fishermen
fold up their green chairs
by a splashed evening lake
glowered, puddled.
Navigate By Rain
gobbets in motion,
their rhythmic fall and beat,
every drop a note,
on pavement,
tarmac, wood,
tile, hollow metal,
close your eyes,
listen to the music,
varied semitones,
blind, you navigate
by the landscape
described by percussion.
Can you hear her contours,
tell the leather, lace
and cloth she wears
by arrangement of sound
in the downpour?
A time when you don’t
want the rain to stop
until you can inhale
her sweet fragrance.
And open your eyes.
shadow breathes
see how your shadow moves
across the arc of her arm
your shadow breathes to kiss
away the cold up to her neck
across the cool leather couch
she lounges on to reveal more
of her thighs than is sane
for the blood pump inside you
and your lips press into her neck
and the rise of her breasts through
her little black dress, and thighs
that fall open as you kiss an ear.
A Rosary
of raindroplets down the window glass.
Contemplate the mystery within
each of these splattered dribbles.
Each holds grains, dried sea salt,
dust or smoke ascended skywards from water
or land into swirling eddies of air,
each holds dead cells sloughed,
perhaps by lovers fingers, or
by beasts slouching to Bethlehem,
each holds a prayer for life,
a hymn to its origins, a curse
of flood, a blessing of light.
© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)
FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running an ongoing series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Connect with Paul if you’d like to be considered for an interview. Visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.
The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes
More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play
Rain – A Sei Shonagon Style List Poem
Sudden thunderstorm rain like
– The caterwauling kitty you forgot to feed
– The tenuous teen battering your heart, ears and the locked door with keep-way-but-still-love-me music
– The immigrant doctor cleaning toilets
– The spouse freed of burden but shackled with guilt
Steady spring rain like
– The laundry and dishes, laundry and dishes, laundry and dishes
– A movie marathon of Schindler’s List, The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas, and Life is Beautiful
– The thumping of sneakers around the track at a 15 minute mile pace in a black track suit in 80 degree weather
– Abdomen stretch marks, cascading down, erasing memories of “before”
Forecasted overnight rain like
– A crying newborn seeking a mother’s warm embrace and engorged breast
– Cookies and milk after school on Friday
– Karaoke in a private party booth
– This poet’s tears when her heart reads words that resonate
This Sei Shonagon style poem fit my thoughts on this topic. Sometimes I love rain and sometimes it makes me profoundly sad. Sometimes rain is the beat of my rage and sometimes it is the whisper of contentment. I love smelling rain in the air but I don’t love the weight of it wrapping around my chest. Rain is such a necessity in our world. This exercise made me truly appreciate the wet stuff!
© 2019, words and illustration, Irma Do (I Do Run, And I do a few other things too ...)
Turtle Rainstick
The tall piece of bamboo sets in the corner
as though keeping the walls from colliding
with the aboriginal turtle in mustard yellow hues
keeping a silent vigil, a respite, as the rain
signals a force of nature outside my window
I am reminded that I am a creature of water
my molecular being silent within a human shell
the wonder of a million droplets from a cloud
forming a single raindrop is mind boggling
as they gather in rhythmic action
creating puddles, streams, rivers, waterfalls
cascading exponentially into vast oceans
a home for other water beings living
within a life-giving force
and I listen in amazement at the symphony
that brings life to the earth I live on
where brilliant colors of flowers bloom
in gardens tended and meadows flourish
on mountains
replete with nature’s abundance of creatures
beasts walking the land and flocks of birds
taking flight tenured with bird song
am I not enraptured to know my heart
still beats within its fluidic capsule embrace
of the water that holds me ensconced
in safe keeping
that when the rain thus ceases its’ melodic sounds
the bamboo stick awaits but my touch
yearning to recreate rain’s wondrous music
the timeless aboriginal turtle
warm beneath my hand
© 2019, poem and illustration (taken from Public Domain Pictures and Created as Art) Renee Espriu (Angels, My Muse & Turtle Flight and Inspiration, Imagination & Creativity With Wings / Haibun, ART, Haiku & Haiga)
Before the Storm
the baptisms begin
across all beliefs
all nations
first in drops
across the tops
of heads
then gentle pour
until
full immersion
bringing hope
and life
once more
to the dry
and weary.
© 2019 deb y felio
a promenade through sadness
gentle gems of rain
inspiring songs of sadness
hearkening heartbreak
© 2019, Jen Goldie (Jen Goldie and Starlight and Moonbeams … and the Occasional Cat )
When The Rain Falls Overnight
Perhaps that’s why
I whisper
“all shall be well”
as a grey day
shuffles to its end
and I rest my head
on the pillow,
close heavy eyes.
Perhaps that’s why
I sleep
so tranquilly,
my dreams lullabied
by clouds uncurling
and spilling
and bathing the stubble
of new-mown grass.
Perhaps that’s why
I wake,
stretch and smile
at the sheen
of wet roof tops
where summer rain
has pattered down
left footprints in the dark.
© 2019, Shiela Jacob
.it rained in the night.
i woke, heard it, yet also saw the yellow moon.
shining through.
rain is noisy on the roof at huws gray,
where we buy slate chippings and talk
of log stores for the winter.
it is made of metal.
at the ironmongers we chat, buy bulbs,
notice the chip shop is for sale, now.
they sell night lights singly, at 20 p each.
it rained on and off all day, while I worked,
then,
it rained in the night.
© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher
.the rain.
talk about the weather, talk
about the rain. cosy. we cleaned
arranged the house, until it stopped.
walked out, bare feet, looked down
felt the wet slate, watched the snails.
damped our hair, to rearrange on entry
into the cleaner rooms. yet no matter
how hard we work, there are still
cobwebs.
© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher
.rain comes lightly.
watch, windows speck. days come lightly.
heavy hearts at leaving here. we remember
you. some times.
with difficulty.
some times.
the sun shines,
some times it rains.
sometimes it looks calm when we can feel the wind.
lightly.
© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher
- sonja-benskin-mesher.net
- Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
- Sonja on Twitter
- sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk
- Sonja’s daily blog (WordPress) is HERE.
beyond
sundays
in rains
forgotten odor
and those ingrown dreams
about
her arm
sundays in rains
like a farewell
beyond
© 2019, Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия блог за авторска поезия)
when the clouds go by
when the birds fly high
when the cold winds blow
and I cannot fly to you
then I sit by the window
and look out through,
the raindrops fall
and I count them all
but I soon can’t see
there are so many
they keep falling
as do my hot tears
then I start counting
for I have my fears
the rain may stop and
the drops may not drop
but my love for you
will go on flying
high in the sky,along
with the birds,along
with the clouds, will
be carried by the rain
saying ‘Oh, tis true
I miss you
© 2019, poem (English and Urdu) and illustration, Anjum Wasim Dar
کبھی جب آسماں پہ بادلوں کا گزر ھوتا ھے
کبھی جب پرندے اونچی اڑان بھرتے ھیں
جب کبھی تیز ٹھنڈی ھواؑیں چلتی ھیں
اور میں ان کے ساتھ اڑ نھیں سکتی
میری راہ تم تک پہنچ نھیں سکتی
تو میں کھڑکی کے پاس بیٹھ جاتی ھوں
اور باھر فزا کو تکنے لگتی ھوں
بارش کی بوندیں گرتی جاتی ھیں
اور معیں انھیں گنتی جاتی ھوں
مگر جلد ھی کچھ دکھایؑ دیتا نہیں
بارش کی رم جھم میں کچھ سنایؑ دیتا نہیں
بوندوں کے ساتھ ساتھ آنسو برستے ہیں
تم تک پہنچوں کیسے وہ بھی ترستے ہیں
بادل کی گھن گرج بجلی سے ڈرتے ہیں
کہیں بارش تھم نہ جاےؑ
بوندیں گرنی رک نہ جایںؑ
لیکن میرا پیار تمھارے لیےؑ اونچا اڑتا رھے گا
فلک کی فظاوؑں میں پرندوں کے ساتھ ساتھ
بادلوں کے سنگ سنگ بارش کے ھمراہ چلتا
رھے گا اور یہ گیت تمھاری یاد کے گاتا رھے گا
گیت تمھاری یاد کے گاتا رھے گا
“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar
ABOUT
Testimonials
Disclosure
A homebound writer, poet, and former columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication, my work has been featured in print and digital publications including: “Ramingo’s Porch,’ ‘Vita Brevis Literature,’ ‘Connotation Press,’ ‘The Bar None Group,’ ‘Salamander Cove,’ ‘I Am Not a Silent Poet,’ ‘The Compass Rose’ and ‘California Woman.’ I run The Poet by Day (jamiededes.com), an info hub for poets and writers. I am also the editor of a quarterly digital publication, ”The BeZine’ (thebezine.com).
SHIELA JACOB was born and raised in Birmingham, England and lives with her husband in Wrexham, on the Welsh border. Her poetry has been published in several U.K. magazines and webzines. She recently self-published a short collection of poems that form a memoir to her father who died in 1965. She finds her 1950s childhood and family background a source of inspiration for many of her poems.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 