“My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world and exiles me from it.” Ursula K. Le Guin
These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, the lesser being of a lesser god, June 13 certainly take us through time and geography, touch lightly or deeply on theme, all while warming our hearts and spinning our minds along the way. Enjoy! and Thanks! to Paul Brookes, Irene Emanuel, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Marta Pombo Salés. These poets seem always up for a challenge.
Thanks also and a warm welcome to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt to Debbie Felio, Carol Mikoda and Anne G. Myles, accomplished writers all. Debbie’s work was featured before on The Poet by Day but not for Wednesday Writing Prompt, so here she is introduced in this context.
Join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome to share their work on theme.
Least of These
I find myself
in losing self
amid the grander
moments in creation
for why would I
settle as the larger
of the lesser
among so little
grant me the serenity
to seek the enormity
of a great God’s creativity
lesser me at the edge
of Grand Canyon’s
cragged colors
lesser me in the depths
and breadths
of roaring oceans
lesser me in the wonders
of rainbows and cloud banks
snowstorms and tornados
lesser me counted
as one of millions
stars and galaxies
never am I so grand
as when the Grandest
includes in His resume
the lesser me.
© 2018, Deb Felio
DEBBIE FELIO is a poet/witness living and writing in Boulder, Colorado
Death’s Immensity
Stand next to one wall, let’s say
the north side, of a massive
building. Look up into the
sky, noticing only a
few puffs of clouds. Sweep your eyes
back down, catching sight of this
wall — gray, smooth, unending — and
recall it.
Instantly, the personal fantasy of
existence disintegrates,
leaving only wisps. Lungs
empty,
breath sucked away.
Only flatness,
a loss of all
color and detail.
Once again,
know Death
and be
paralyzed.
© 2018, Carol Mikoda
CAROL MIKODA teaches writing and new teachers in upstate New York. She lives in the country where she walks in the woods, studies the sky to photograph clouds, and grows vegetables and flowers. She also sings and plays piano, guitar, and bass. Although she enjoys travel, her cat, Zen Li Shou, would rather she stayed home.
*
Scaffold
For Mary Dyer, Quaker martyr, d. 1660
1.
The only woman to be taken to the scaffold twice.
In October, you watched your friends drop,
then they let you go. In May you came back
and the second time it was for real.
Both times they marched you the last mile
flanked by soldiers, drummers, ministers —
the charivari of execution. You said
It is the greatest joy I can enjoy in this world.
I hunt online to see what you saw before you,
gaze lifted, sure and unrepentant:
the raw wood architecture of terror
set up on Boston Neck,
a strange delicacy in it perhaps;
its silence, its certainty, full stop.
The light that was the frailest metaphor
pouring through the noose.
2.
Scaffolding, as educators call it,
means how you model or demonstrate
the way to solve a problem,
how you build on students’ experiences
adding support, until in time
they can do it for themselves.
When the terror of the present gripped me
I wanted to write your story,
attempt to interweave it with my own,
tell what happened while it was possible.
By the time I reached the end, I hoped
(though I no longer believed what you did
as I’d tried to many years ago
and it almost crushed me)
you would teach me to be brave.
3.
Before they led imaginary
John Proctor to the scaffold,
before he thought better of it,
before he chose the honor of his name,
he bellowed in desire
I want my life!
4.
The poet said in workshop:
The scaffolding of a poem is its skeleton.
Consider the poem as a body;
what’s keeping it upright?
What are the rules that keep it alive,
that build its world?
I couldn’t help but smile.
I saw that after all it was this I got:
in middle age as you were,
you helped bring me back to poetry
and left me there, lesser, grateful,
heart pounding with desire
to walk and keep on walking
in my own recovered light.
© 2018, Anne G. Myles
ANNE G. MYLES, originally from the east coast, and now Associate Professor of English at the University of Northern Iowa, specializing in early American literature. You can find some of my earlier academic thoughts about Mary Dyer in her Wikipedia entry, as I recently learned to my surprise. I have been drawn back to my lost origins in creative writing in the past year or so, and poetry (the form in which I was trained) even more recently, including but not limited to working on a series of Mary Dyer poems. I hope to begin sending work out soon. I have a blog about matters related to my recovering my creative voice at “How public — like a Blog –,” annegolda.blog
*
My god is
Imperfect, a perfect image for me.
Humbled by its mistakes.
My god is a mistake.
A wrong answer,
Differently abled.
Its winters often in spring.
Its summers sometime in autumn.
My god is a fracture, a flaw.
Gender fluid. Defined by its
Inhumanity, it is complete
in its incompleteness. Aspires
not to aspire. My god is contradiction,
counter intuitive. Fresh in its decay.
Its more is always less. Thank god.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration * History * Imagination)
Gust Is Deaf, Hills Are Blind,
trees can’t walk properly,
Flowers twitch haphazardly.
Grass is mute, rivers are dumb.
Nature is differently abled.
Mountains are too tall,
struggle to talk when they can’t
bend a knee, get down to those smaller
who are in awe when all mountains need
is to speak face to face , dispel their myth.
Same with water that rushes by,
no time to stand and stare, moments pass
before they have time to fully comprehend.
Flux needs a still moment but has to go on.
Still waters wish they could rush.
All hankers after what it Is not,
Cannot accept their place as their lot.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration * History * Imagination)
© 2018, Irene Emanuel
. the robe.
kept in a box, precious.
lifted down for those to see,
that care.
did the understanding come,
the idea that all old things
are wanted, needed for their story.
not discarded on higher ground,
where dust and moth abound.
the lesser garment became prefered,
as the last shall become the first.
we shall look at the photographs.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (poetry and illustration below)
.. bad night dreaming ..
dreamed of devastation, flew miles low
over concrete . skeletons, bones of the thing.
all is dust, as dust we have become. slow.
grey. nothing moves here no more. no sighs.
they have forgotten us. we have forgotten them.
are we now the bones of what we were?
bad night dreaming.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
Confidence
With ebbs and flows
like sea and lake waters
the ground was trembling,
magnificent earthquake
confidence was at stake.
Wanted to do your best
so never felt at rest
you are too self-demanding
so confidence faded.
Too much self-exigency
leave me please, let me be
tell it now.
That parent, sister, brother,
that relative of yours
or that good friend or lover
if not, the teacher you had
someone said: great, keep up
or someone said, instead,
I think you have no talent
you will not earn a living
you are now wasting your time.
Your confidence fluctuating.
Ghosts of self-exigency
ghosts of negative people
let them vanish.
Hateful comparisons,
like storms amid the sea
till everything seems awash,
like strong winds on Earth
till each house looks swept,
mercilessly taken.
What light dwells in your soul
what thoughts in your mind
this is not to be disregarded,
disrespected or dismissed.
From your uniqueness, your creation
comes as a true revelation.
Let the ghosts of comparison
fade away from the sea
from the land you inhabit.
As the sun shines on you
so will confidence.
© 2018, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)
“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” Madeleine L’Engle … perhaps one can even say this applies to poetry.
Tuesdays are among the most popular days for people to visit the The Poet by Day and that’s because of the quality of work our poetry community produces and the fascination I believe we all have with the variety of reactions to a prompt. Such delight. So here today are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, April 18, The Taste of Baklava.
Thanks to these talented, often visionary, and intrepid poets for coming out to play: Irene Aaron (a.k.a. Irene Emanuel), Paul Brooks, Sheila Jacob, Frank McMahan, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Pleasant Street. The artful Sonja has shared her illustrations as well.
Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome – encouraged – to participate no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro. Meanwhile, read on, enjoy, and be inspired.
RAINY DAY COMFORT
Afternoon rain,
steam on tar;
liquid leaves litter rain-sparkled grass.
School-shoe leather
splashing sweet-water puddles,
spraying the grey air with promise.
Homeward bound
after school, comfort food
beckons with tempting smells.
Batter on griddle,
sizzling pancakes
drowned in farm butter and maple syrup.
Olfactory senses
unlock fragrances of
security and warmth,
a taste of childhood days.
© 2018, Irene Emanuel
*A special welcome today to Irene Aaron, new to Wednesday Writing Prompt. Irene’s pen name is the lovely Irene Emanuel. Irene didn’t have a chance to email her bio and photo. When she does, I’ll add it to this post as is tradition with writers new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt.
My Mam’s Spice
Our home were spiced up,
when she were well.
Mam put wooden pots
of her favourite fragrances
on the tiled hearth,
strung garlands
on the hallway walls.
Allspice, cedar wood shavings
cinnamon bark and cassia bark
cloves, cypress wood shavings
fennel seed, incense-cedar
wood shavings, jasmine flowers
and oil, jujube blooms,
juniper wood shavings.
I thought it magic,
‘ cause it didn’t rot,
lavender leaves,
lemon balm leaves,
lemon peel, marjoram leaves,
mignonette leaves, mint leaves,
mugwort, orange peel,
sweet citrus infused all rooms,
pelargonium leaves, pinyon pine
shavings and cones, rose flowers,
hips, rosemary leaves,
even on the gusty winter day mam died,
and the sharp tangs were stench
and the pots were emptied,
garlands binned, odours dissipated
from rooms but not memory.
© 2018, Paul Brookes
Dad Never Only Considers Most
relevant part of a map.
When he gets lost, he stops,
at the entrance to the busiest junction,
sometimes, before a roundabout,
and unfolds a view of the world
to its fullest extent to find his way.
Perhaps, at work when he changes
one tiny part of the system he traces
its effect on a detailed draughted whole diagram
of council offices, hospitals
or nuclear subs where he has installed
new heating waste management services.
And I at work or home cursed with the same
need for thorough deliberation,
find bosses, wives and workmates sigh
at my slow, detailed examination
of an issue, that had I rushed,
as when angry, only find confusion.
My dad and I bring the whole going on
to a brief stop as others
who wish to get on, hoot, cringe,
whistle and toot their dismay.
We ignore them all to, quietly,
stubbornly, slowly map our way.
Original publication in “Verse Virtual.”
© 2018, Paul Brookes
Blowing bubbles
We lean into a breeze skittering
off the hills, send bubbles
soaring through plastic rings.
Our grandsons cheer-
their turn next and we caution
mind you don’t trip
don’t run into the road
but they’re sure-footed, stay
close, race one way then another
across an ellipse of lawn.
* * * * *
I recall dandelion-clocks
in a long ago garden.
puff-breath count the seeds
watch them fly tell the time
one o’clock two o’clock
tick-tock mind the nettles
rub a dock leaf on stings
hold a buttercup under your chin
loop a daisy-chain over your wrist
* * * * *
I feel a child’s arms around
my waist, kiss his blond head.
His brother runs to me:taller,
raven-haired, I hug them both,
wipe soap-sticky hands
and the four of us chase
fresh bubbles, catch some
on our palms, pop the highest
with our fingertips, let others melt
into trodden tufts of grass.
© 2018, Shiela Jacob
PEBBLE
I choose a pebble from the beach
and lick a fleck of salt
from the red/brown round. Pebble
to cherish through this journey. Grit
and strength and wit must all combine
to carry out this pledge. Northwards.
Find the first hill. Grief lies
beyond evasion and found me in moments
of repose between fell and crag,
peat bog and flooding stream. Two
hundred miles, one sea left behind,
the other found. Sunlight then spindrift,
one last steep hill falling between the red-tiled
homes to the flat,grey sea. A membrane bursts,
spilling everything distilled:
sorrow and ache and pride. Jolted,
I gasp and clutch a rail, salt burns
my cheek. Walk, walk. I place the pebble
on my boot. A wave inspects
and takes its tribute. I turn and climb, talking
again in silence to one unseen.
© 2018, Frank McMahan
. a vision request .
early while driving. omen repeating
sometimes the sun comes lower after the crest
one moment
imagine them marching, slow & white.
will you name them?
in the wake all things come clear.
slow & white.
later below the peaks i tell him. he said it is
the dark crystal.
© 2018, poem and illustration (below), Sonja Benskin Mesher
. a moment .
when the world runs cold,
water freezing, eyes held
from the words.
moments with the old story,
knowing it will be understood.
each day a moment to be
shared out here.
the poetry circle is closed.
now.
do not believe all you read.
© 2018, poem and illustration (below), Sonja Benskin Mesher
Falling Star, 1989
I didn’t belong there and I knew it
how you were not mine yet
and she did not know you were there
with me
letting something grow
that was for keeps
in time
keeping time, and
holding on tightly
so that no one could sever our bond
looking upwards
that fierce green streak
putting a stamp on it
on us
and for once
I believed in signs
© 2018, Pleasant Street
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