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rain, with love and blisses, a poem… and your next Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Petrichor (/ˈpɛtrɪkɔːr/) is the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. The word is constructed from Greek petra (πέτρα), meaning “stone”, and īchōr (ἰχώρ), the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology.” Wikipedia … we have John Anstie (My Poetry Library) and friends to thank for an introduction to this word: “Petrichor Rising” and How the Twitterverse Birthed Friendships that in turn birthed a poetry collection 



evening rain patters about, plays the
rooftop like a kettle drum, taps a code
on window panes, spills itself and
the scent of petrichor rises from
mud puddles and rain-carved rills

sly stars caper in a game of hide and
seek, shy clouds spoon in the smoky
quartz of a subdued moon, a late
dawn will rise in subtile pewter light

Oh!

how they steal our sleep
these, the beloved nights  
so rich in comforting blisses

© 2019, Jamie Dedes; photograph, U.S. Department of Agriculture, public domain

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

The challenge this week is to write about the emotions rain engenders in you. For me it’s joy (and perfect weather for writing), although I’ve never experienced rain to the point of flooding and I don’t have rheumatoid arthritis as so many of my friends do, so no pain or anger. For some people rain is depressing. How about you?  Tell us in your own poetry.

Share your poem/s on theme in the comments section below or leave a link to it/them. All poems on theme are published on the first Tuesday following the current Wednesday Writing Prompt. (Please no oddly laid-out poems.)

 No poems submitted through email or Facebook will be published. 

IF this is your first time joining us for The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-). These are partnered with your poem/s on first publication.

PLEASE send the bio ONLY if you are with us on this for the first time AND only if you have posted a poem (or a link to one of yours) on theme in the comments section below.  

Deadline:  Monday, May 27 by 8 pm Pacific Standard Time. If you are unsure when that would be in your time zone, we recommend using ​The Time Zone Converter.

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, showcasing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you. This is a discerning non-judgemental place to connect.

You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.


ABOUT

“She Hurt” … and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Gender equality, equality between men and women, entails the concept that all human beings, both men and women, are free to develop their personal abilities and make choices without the limitations set by stereotypes, rigid gender roles and prejudices. Gender equality means that the different behaviour, aspirations and needs of women and men are considered, valued and favoured equally. It does not mean that women and men have to become the same, but that their rights, responsibilities and opportunities will not depend on whether they are born male or female. Gender equity means fairness of treatment for women and men, according to their respective needs. This may include equal treatment or treatment that is different but which is considered equivalent in terms of rights, benefits, obligations and opportunities.” ABC Of Women Worker’s Rights And Gender Equality, ILO, 2000. p. 48.



The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, I Am the Answer, May 15 was a call to write about the need for girls and women to be treated as fully human with the same rights, responsibilities, and opportunities as men.   We have dramatic examples throughout the world of how whole families are pulled out of poverty when women are educated, treated with respect, and not forced into marriage and how boys and men benefit as well as girls.

mm brazfield, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Renee Espriu, Jen Goldie, and Anjum Wasim Dar, share their observations, experiences, and pain. The ironies will not be lost on anyone, most profoundly so in mm brazfield’s poem only her and in Paul Brookes poem Liberty.  

Thanks to all these poets and special thanks to Irma, Renee, and Anjum for the added value of their illustrations. Anjum has also gifted us with the poem Lament by the Indian Poet Sahir Ludhianvi via video in Urdu. You’ll find the English translation below the video. 

Readers will note links to sites if available are included that you might visit these stellar poets. The links for contributors are always connected to their blogs or websites NOT to specific poems.

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.


only her

you can close me off with fences

imprison my children

the tropics of virtue

you can ban me from freedom

steal my breath

you can poison my lakes

kill my volcanoes

destroy my mountains

spill all of my seas

imprison my clouds and the stars too

deny me the gods and saints

burn my trails

deny me the field

you can turn off my sun and the moon

abort my miracles and all of my flowers

certainly you can hurt me

and finish off my children

cut my eyes cut my veins and exploit my riches

you can deny me the heavenly secrets

and a simple drink of water

but you will never conquer the love of a mother

© 2019, poem (English, Spanish, Portuguese), mm brazfiled (Words Less Spoken)

Solo Ella

me puedes cerrar llenarme de bardas

encarcelar a mis hijos

los trópicos de virtud

me puedes prohibir libertad

robarme el aire

puedes envenenar mis lagos

asesinar mis volcanes

destruir mis montanas

derramar todos mis mares

aprisionar mis nubes y las estrellas también

negarme a los dioses y santos

quemar mis veredas negarme el campo

podrás apagar mi sol y la luna

abortar a mis milagros y todas mis flores

cierta mente puedes herirme y terminar

con mis hijos enyerbar mis ojos

cortar mis venas y explotar mis riquezas

podrás negarme los secretos celestiales

y un simple trago de agua

pero nunca vencerás el amor de una madre

só ela

você pode me fechar me encher de cercas

aprisionar meus filhos

os trópicos da virtude

você pode me banir da liberdade

roubar minha respiração

você pode envenenar meus lagos

mate meus vulcões

destruir minhas montanhas

derrame todos os meus mares

aprisionar minhas nuvens

e as estrelas também

negar-me aos deuses e santos

queima minhas trilhas me negam

o campo você pode desligar meu sol

o lua abortar meus milagres

e todas as minhas flores

certamente você pode me machucar

e terminar com meus filhos

meus olhos cortar minhas veias

e explorar minhas riquezas

você pode me negar os segredos celestiais

e uma simples bebida de água

mas você nunca vai conquistar

o amor de uma mãe


She Hurt

cradled in their arms her pain
gets up and swims around the room.

It swims from her head, beneath her skin,
Her skin is the yellow ocean that bleeds.

Fish rises in the sky a summer
Fish dives under the earth a winter

Her mother drips breastmilk into a cup
to feed her hurt baby.

Many hands wish to hold the pain,
Lift up the wounded body.

Wishes are wrapped in colour.
Yellow ghosts look on beside
plants ready to flower.

From Paul’s forthcoming collection Fish Strawberries

© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Liberty

is a woman holding up a torch
in a harbour whilst she is not free
in certain states to have control
over her own body.

Justice

is a woman who holds the scales
blindfolded and dumb.

I am not a statues so carry the torch with my words

and clearly see my future
decided by me.

© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

In Charge of Her Own

body.
Her womb no longer
the property of the law.

No longer cut
and shaped by knives.
between her legs

Her voice not silenced.
Her opinions not downplayed
as over emotional, unreasonable.

Sometimes she does not feel
in charge of her own body
as it changes, but reminds herself
she knows how to find the answer
to the questions her body asks.

© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

To And Fro

the iron
over bedsheets, his shirts,
as she stands three hours

hot poker of pain
in the small of her back,
lists what else to do,

take down window nets,
wash and iron,
vax front room,
lug it upstairs for bedroom,
carpets,
hoover front room,
lug it upstairs for bedroom
carpets,
clean windows inside
to and fro,
to and fro
polish beneath knick knacks
bought on holiday,
to and fro
strip and remake beds,
make his tea,
always meat and two veg

He arrives home and says,
“What have you ever done for me?”

© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Paul Brookes, prolific Yorkshire poet

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

  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.S. HERE
  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.K. HERE

More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play


This Female Body – A Trijan Refrain Poem

Born into this female body
So sweet was my first cry
I should have screamed like a banshee
For no princess was I
It may not seem my role in life
But fate has lead me to this strife
It may not seem
It may not seem
My strength and persistence is rife

Born into this female body
But told it’s not my own
I primp and starve and stare blankly
And let your seed be sown
I know you think I chose this role
But I hate not having control
I know you think
I know you think
But you don’t know what’s in my soul

Born into this female body
I vote for my free will
I am more than breast, womb, booty
My voice is loud and shrill
Listen to me – I’ll not abide
It is your turn to be denied
Listen to me
Listen to me
I won’t let you push me aside

This is a new poetry form I am trying – it’s called a Trijan Refrain. I discovered it through LadyLeeManila’s blog with her poem “On My Red Bike”. I was intrigued by the repeating refrain and the rhyme and meter constraints, so decided to try it out.

Jamie Dedes at The Poet By Day, inspired the topic for this Trijan Refrain. Her challenge was to write a poem about what it would be like if women and girls were seen everywhere as “being fully human”. I don’t know if I have fully captured the scope of this challenge. I do know that women are needed to use their voices and their votes to stop the reversal of rights and advances that our foremothers worked so hard to secure for us in the United States. I also believe, that around the world, uplifting women improves their lives as well as that of their families and communities.

I have often wondered what the world would be like if women did truly rule the world, on their terms, not those stipulated by our current patriarchal society. The role of women have been erased throughout history and today, women have been reduced to the role of hidden helper, silent supporter or thing-to-be-objectified. Is it because they are afraid if we regain our power, we will show how brightly we shine and fear getting burned with our brilliance?

©️2019, words and illustration, Irma Do (I Do Run, and I do a few other things too)


The Truth of Hindsight

Hindsight is always better it is said
always invoking in me the transgressions
in my past of the egregious kind

conceived into an ethnically diverse family
curious of the differences, yet both drawn
and repelled like a moth to a flame

one of only a handful of such families
in an all-white neighborhood
though I did not distinguish it
then

my reddish skinned father and white mother
craving more but for unspoken reasons
spoken in private understanding

she from impoverished beginnings
he in accepting only European roots

agreeing upon only one thing in union
the dictates of societal norms for me
a child of the female persuasion

that marriage is best accepted sooner
than later & children are part of the
sanctioned outcome

but mind you if such an arrangement
is not a path upon which you wish to tread
then only professions of nursing
and teaching will suffice

for creativity in writing or artistic endeavor
will never sustain you in living
and you would know this
in hindsight

now in hindsight I only understand that
not everything that comes before
is better than that which
comes later

in hindsight I wish I had known that
choosing the passion of your heart
over being accepted
is what my path
Should
Have
Been

© 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)


Had You Been A Boy

Had you been boy we’d have called
you Jeff. I was sorry for the theft
that resulted in a nest, while her past
desires, the freedom, the joy, the
dancing, all arrested by not so gentle
a man’s theft, and repeatedly attested
to, while unpaid, unearned damages left,
a girl’s desire not to conspire to the same
mistakes, yet though a mark was left.
I am Woman, I am Strong, my mind
and body my own, lessons learned
from the nest. I harken, to my own drum,
unlike others like our mother’s, that we
will never forget, and that singularly
innocent, yet flippant remark,
“Had you been a boy.”

© 2019, Jen Goldie (Jen Goldie and Starlight and Moonbeams … and the Occasional Cat )


It’s a Girl

It’s a girl,
O’hurry put her beneath the sand
Oh, no one can stand or understand
this creature, soft and tender
I wonder why ?
when life is so grand.
Girls ,mothers daughters
sisters and wives,
Can life move on without these five?
The land of Faith The land of oil
Did they really bury their daughters
alive?
Girls are the lively spirits
of a home or castles at heights
girls are Goldilocks Cinderellas
and Snow Whites
They are Queens Ranis and First ladies
blacks or whites-
When girls are born moods are forlorn
bringing up a burden in a teacup , a storm,
Then sold tortured and finally given away
Where is a girl’s real home, to stay?
Born buried and barred,
are they really so bad
and scarred?
Girls are sweet loving and kind
I wish we would be soft tender
and caring for them in
our hearts and mind.

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

It’s her ’ and no one smiled, soon  abandoned,
just a heap of rot, despised, hated,maddened,

In many lands, born of any caste or creed,
not differentiated, nor separated just negated

cashed song composed without G Minor,
a fifteen to a forty niner, old miner, young niner

might as well dig earth, cut grass or carry bricks
face negligence, bear torture, meet injustice, get kicks

lift the latch anywhere and  find, cracks in the door
scarred traces burnt faces, signs of hot tempered rackets-

sad sorrowful echoes of screams slaps and strikes
in the tender dwellings of  fearful famished femininity-

whose chest is crammed with refrains of ugly curses
profane, drafted with hatred,unreasonable, mundane-

beauty’s blend for care, created for eternal company
stays abused, enslaved, spared not, restrained,  why?

who will cut the strings of  human bondage cruel,of
lacerant tortured, suffering, darkened, silent jewel

What was ancient unknown ignorant  and abolished
made eloquent graceful revered  and superbly sacred

current in countless fetters slowly, visibly, tabescent
is played with, raped, harassed, crushed as deficient

‘why’ is the question? life for her, made a punishment?
if disobedience be sin, hasn’t man first, set the precedent?

© 2019, poem (English and Urdu) and illustration, Anjum Wasim Dar

کویؑ مسکراہٹ نہ رہی باقی
چہرے مردہ خاموشی سے تکنے لگے

لڑکا نہیں  لڑکی  ھے

کیوں کویؑ خوشی نہ رہی باقی

چھپا دو  کہیں بھی ان نفرتوں کے ڈھیر کو
پیار کیا کرنے کو  اب  کچھ  محبت ہی نہ رہی باقی

زات عقیدہ رنگ و نسل  کے فرق کی بات نہیں
اب تو خواہش  اولاد ہی نہ رہی  باقی

اک سر  جو  راگ  سے  کٹ گیا  نغمہ فزا میں بکھر گیا
گیت بنے گا کیسے کہ دھن ہی نہ رہی باقی

انصاف نہیں غفلت و تشدد  و  دامن داغدار رھے
جینا ایسے تو کیا جینا جینے کی تمنہ ہی نہ رہی باقی

بچپن رک گیا  بڑھاپے سے زبردستی جڑ گیا اینٹیں اٹھاوؑ
گھاس  کاٹو   اپنا گھر اپنی باغبانی ہی نہ رہی باقی

کس کی چاہت کیسی عزت  کیسی رکھوالی زنجیر ہی
پڑے گی پاوؑں  میں  غلامی لکھی ھے آ زادی نہ رہی باقی

کون کاٹے گا یہ نفرت کی بیڑیاں سب کچھ تو جل گیا
الاہ کا قانون یاد نہیں کوؑلہ بنی ھے ، چمک ہی نہ رہی باقی

سوال ہیہ ھے ،یہ ظلم کیوں گناہ کیوں عزت کیوں نہیں
ماں بیٹی بہن بیوی کا مقدس رشتہ کہاں ؟ عقیدت ہی نہ رہی باقی

Lament

Woman gave birth to men
And men gave her the marketplace
To crush and trample at will
To reject and cast off at will
Woman gave birth to men…

She is weighed somewhere in dinars
And sold somewhere in bazaars
She is made to dance naked
In the courts of the debauched
She is that dishonored creature
Who is shared out between the honorable
Woman gave birth to men…..)

For men, every torment is acceptable
For a woman, even weeping is a crime
For men, there are a million beds
For a woman, there is just one pyre
For men, there is a right to every depravity
For a woman, even to live is a punishment
Woman gave birth to men……)

The customs that men created
Were given the name of rights
The burning alive of a woman
Was decreed to be sacrifice
In return for purity she was given bread
And even that was called a favour
Woman gave birth to men…..)

Woman is the destiny of the world
But she is still the one abased by fate
She bears reincarnations and prophets
But she is still the Devil’s daughter
Woman gave birth to men…..)

© Indian Poet Sahir Ludhianvi

Translation courtesy of Musical Rainbow

Find Anjum here:

ABOUT

Alan Lowe, poet, writer, and the coordinator of the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest

Huddart Park, San Francisco Peninsula

“Instruction does much, but encouragement everything.” (Letter to A.F. Oeser, Nov. 9, 1768), Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Early and Miscellaneous Letters of J. W. Goethe: Including Letters to His Mother. With Notes and a Short Biography



This is a poem by Alan Lowe. You might remember that Alan is the gentleman who – along with Sue Clark, the members of the Poets Club of Lincoln, The Lincoln Library and The Friends of the Lincoln Library – invited readers to submit poems to be considered for the library’s annual poetry contest, no demographic or geographic restrictions, and no entry fee. Details on the 15th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest HEREI wanted to introduce you to Alan and what better way to do so than with a poem he wrote? It’s a poem that reminds us of just how vulnerable we can be as school-age youth.

My Special Angel

I’m trembling,
but I don’t know why.
She tells me
I shouldn’t be scared,
but I am.
I want to believe her—
my wonderful, special angel.
She has never let me down,
but this seems different.
I can’t put my finger on it—
it’s so hard to describe.
With dark, black clouds overhead,
gray shadows pervade my world.
Graceful ghostlike figures dance
to a tune I’m unable to hear.
They motion to me to join them,
to become a part of their show.
The trembling gets worse,
tears form in my eyes.
I want to run away
and hide from the things
I don’t understand and can’t explain.
But my angel tells me I must not.
“It’s just part of growing up,”
she declares.
“You have to face your demons,
conquer your fears,
and develop into a strong person.”
“But I’m only twelve-years old,”
I cry out in frustration.
“I know,” she says,
placing her hands on my shoulders,
as she turns to go back
to the front of the classroom.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

ALAN LOWE (The Truth of the Matter Is ….) was born and raised in New York, but has spent over fifty-four years in California, the past seventeen living in Lincoln with his wife, Barbara. Earning a Ph.D. in Educational Psychology/Counseling from UCLA, he spent thirty-nine years working in higher education as a teacher, counselor, and administrator. He retired in 2008. His background in Psychology colors his writing, much of which centers on feelings, perceptions, and how people interact in our complex world. In retirement, he enjoys writing poetry, short stories, and plays. His poetry has placed in contests and has been published in newspapers and periodicals. Three of the plays he has written have been performed under his direction. As a member of the Poets Club of Lincoln, he has served as the Coordinator of the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest since 2009. The contest has grown steadily and has become international in scope.


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CELEBRATING AMERICAN SHE-POETS (#35): Joan Leotta, playing with words on page

“Now each square’s

a pathway back to childhood”


Quilt

Sitting on my couch,

I snuggle under a quilt

made from Grandma’s coats.

Each square’s cut from a day

we went out together

to shop, to lunch, or church.

I would lean against her

in car, streetcar or taxi

when I was weary of it all.

Grandma would hug me,

pull me close— my cheek

against each season’s coat,

comforting me.

Now each square’s

a pathway back to childhood

when my cheek

on grandma’s coat

could quiet the discord of a

too busy world.

© Joan Leotta

Quilt was fist published by the North Carolina Silver Arts Group where it won the state’s Bronze Medal for Poetry in 2017

Pie by Another Name

A few over-ripe

peaches in the fruit bin

beg to be sliced

into the succor

of a single crust

laid onto a flat pan.

Then, from the bowl

where I dusted slices

with cornstarch,

brown sugar,

I lay the peaches

on the crust and

overlay all with pats

of sweet butter.

My baker-trained fingers

seek to shape all into

pie formation,

but I’m left with a

flat pastry whose

edges I twist to hold

in peachy goodness, then

bake, this oddly-shaped

concoction.

Leftover baked peaches in

misshapen dough—

much better

when called,

galette.

© Joan Leotta

Illustration “Starting a New Quilt” courtesy of Anna under CC BY 2.0 license

JOAN LEOTTA  (What Editors Want You to Know, Joan Leotta’s Encouraging Words through pen and performance-interviews with Editors) has been playing with words on page and stage since childhood. She performs regularly for children and adults and writes for both audiences as well–poetry, essays, short fiction, novels, picture books, and magazine and newspaper articles. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Silver Birch, Postcard Poems and Prose, The Ekphrastic Review and Creative Inspirations. She delights in finding beauty in the ordinary
and in imagining the story behind a work of art. When not at computer or on stage, you can find her with family, walking the beach, or in the kitchen.
Author, Story Performer
“Encouraging words through Pen and Performance”
Giulia Goes to War, Letters from Korea, A Bowl of Rice, Secrets of the Heart historical fiction in Legacy of Honor Series; Simply a Smile--collection of Short Stories; WHOOSH! Picture book from THEAQ; Download a mini-chapbook of Joan’s poems HERE. Connect with Joan on Facebook HERE. Joan’s Amazon Page HERE.

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