Showing posts from September, 2019

The Extinction of the Bees

Poets United's Midweek Motif this week invites us to write of honey-bees.

The Extinction of the Bees
I used to take care, placing my feet on the clover-decked lawn.
You hummed everywhere there, low to the ground, a murmurous sound
quietly busy before afternoon ’s warmth-induced swoon
when you reeled, dizzy with honey and heat, heavy and replete.
That was long ago when I was a child – the climate still mild
and what did we know of changes we’d see or losses to be?
My eightieth year perceives your absence: though colours and scents
still call to you here, I’ve a bee-less garden. Does God’s heart harden?
I cultivate weeds, need miracles, pray. Still you stay away.
Dandelion seeds abound in my care but their blooms are bare
of your many small forms, collective so

Colours of Music

In response to a prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads': Bits of Inspiration ~ The Colors in a Song, asking us for a synaesthetic response to various pieces of music, I chose two:

Colours of Music
Jimmy’s a shimmy, all colourless glitter, or veering between splashes of silver, flashes of gold.
Then, when his guitar screams along its cutting edge, the noise is red, sharp red, then ragged black, then piercing white, easing down into purple haze.
Ella is yellow shining sunny.  Then toffee gold  deepens to mellow,  softening caramel, sweet....
Now lifts into blue as her voice soars, swells and lingers, falling into a rhythmic fade: pale yellow, sunlight on water.

That's Not What I Meant! [Prose]

In Interactive Moonlight Musings #2: "That's Not What I Meant" at Poets United, Magaly asks us how we react when our writings are misinterpreted (and to write of this in 369 or fewer words). 

Is It Me Or Is It Them?
I write a poem full of sorrow for a friend’s approaching death. A reader feels glad I’m so happy in my friendship.
I rail at political decisions I deplore. Someone professes agreement (!) that we’re lucky to be well governed.
I indulge in a piece of light-hearted nonsense. People tell me it’s deeply moving, profound.
It’s wonderful to be in this poetic community where we can exchange feedback on our work. Yet how disconcerting when readers who believe they understand a poem get it completely wrong!
Have I written it badly? Is it perhaps a cultural difficulty? Or are they just plain dumb?
If only one reader misunderstands while everyone else gets it, it can’t be a fault in my writing. Maybe, when we respond to prompts then try to read as many other responses as we ca…

But All Must Be Endured ...

In Wild Friday at Poets United, Sanaa invites us to complete one of Sappho's fragments — this one:
In my eyes he matches the gods 
In my eyes he matches the gods, that man whosits there facing you—any man whatever— listening from close by to the sweetness of your           voice as you talk, the
sweetness of your laughter: yes, that—I swear it— sets the heart to shaking inside my breast, since once I look at you for a moment, I can't           speak any longer,
but my tongue breaks down, and then all at once a subtle fire races inside my skin, my eyes can't see a thing and a whirring whistle           thrums at my hearing,
cold sweat covers me and a trembling takes a hold of me all over: I'm greener than the grass is and appear to myself to be little           short of dying.
But all must be endured, since even a poor 

So here is my idea:

But All Must Be Endured ...
But all must endured, since even a poor fellow may sit, laugh, speak with you, touch your hand— even one utterly unworthy to s…

Seeing Stars


Seeing Stars
There is so much light on the ground and so bright, few stars can be found when we gaze up at night, and those few are dim and blurry. But we are in such a hurry, we seldom lift our sight.
We scurry about, looking down, surrounded by city or town – yet out in the real dark beyond the artificial lights, in the true, atavistic nights, a star is no mere spark.
In the vast arc of that black sky, so infinitely far and high, every star is ablaze: intensely clear, shockingly bright. Then we know the meaning of light – and of awe, giving praise.

A poem in response to the Midweek Motif ~ Looking at Stars at Poets United. In this piece I am also practising the Rime Couée – a French form shared at Robert Lee Brewer's 'Poetic Asides' recently – which has:
Six-line stanzas.Eight syllables in lines one, two, four, and five.Six syllables in the third and sixth lines.Rhyme scheme of AABCCB

Dreaming True

Dreaming True

In order to enter the dream and stay living there, you need to believe the dream. You must not for a moment allow yourself to know that the other, different world (which you think you remember) has any reality. Let it be just a vague idea easily forgotten, of no substance. Until you can master this understanding, you will always come back from the land of the dream, the enchanted universe.
You can’t stay there if the grey quagmire 
of doubtdrains the light from your eyes, the dance from your step; if you let it suck you back into an outside world of pain and fear, and little joy. Instead, embrace the magical, embrace the light! Enter fully the most perfect love, the deepest beauty: inside the permanent world of the dream, shaping it so the dream becomes, at last, reality.