Written for today’s prompt at toads ~ Weekend Mini Challenge. We’re asked to read the poem ‘The Uncertainty of the Poet’. And “study the structure and word patterns, and then write a similar poem, choosing your own words to noodle around with, restricting yourself to those words and trying them out in different combinations in couplets.”
This was really fun and both as easy as it looks at first and deceptively hard. I played around with a couple of different word combination before finding my stride… ;-)
Thanksgiving Day cometh different to us all. Each according their own season. Sometimes singing praise feels straight-forward, sometimes the praise have to be a defiant trust, that there is a future of hope, even though it’s shrouded in mist, obscure, unknown. To let us rest in the Hope of Grace.
Mind swirling, I should finish the poem I started earlier, from text that never got included in the prompts I participated in this week. (After the rain, Life in words, Onyx darkness, Giant Hogweed, Longing, Ode to a Dancer and Monsters.) But my mind won’t settle. Instead I contemplate Thanksgiving, run around preparing for this Sunday’s First of Advent – by hanging Advent stars and light around the house – and making lists for the marathon month to come. I’m also mentally preparing to be on stage in four dance-shows this weekend.
Saw a comment the other day about us not having Thanksgiving in Sweden. I was brought up in the Swedish Protestant (meaning Lutheran) Church. Both because mother wanted it so. And because in the small town I grew up, singing – both as a soloist and in a choir – where done either in municipality or church management. I did both. And I clearly remember one church holiday focused on thanksgiving. So I wen’t googling…
Thanksgiving Day occurs on the second Sunday of October (between 8-14 October) for the purpose of giving thanks for the harvest and the bounty’s of the forests and fields. It falls when the seasons change, when there is no more hope of sustenance from farming or foraging until spring. And before Christmas when the last pigs on fattening gets slaughtered. (On Christmas it’s all about hope, hope for the newborn baby, and hope that a clever farm-wife will stretch the winter stores until spring.)
Yes, I promise to one day explain how I can talk about things from both the Boomer and Silent generation perspective, while being from the last decade of generation X. :-)
Written for Kim’s prompt at dVerse ~ Poetics: Sylvia and Ted. Where we’re asked to write about growing, multiplying, invasive species. As well as try to emulate style of one of the poets.
I decided upon the challenge to keep my line short, with five syllables in each like Sylvia Plath’s Mushroom. It took some editing, but eventually I got there. But boy, do my inner saboteurs have a field day every time I decide to say I actually can do something that connects with writing. Just as they did when I decided to make a new translation of one of Edith Södergran’s poems. Even though I actually have paid bills working as a freelance translator.
As yesterday’s Haibun challenge showed me how much harder I have with counting syllables in English than my native Swedish. This time I put most words trough a syllable counter I found online.
Wikipedia informed me that this weed too have at least one song to it’s honor.
Tried to live life devoid of a muse That way lies darkness dwindling until translucent a faded photo of true self The answer lies within the ink of a pen Trough it heart mind soul flow onto paper Words full of meaning with symbols paint the image the hand can’t sketch As the words in poetry take flight Heart swell with love Mind fills with thanks Soul shines with life
A walk in the clearing morning sun To a site where recorded history begun Grounded by what man once sown I feel hope at the new dawn The light have a new quality Some things are now impossible to not see An century old stone bridge in the sun gives rest When the gravity of everything puts me to the test Tears start to fall Is it the rejection of it all Did I expect or want more Even though I said differently before Sun in my eye and warm on closed lids I examine if there are feelings hid Sorrow wells in a pyroclastic flow Scalding tears in it’s tow Two things abruptly clears Reasons for all these tears First I’d had managed to fool myself Feeling safe is not a need put on a shelf Second something I didn’t know A loss that leads to all this woe I have forgotten how it feels To know a chance of love for me is real Aphrodite stayed true to her way When she sent a messenger won’t stay He were only ever a loan To get a seed of hope in me sown Reignite a heart forsaken In a dream where nothing is forcibly taken Every pleasure freely given Actions by care and empathy driven Words spoken with an honest tongue Sharing feelings without fear of getting stung To finally experience mutual trust A frozen libido thaws releases lust Thank the Goddess for this boon Living fantasy beneath the sun and moon A day spent in his embrace Fortify me for what I have to face When our dream fade I’m no longer dwindled My being shot through with passions rekindled All of that… and Insights given He went back to the life he was living
I took one look at the prompt picture and went straight to my library of note books. There was one poem I started this summer, but never finished… And Cyril Rolando’s beautiful artwork immediately put me in a space to work on it again.
Leave any light on the endless shelves Speak the pass phrase Only those with flawless elocution A mind open to betwixt and between Shall pass the warden Go through the Nyx-door Plunge into onyx darkness Within are nights that never die Without the world spins on Here only esthesis will guide you Stay as long as it pleases thee.