Tag Archives: a month with yeats

Surrend’ring


‘I wander by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:’ —W.B. Yeats

I have lazed for hours upon long hours
under cascading veils of willow tresses,
sipped sweet tea, beneath magnolias shaded,
contemplating dogwood’s pale bloody blooms
sometimes when it’s raining golden whirligigs
I close my eyes, and breathe amidst the flutter
imagining the thrill of falling, flying
a carefree, swirling dervish on the breeze
I have danced on tiptoes through bristled sedge groves
on tender shoeless feet, barbed nettles nipping,
to dip my soul in swelling, brackish wetness
with the gleaming shards of shoals ebbing
oh there are days I wish that I was fluent
in oaken-speak, in maple or mimosa
what wise time-measured wisdom I’d be gleaning
from rooted ancients practiced in surrend’ring

~kat

The pigs are are being tended to and my maddening angst is waning, at long last! And so, a meander to the brink for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats’ – Day Twenty-Two inspired by the verse above from his poem, ‘He Hears the Cry of the Sedge’.


A Proposition or Two

For Jane Dougherty’s A Month with Yeats – Day Twenty-One Poetry Challenge. I have been indulging my inner warrior with these challenges, but lest you think I am a total bitch for the cause of justice, I do have a tender romantic side. I am a many faceted wonder, if I don’t say so myself. At any rate I have felt a bit guilty for subjecting you to my rants without softening it with a bit of fluff every now and again. So today, as yesterday, I give you two takes on today’s prompt verse from Yeats’, ‘The Ragged Wood’. Both are wrapped around the theme of propositions.  Happy Tuesday!


‘…by water among the trees
The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh’ —W.B. Yeats

A Proposition

sunrise comes but once a day
rise with me before it breaks
I’ll make tea; we’ll have some cake
and watch the darkness slip away
I can share my dreams with you
your secrets, promise them to keep
dear, we have all night to sleep
but only dawn to see this view
I propose a kiss, perhaps a swoon
long before the busy, bustled hurry
leave it all to someone else’s worry
we could even linger until noon

~kat

And a proposition of a very different kind…in my favorite form…the Cleave (three poems in one. Read column 1 (which are actual quotes of a certain certain), then column 2, finally both columns together top to bottom)

He Said…She Said

I moved in on her / i couldn’t believe it
Very heavily…like a bitch / that son of a bitch
but I couldn’t get there / i was frozen
I’m automatically attracted to beautiful / he just kept coming
Like a magnet / that disgusting face
I don’t even wait / forcing his slimy lips on mine
You can do anything / with those tiny hands
Grab em by the pussy / everywhere…all over me
When you’re a star / no one would believe me though
they let you do it / i’m not rich, or a man
But nobody has more respect / so i just keep my distance
Such a nasty woman / i’ll keep this to myself
She’s certainly not hot / it’s so embarrassing
Why does she keep interrupting? / he could ruin me
There’s nothing I love more than women / it’s just the way things are

~kat


A Few Minutes

One of those Monday’s with few minutes to spare, and so, a few Minute poems (8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4/aabb, ccdd, eeff)for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats’ – Day Twenty, Poetry Challenge inspired by the verse below from Yeats’ poem, ‘The Old Age of Queen Maeve’. The painting is IvanBilibin‘s illustration to a Russian fairy tale about the Firebird, 1899.

‘out of the dark air over her head there came

a murmur of soft words and meeting lips.’—W.B. Yeats

breath to death

in dim-lit sterile cells we wait
to meet our fate
the reeper’s sweep
our souls to keep

medicated interventions
good intentions
stripped dignity
dis-harmony

we rage against eternity
our destiny
is but a breath
to peaceful death

Branded

it’s comes to ‘do you believe them?’
all the women
nothing to lose
who claim abuse

for if you side with privileged men
know in the end
you’ll share their shame
for selfish gain

it really does come down to this
you can’t dismiss
you’ll wear the brand
of where you stand

~ kat


Praying…Not Praying

‘We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
Being weary of the world’s empires, bow down to you,
Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.’—W.B. Yeats

Praying…Not Praying

Those of us who have lost hope in praying,
pray that there is a special place in hell
for those self-righteous zealots in churches
defending vile monsters high on the hill.
Piously waving tomes filled with fables,
quoting their misplaced contextual creeds,
heaping full judgment on anyone other,
claiming compassion while lowly hearts bleed.
Surely a just god would be disgusted
by vacuous souls who claim him by name,
who pour salt on wounds; hang with abusers,
no tinge of conviction, remorse or shame.
If you are listening god, if you’re out there,
isn’t it time for your rapturous sweep?
Call forth your faithless; send them wherever.
If they’re not here we might actually know peace.

~kat

Another verse From ‘The Valley of the Black Pig’ for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats – Day Nineteen’ poetry challenge. And it’s those pigs again! My poetry as a result, of late, seems more like rants. But I do find them cathartic. Living in this alternate reality is not for the faint of heart! Peace!


Of Flying Pigs and Truffles

From “Valley of the Black Pig”…

‘The dews drop slowly and dreams gather;’ —W.B. Yeats

Of Flying Pigs and Truffles

Those pigs! They are flying…fleeing in droves,
exposed by the truffles they guzzled with glee,
their gluttonous bingeing, now everyone knows.
Soon they will pay for their vile thievery.
Those truffles! So rare…such delicacies.
They should be savored by pallets discerning,
their place on the plate given prominency,
respected and honored in delicate servings.
It’s been quite the scandal, this wild exposé.
The talk of the barnyard, in locker room speak.
Oh, those pig’s days are numbered, not sorry to say,
and to truffles uprising, the victory tastes sweet.

~kat

Inspired by the news of the day, the slow dripping drop of the dews and the title of the Yeats poem, for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats’ – Day Eighteen Poetry Challenge.


%d bloggers like this: