Tag Archives: blackout poem

Whispering from the Muse

left wanting



left wanting…

for the flowers,
just being was
enough…to be sweet,
to be part of the clay,
and before clay,
being earth, and
before earth, nothing

but then
the flowers
wished very hard
to grow wings
and for
something
to sing

~kat

 


A Blackout Poem inspired by the poem below:

The Origin of Birds
By Nicole Callihan

For hours, the flowers were enough.
Before the flowers, Adam had been enough.
Before Adam, just being a rib was enough.
Just being inside Adam’s body, near his heart, enough.
Enough to be so near his heart, enough
to feel that sweet steady rhythm, enough
to be a part of something bigger was enough.
And before the rib, being clay was enough.
And before clay, just being earth was enough.
And before earth, being nothing was enough.
But then enough was no longer enough.
The flowers bowed their heads, as if to say, enough,
and so Eve, surrounded by peonies, and alone enough,
wished very hard for something, and the wish was enough
to make the pinecone grow wings; the wish was enough
to point to the sky, say bird, and wait for something to sing.


Depth of Ill – Blackout Poem

 

poe

depth of ill

from childhood
my passions spring
from sorrow
my stormy life was
drawn from ev’ry
depth of ill which
stills the fountain,
the sun, its tints of
gold, pass’d me by
when heaven was
a demon in my view

~kat


A Blackout poem inspired by Edgar Allen Poe’s poem “Alone”. See Below:

Alone
By Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy lifewas drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still
From the torrent, or the fountain
From the red cliff the mountain—
From the sun that ‘round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view
Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/alone-by-edgar-allan-poe


The Edge of Darkness (with the Muse)

Photo by Kat Myrman

the edge of darkness

there’s a place
where the old,
the abandoned,
the persecuted
disappear into
shadows, there,
at the edge of
truth…I won’t
tell you where
the dark meets
the light, and
I won’t tell you why
I listen, in times
like these, to trees

~kat

A Blackout Poem based on today’s Poem of the Day at Poetry Foundation, “What Kind of Times Are These” by Adrienne Rich. The theme on the Muse’s mind, it would seem is all about trees today…and the current state of things. it is so interesting how that happens. I hadn’t looked up the poem of the day until after I had spent time with today’s tetractys and the sapling growing in a bucket in my back yard. Strange indeed.


What Kind of Times Are These
by Adrienne Rich

There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.

I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled
this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.

I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
Meeting(s) the unmarked strip of light
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.

 


musings

Missed posting this Monday. A Blackout Poem inspired by Elizabeth Bishop’s poem, “Poem”.

useless relic

it must be
a wisp, a hint
barely there
a breath…
how strange
it is, the
memory of
a memory,
dim in detail
yet to be
dismantled

~kat


Poem
by Elizabeth Bishop

About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
-this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
has never earned any money in its life.
Useless and free., it has spent seventy years
as a minor family relic handed along collaterally to owners
who looked at it sometimes, or didn’t bother to.

It must be Nova Scotia; only there
does one see abled wooden houses
painted that awful shade of brown.
The other houses, the bits that show, are white.
Elm trees., low hills, a thin church steeple
-that gray-blue wisp-or is it? In the foreground
a water meadow with some tiny cows,
two brushstrokes each, but confidently cows;
two minuscule white geese in the blue water,
back-to-back,, feeding, and a slanting stick.
Up closer, a wild iris, white and yellow,
fresh-squiggled from the tube.
The air is fresh and cold; cold early spring
clear as gray glass; a half inch of blue sky
below the steel-gray storm clouds.
(They were the artist’s specialty.)
A specklike bird is flying to the left.
Or is it a flyspeck looking like a bird?

Heavens, I recognize the place, I know it!
It’s behind-I can almost remember the farmer’s name.
His barn backed on that meadow. There it is,
titanium white, one dab. The hint of steeple,
filaments of brush-hairs, barely there,
must be the Presbyterian church.
Would that be Miss Gillespie’s house?
Those particular geese and cows
are naturally before my time.

A sketch done in an hour, “in one breath,”
once taken from a trunk and handed over.
Would you like this? I’ll Probably never
have room to hang these things again.
Your Uncle George, no, mine, my Uncle George,
he’d be your great-uncle, left them all with Mother
when he went back to England.
You know, he was quite famous, an R.A….

I never knew him. We both knew this place,
apparently, this literal small backwater,
looked at it long enough to memorize it,
our years apart. How strange. And it’s still loved,
or its memory is (it must have changed a lot).
Our visions coincided-“visions” is
too serious a word-our looks, two looks:
art “copying from life” and life itself,
life and the memory of it so compressed
they’ve turned into each other. Which is which?
Life and the memory of it cramped,
dim, on a piece of Bristol board,
dim, but how live, how touching in detail
-the little that we get for free,
the little of our earthly trust. Not much.
About the size of our abidance
along with theirs: the munching cows,
the iris, crisp and shivering, the water
still standing from spring freshets,
the yet-to-be-dismantled elms, the geese.

 


hard road – Manic Mondays

hard road

early morning when
the rooster crows
keep going,
don’t  slow down,
troubles fill the wind
it’s a hard road
got to keep livin’
when the wind
cuts hard,
it’s a damn
cold day
when the wind
cuts hard

~kat

A blackout (found) poem for Manic Monday’s Three-Way Prompt: Word: Road/Photo: (above-cropped)/Song: White House Road by Tyler Childers (lyrics with found poem in bold below)


White House Road – Tyler Childers

Early in the morning when the sun does rise
Layin’ in the bed with bloodshot eyes
Late in the evenin’ when the sun sinks low
Well that’s about time my rooster crows
I got women up and down this creek
And they keep me going and my engine clean
Run me ragged but I don’t fret
Cause there ain’t been one slow me down none yet

Get me drinking’ that moonshine
Get me higher than the grocery bill
Take my troubles to the highwall
Throw’em in the river and get your fill
We been sniffing that cocaine
Ain’t nothin’ better when the wind cuts cold
Lord it’s a mighty hard livin’
But a damn good feelin’ to run these roads

I got people try to tell me, Red
Keep this livin’ and you’ll wind updead
Cast your troubles on the Lord of Lord’s
Or wind up laying on a coal room floor
But I got buddies up White House Road
And they keep me strutting when my feet hang low
Rotgut whiskey gonna ease my pain
‘N all this runnin’s gonna keep me sane

Get me drinking’ that moonshine
Get me higher than the grocery bill
Take my troubles to the highwall
Throw’em in the river and get your fill
We been sniffing that cocaine
Ain’t nothin’ better when the wind cuts cold
Lord it’s a mighty hard livin’
But a damn good feelin’ to run these roads
It’s a damn good feelin’ to run these roads

When they lay me in the cold hard clay
Won’t ya sing them hymns while the banjo plays
You can tell them ladies that they ought not frown
Cause there ain’t been nothing ever held me down
Lawmen, women or a shallow grave
Same ol’ bluesjust a different day

Get me drinking’ that moonshine
Get me higher than the grocery bill
Take my troubles to the highwall
Throw’em in the river and get your fill
We been sniffing that cocaine
Ain’t nothin’ better when the wind cuts cold
Lord it’s a mighty hard livin’
But a damn good feelin’ to run these roads
It’s a damn good feelin’ to run these roads
It’s a damn good feelin’ to run these roads


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