Tag Archives: Blackout Poetry

Monday with the Muse

bend in the road

photo courtesy of shrutikhanna at Pixabay.com

the bend in the road

at the bend where
the roadside devours
the dust of summer
we carry with us days
to hold in our hands;
to live as if death
were impossible

~kat


A Blackout poem inspired by today’s poem of the day at PoetryFoundation.org by Li-Young Lee, “From Blossoms”.

From Blossoms
BY LI-YOUNG LEE

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we  devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

Li-Young Lee, “From Blossoms” from Rose. Copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee. Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions Ltd., http://www.boaeditions.org. Source: Rose (BOA Editions Ltd., 1986)


Midnight with the Muse ~ surrendering

surrendering

in the belly of
grace I fall
I long to drink
deep of its
softness
to celebrate
the blink of
beautiful

~kat


A Blackout Poem inspired by the poem by Dante Micheaux below:

The Second Beautiful Harvest

By Dante Micheaux

I wake in the golden belly of this abode

and sense some diurnal grace at work.

I take my body to the fall, to bathe

and anoint my genitals with shea.

I have made my journey to the cold hills

to commune with my people there.

I come for the second beautiful harvest

and have waited long to look into its eye.

The harvest hosts libations, the meal

and my desireso I drink the deep

heady liquid of its languid stare, under

the hum of many voices: burgeoning

friendships and reunion in the low light.

I break into the soft weirdness of injera

and dip my fingers into the meat stew,

to celebrate the glory of the kings.

The clear splendor of the serving boy,

his slow blink as of a camel, does not

distract me—here to reap but seduced

by the second beautiful harvest.

Copyright © 2019 by Dante Micheaux. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 14, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.


grief repeating – Monday with the Muse

BlueMuse

Painting, “Blue” by Kat Myrman

grief repeating

even now, grief
repeats itself
whispering,
“what hope for
love survives
here”…

some
see only
dusty
reflections
in blue

~kat


A Blackout poem inspired by the poem below “Anne Frank Huis” by Andrew Motion.

Anne Frank Huis
by Andrew Motion
Even now, after twice her lifetime of grief
and anger in the very place, whoever comes
to climb these narrow stairs, discovers how
the bookcase slides aside, then walks through
shadow into sunlit room(s), can never help
 
but break her secrecy again. Just listening
is a kind of guilt: the Westerkirk repeats
itself outside, as if all time worked round
towards her fear, and made each stroke
die down on guarded streets. Imagine it—

four years of whispering, and loneliness,
and plotting, day by day, theAllied line
in Europe with a yellow chalk. What hope
she had for ordinary love and interest
survives her here, displayed above the bed
 
as pictures of her family; some actors;
fashions chosen by Princess Elizabeth.
And those who stoop to see them find
not only patience missing its reward,
but one enduring wish for chances
 
like my own: to leave as simply
as I do, and walk at ease
up dusty tree-lined avenues, or watch
a silent barge come clear of bridges
settling their reflections in the blue canal.

Andrew Motion, “Anne Frank Huis” from Coming In To Land: Selected Poems 1975—2015.  Copyright © 2017 by Andrew Motion.  Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc..
Source: Coming In To Land: Selected Poems 1975—2015 (HarperCollins, 2017)


Mondays with the Muse

the morning’s mist
is lined with breath;
soul devouring ecstasy
where angels spark
eternity in realms afar

~kat


A Blackout Poem, courtesy of the Muse and this poem:

Aspiration

by Adah Isaacs Menken

Poor, impious Soul! that fixes its high hopes
In the dim distance, on a throne of clouds,
And from the morning’s mist would make the ropes
To draw it up amid acclaim of crowds—
Beware! That soaring path is lined with shrouds;
 And he who braves it, though of sturdy breath,
May meet, half way, the avalanche and death!

O poor young Soul!—whose year-devouring glance
Fixes in ecstasy upon a star,
Whose feverish brilliance looks a part of earth,
Yet quivers where the feet of angels are,
And seems the future crown in realms afar—
Beware! A spark thou art, and dost but see
Thine own reflection in Eternity
brilliance looks a part of earth,
Yet quivers where the feet of angels are,
And seems the future crown in realms afar
Beware! A spark thou art, and dost but see
Thine own reflection in Eternity


A Song of Spring – Blackout Poem

song of spring

a song of spring

the green land,
the water, the leaves
sing of spring…

come forth,
to love’s edge,
dance in the moment
enter the light
where silence
screams

~kat


A Blackout Poem inspired by the poem below


The Lake in Central Park

BY JAY WRIGHT

It should have a woman’s name,

something to tell us how the green skirt of land

has bound its hips.

When the day lowers its vermilion tapestry over the west ridge,

the water has the sound of leaves shaken in a sack,

and the child’s voice that you have heard below

sings of the sea.

 

By slow movements of the earth’s crust,

or is it that her hip bones have been shaped

by a fault of engineering?

Some coquetry cycles this blue edge,

a spring ready to come forth to correct

love’s mathematics.

 

Saturday rises immaculately.

The water’s jade edge plays against corn-colored

picnic baskets, rose and lemon bottles, red balloons,

dancers in purple tights, a roan mare out of its field.

It is not the moment to think of Bahia

and the gray mother with her water explanation.

Not far from here, the city, a mass of swift water

in its own depression, licks its sores.

 

Still, I would be eased by reasons.

Sand dunes in drifts.

Lava cuts its own bed at a mountain base.

Blindness enters where the light refuses to go.

In Loch Lomond, the water flowers with algae

and a small life has taken the name of a star.

 

You will hear my star-slow heart

empty itself with a light-swift pitch

where the water thins to a silence.

And the woman who will not be named

screams in the birth of her fading away.

 

Jay Wright, “The Lake in Central Park” from Transfigurations: Collected Poems (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2000). Copyright © 2000 by Jay Wright. Reprinted with the permission of the author.

Source: Transfigurations: Collected Poems (Louisiana State University Press, 2000)


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