Tag Archives: poetry prompt

Tuesday with the Muse…”mother”

mother

mother

my mother is everywhere
among the things I return to
engrained in memory
forever open to me
then closed, hidden, dark,
mother, spilling everywhere

~kat~


A Blackout poem inspired by the poem “The Question of My Mother” by Robin Ekiss:

The question of my mother is on the table.
The dark box of her mind is also there,
the garden of everywhere
we used to walk together. 

Among the things the body doesn’t know,
it is the dark box I return to most:
fallopian city engrained in memory,
ghost-orchid egg in the arboretum, 

 hinged lid forever bending back and forth
open to me, then closed
like the petals of the paperwhite narcissus.
What would it take to make a city in me?

Dark arterial streets, neglected ovary
hard as an acorn hidden in its dark box
on the table: Mother, I am
out of my mind, spilling everywhere.

Source: Poetry (November 2007)


unbearable – Monday with the Muse

neon

unbearable

looking at the unbearable
i imagine a neon sign
i feel the weight
of air, the presence
of light under
my skin
like gold
beneath
black…

~kat


A blackout poem inspired by the poem, “At the Beach” by Elizabeth Alexander below:

At the Beach
BY ELIZABETH ALEXANDER

Looking at the photograph is somehow not
unbearable: My friends, two dead, one low
on T-cells, his white T-shirt an X-ray
screen for the virus, which I imagine
as a single, swimming paisley, a sardine
with serrated fins and a neon spine.

I’m on a train, thinking about my friends
and watching two women talk in sign language.
I feel the energy and heft their talk
generates, the weight of their words in the air
the
same heft as your presence in this picture,
boys, the volume of late summer air at the beach.

Did you tea-dance that day? Write poems
in the sunlight? Vamp with strangers? There is
sun under your skin like the gold Sula
found beneath Ajax’s black. I calibrate
the weight of your beautiful bones, the weight
of your elbow, Melvin,
on Darrell’s brown shoulder.

“At the Beach” by Elizabeth Alexander. From Body of Life, published by Tia Chucha Press. Copyright 1996 Elizabeth Alexander. Used by permission of the author.
Source: Body of Life (Tia Chucha, 1996)


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.

 


it can’t be winter…NaPoWriMo 2019 #25

it can’t be winter…

if I believed the calendar, the wavering
in my stride, my fading memories, the
thinning of my hair and skin, I might
be convinced that it is winter, as you say
but my heart still sings sweet odes to
spring, of quiescent vales greening,
blooming buds, air fragrant with lilacs
and honeysuckle, it was only yesterday
a robin called my name and it was
dawn, I am sure of it, the day flushed
with golden haze, the breeze a-buzz
with the hum of honeybees, of gardens
laden with tubers, beans and peas,
it could be summer after all, my heart’s
refrain, a reverie of endless days, of salty
air and sand, tree leaves pitapatting in
the wind, like the sound of my children’s
tiny feet, growing heavier with each passing
day, it can’t be winter yet, I’ve still so much
to do and say, no matter that the night
is looming, there are dreams yet to
be realized, a reckoning, as chill sets
in, a letting go, a harvesting, how like
the autumn trees I cling to every turning
leaf until it’s time to let them go, now
that I mention it, it must be fall, it can’t
be winter yet…and yet…I saw a snowflake
flutter by, it caught my eye, suspended,
drifting slowly, I suspect a few more
still, and in the silent winter white perhaps
I write; I’ll weave a tapestry of spring, of
summer, and of fall, time slipping through
my hands like sand, I’m tired, I admit it,
how beautiful, how still, the muffled hills
look dressed in snow, how blessed am
I to be here still to see it ‘fore I go

~kat


For NaPoWriMo 2019 Prompt #25:
write a poem that:

  • Is specific to a season
  • Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
  • Includes a rhetorical question, (like Keats’ “where are the songs of spring?”)

img_4314-4


Monday Musing

found missing

it was where
he had long
turned thus…
there he was, serene,
cadaverous, calm,
as he sat there gazing,
he was gone

~kat


Today’s Blackout/Found poem is taken from the poem:

Why He Was There
by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Much as he left it when he went from us
Here was the room again where he had been
So long that something of him should be seen,
Or felt-and so it was. Incredulous,
I turned about, loath to be greeted thus,
And there he was in his old chair, serene
As ever, and as laconic as lean
As when he lived, and as cadaverous.
Calm as he was of old when we were young,
He sat there gazing at the pallid flame
Before him. ‘And how far will this go on?’
I thought. He felt the failure of my tongue,
And smiled: ‘I was not here until you came;
And I shall not be here when you are gone.’


%d bloggers like this: