Lillian at dVerse is hosting Poetics and has invited us to view four pieces of Catrin Welz-Stein’s art work as a visual stimulus to writing either an ekphrastic poem, or other poetic response. dVerse Poets – Poetics
“Beautiful moons make for special nights.” Verna Clay
Laura at dVerse has invited us to write about a room or rooms in whatever manner.
“I am not absent-minded. It is the presence of mind that makes me unaware of everything else.” G.K. Chesterton
There Was A Room
I had memories of an outside world
that I never left, but never lived
since the solace of solitude
there was another place,
my room within a room,
I vaguely remember,
was it large or small,
attic or other?
To know is never important
whether the room was in me
or I in the room,
there was a room.
Anmol at dVerse has invited us to consider portals for our poem in Poetics.
Photo: Ormiston Gorge, NT. A fabulous place just to be.
“Holding on is believing that there’s only a past; letting go is knowing that there’s a future.” Daphne Rose Kingma
said the silence,
let the air be thin,
nothing will fly,
only the grace of birds,
no words will form
for a traverse
wear nothing dark,
for though tomorrow
we bury the past,
it is the mystery of
the future we grieve.
Sarah at dVerse has invited us to write about vegetable gardening, using a list of plants provided.
Photo: found on multiple sites.
“Cares melt when you kneel in your garden.” Okakura Kazuko
Once It Begins
Once it begins it begins,
but to begin at all I too must begin,
and so to move towards that which
consumes my energy even before I start,
just to acknowledge the needs of the soil,
to rejuvenate to a friable tilth,
removing winter’s detritus,
the stalks of old and to
boldly plunge in as so often before,
once it begins with spade and hoe,
stakes and twine, bags and jars,
it gathers pace and the vision grows,
worlds erupt and the magic flows,
plans expand beyond the Nile
for a harvest of harvests,
of crucifers and kales,
tubers and climbers,
the table bowed,
as kitchen rejoices
in purple swords,
czar, blue fire,
and aurora too,
knife and fork,
the juices flow,
once it begins.
Bjorn at dVerse is hosting poetics and has invited us to write about solitude while trying to avoid using the word itself.
Photo: Somewhere between Merredin and Menzies. The bush is my best solitude.
“The more ways we have to connect, the more many of us seem desperate to unplug.”
There Are Moments
I gather myself in this place
where the quiet examines me,
knowing that I yearn for it
as a lover yearns for completion,
even so, I avert myself at times
from the uncomfortable rawness of
the self intimacy of such knowing,
preferring to skirt the edges
below the mask so worn,
and yet, there are moments,
fleeting, like the pause of a breath,
within which an elusive thought
awakens my soul.
Laura at dVerse has invited us to consider the noun form of order.
“The order that our mind imagines is like a net, or like a ladder, built to attain something. But afterward you must throw the ladder away, because you discover that, even if it was useful, it was meaningless.” Umberto Eco
A Different Order
It doesn’t begin until the magpie sings in the night
perhaps in September or late in October,
and summer is wrapped in six months
while winter dips into spring
and sometimes brings rain in both,
as it is for me that I might or
might not of anything or everything,
should it matter and,
even if it did,
would it really if I just didn’t?
And, even if it proved to be so,
I have a different drum
that beats strange.
We raged against that suppuration
of darkness that swallowed the night
and laid waste to the light,
that consuming plague, which
wrote itself on the hearts
of unwitting bystanders
near the corner store,
or the park railings,
unpicked by sweating masks
whose tired incantations
wrenched large at death,
and laid in arks
the valley of flowers
hinting at the new Jerusalem,
we did not go gently.