Green-Striped Melons
They lie
under stars in a field.
They lie under rain in a field. Under sun.
Some people
are like this as well—
like a painting
hidden beneath another painting.
An unexpected weight
the sign of their ripeness.
Jane Hirshfield
Perhaps her words will inspire you to write about something hidden, something that doesn't reveal itself easily but which rewards us when we do notice it.
Write well
L
x
8 comments:
I hold hands
we turn into a wheel
its like carrying a cart
a person has to unload it
the search for a place
becomes a project
that number on the wall
who will carry that?
I glance up;
you look down from your frame -
our eyes meet.
My expression changes
with the warming of cheek
and tightening of eye.
Your expression,
tied to canvass,
conveys only the love
you had
when the shutter fell.
Happy New Year Lynne, enjoy your holiday.
oops over-essed the canvas in the poem - though canvass makes for an interesting slant ! Now I'm befuddled as to whether or not to leave it as it is !!!
Junior school
me, a jester
the queens fool
no earl of Leicester
my hat has bells on
jangling toes
years later on
the ringing never goes
Crazy
I find crazy in the damnedest places,
in my yogurt, as a lump
in the middle of my quilt,
in the left sleeve of my ribbon shirt,
in Bledsoe’s breakfast,
borrowed from Bing,
copied from Yahoo,
behind my hiking boots,
on the shelf right between
NIGHT AT THE OPERA and
A DAY AT THE RACES,
while reading William Burroughs,
or Hunter S. Thompson, or Phillip K. Dick,
in the cat box, in Taffy’s dog house
three years after she left us weeping,
holding her while she received the
prick of death, in the dusty jewelry box
I inherited from my stepfather that never
has held any bling, in the plain brown
envelope that holds the last note
my mother wrote before
she went to the hospital,
and in every production shot
of every theatrical play
I boldly appeared in.
Glenn Buttkus
Let the noise subside,
choose your moment,
and show then your crowning glory.
The knot of such delicate intricacy.
Woven and rewoven,
not a single slip in its whorls.
Each curve following its prescribed route.
Each strand strengthened by its partner.
And in the following silence,
in the awe, in the spectacle,
of such convolutions.
Allow them to finger its smooth dimensions,
giving proof, that it is only you,
and no one else, that has the power,
to create such a knot as this.
You alone.
Some belated comments on the first post of 2011:
@ gautami - I'm not exactly sure what the poem means but I am intrigued by it, the surrealness of it, but also the very recogniseable world (wheel, cart, place, wall) that it happens in. Should the first line be 'we hold hands'? given the second line uses the 1st person plural?
@ Keith - I wonder if you could get away without the 4th line, as the subsequent lines go onto show what this is saying? I like 'tied to canvas' - I like how it makes me think of family ties.
@ Martin - this is a great compressed biography. I like it. The only line I'd question is the 4th - where it seems to have been chosen for the rhyme rather than what it's contributing? Or perhaps the rhyme is a little too heavy there? The poem might work without it.
@ Glen - I think this is a really successful list poem. My only suggestion is perhaps to consider re-ordering for a different ending? The impact of the mother's note is dramatic and shifting away from that feels a little unsatisfying... perhaps the last 3 lines can be re/moved, and, maybe, the mother/note image extended slightly to reinforce the theme of 'crazy'?
@ redjim99 - I don't think I've ever read a poem about a knot... I like it, for all the wonderful metaphorical suggestions it contains.
Be back with a writing prompt very soon.
L x
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