Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Conversation

Leslie Hunter's Figures in conversation, Étaples, 1914

“Conversation should be like juggling; up go the balls and plates, up and over, in and out, good solid objects that glitter in the footlights and fall with a bang if you miss them.” 
― Evelyn Waugh

“And once again, only the Small Things were said. 
The Big Things lurked unsaid inside.” 
― Arundhati Roy

 He Comes for Conversation

"Among the Igbo the art of conversation is regarded 

very highly, and proverbs are the palm-oil 

with which words are eaten.”      

-- Chinua Achebe

"The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty

observations, has a romance of its own." 

--Virginia Woolf 

Midweek Motif ~ Conversation

The thing about conversation 
is that no one can do it alone.

I prefer one-on-one, but have had some stunning group conversations.

How about you?

Your Challenge: Write a new poem with conversation in it OR about conversation(s).

   

The Dangling Conversation

The Little Boy and the Old Man

by Shel Silverstein

Said the little boy, ‘Sometimes I drop my spoon.’

Said the little old man, ‘I do that too.’

The little boy whispered, ‘I wet my pants.’

‘I do that too,’ laughed the little old man.

Said the little boy, ‘I often cry.’

The old man nodded, ‘So do I.’

‘But worse of all,’ said the boy, ‘it seems

Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.’

And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.

‘I know what you mean,’ said the old man.
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Excerpt from The Mango

by Mary Oliver

. . . 

After salmon and salads,

mangoes for everyone appeared on blue plates,

each one cut in half and scored

and shoved forward from its rind, like an orange flower,

cubist and juicy.

When I began to eat

things happened.

All through the sweetness I heard voices,

men and women talking about something—

another country, and trouble.

It wasn’t my language, but I understood enough.

Jungles, and death. The ships

leaving the harbors, their holds

filled with mangoes.

Children, brushing the flies away

from their hot faces

as they worked in the fields.

Men, and guns.

The voices all ran together

so that I tasted them in the taste of the mango,

a sharp gravel in the flesh.

Later, in the kitchen, I saw the stones

like torn-out tongues

embedded in the honeyed centers.

They were talking among themselves—

family news,

a few lines of a song

(Read the rest HERE)

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Excerpt from Telephone Conversation

by Wole Soyinka

The price seemed reasonable, location

Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived

Off premises. Nothing remained

But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,

"I hate a wasted journey—I am African."

Silence. Silenced transmission of

Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,

Lipstick coated, long gold rolled

Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.

"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT

OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A.* Stench

Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.

Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered

Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed

By ill-mannered silence, surrender

Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.

Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--

"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.

"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"

Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light

Impersonality.

 . . . .

(Read the rest HERE.)

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Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below 

and visit others in the spirit of the community.

(Next week Susan's Midweek Motif will be ~ Neutrality / Objectivity )