Monday, January 30, 2017
Sunday, January 29, 2017
"The tree house was my accommodation for 2 nights. It felt good to be away
from the city. The room is air-conditioned, with toilet and bath too :)"
"Some of my friends stay here at the floating cottages."
"Each floating cottage has an access to the crystal blue waters."
"This is the view in front of the tree house."
Happy Sunday, Friends. Well, I am back once again here at the Poetry Pantry. So glad to have some very interesting photos from Totomai to share. The captions under each photo are Totomai's as well. Come back next week as well for some more of his beautiful photos!
I would like to thank Sherry who ran the pantry so expertly in my absence. And to Susan, Sumana, and Rosemary who did more than their share as well. Smiles. And I would like to thank those of you who continued to write and share.
Lots of great features each week here at Poets United. I do want to give you an advance heads up for Susan's Midweek Motif prompt on Wednesday.......Faith. We all have to find ways to keep it alive in our lives.
With no further delay, let's share poetry. Link your poem below, and then comment on the poems of others who have posted. Enjoy your Sunday and your week.
Friday, January 27, 2017
My sister jokes with me on Skype—pretending that we can feed each other what we're eating through the cameras.
I remember her feeding me when I was a little girl. She makes the same faces when playing with my son and my daughter—lips twisting sour, eyes wide.
It is as if each memory is made of tiny mirrors and if I pick one up to examine it, I must carefully wipe my fingerprints off of it afterwards.
One time, when I was six, she fed me slim skewers of a frankfurter hotdog off the tip of her fork. She was a train, I was a tunnel.
Each piece of meat dipped in ketchup, salty and warm,
with skin just taut enough for my teeth to tear into ...
I ate six hotdogs that day because she fed me.
By Natasha Marin
from MILK (Seattle, Minor Arcana Press, © 2014)
The book's blurb says:
Natasha Marin’s debut e-book MILK is about sustaining children, relationships, and a thriving creative life through the act of breastfeeding. In this multimedia collection, Marin explores nurturing as an act of both power and privilege wherein milk-filled breast is not just a metaphor, but a galaxy of possibility.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond'ring at the present, nor the past,
For thy records, and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste:
This I do vow and this shall ever be:
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
Then I will, when on the Everlasting Hill
A Smaller Purple grows—
At sunset, or a lesser glow
Flickers upon Cordillera—
At Day's superior close!
The lilies bloomed within the sedge,
And we were lingering to and fro,
Where none will track thee in this snow,
Along the stream, beside the hedge.
Ah, Sweet, be free to love and go!
For if I do not hear thy foot,
The frozen river is as mute,
The flowers have dried down to the root:
And why, since these be changed since May,
Shouldst thou change less than they.
And slow, slow as the winter snow
The tears have drifted to mine eyes;
And my poor cheeks, five months ago
Set blushing at thy praises so,
Put paleness on for a disguise.
Ah, Sweet, be free to praise and go!
For if my face is turned too pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail, --
It was thy love proved false and frail, --
And why, since these be changed enow,
Should I change less than thou.
Monday, January 23, 2017
you wrote your poetry
blue on white
a daisy, your pen
until grey streaks pushed
your kind aside
deeper and deeper
into the edges
pulling petals apart
a litany to tiny ends
the wilt of a berry
on your breast
rebirth it's red
this new ink
the leaves your pages
poetry, your breath.
Audrey: I am honored and thrilled to be featured---I feel like my poetry is shifting right now--or I as a poet am shifting--one or the other or both--anyway, something of the old is being left behind as the new starts to take more focus--this piece was about that process for me--it feels like a loss of some kind, and I am uncertain right now where this shift is taking me--but I am trusting that it will be a good place for me--
Sherry: It is always interesting, when things start shifting within. Would you tell us a bit about this inner shift?
Sherry: Sometimes these shifts can feel discombobulating, but I view them as very positive, personally, as it means growth is happening. And I think the most authentic poems, the ones we respond to most strongly, are the ones that speak the poet's truth.
We will watch where your work takes you with interest, Audrey. You posted another poem recently that I found a very positive response to the political climate we are struggling with these days. Let's take a look:
i awoke to a world gone mad
and though i didn't want to,
i cried with each step this morning,
picked up worn linen
woven in youth's innocence
its nubs a part of its landscape
i will reweave it
make it stronger
though you may shout your imprecations
loudly in my ear
i will not falter
i will not halt
i will not hate
so that our children
need not fear
Sherry: We are being set back 50 years. At my age, I feel very tired, from all the overcoming. Sigh.
I love "I will not hate so our children need not fear." That really speaks to me, my friend. But it is hard to hold onto hope.I find your work strong and powerful; you seem to be tapping into a deep well these days. Thanks so much for sharing your poem and your thoughts with us today, and where you are at on your journey.
This fall, Annell shared a pensive poem about memories of past summers, that I think you will find very moving.
Annell: Thanks for asking for this poem, and for giving me the opportunity to talk about it, and what I was thinking.
you will often find them there)
when you hold it to your ear, you can still hear the sounds of summer)
there is a certain sadness in this idea)
with silver thread that cannot be broken)
which came too soon)
they pop up unexpected anytime)
we did have together)
until I can see it no more, you have gone to a place I cannot follow….yet)
the afternoon light
that creates that line to you)
(perhaps I speak to myself, or maybe to you)
what I say to you, you will know how much I loved you) hoping you will hear
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