Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Flood

The Waving Surface of the Autumn Flood, Ma Yuan - Water Album - circa 1160

“I wish I hadn't cried so much!" said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. "I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears!” 
― Lewis Carroll

“Science fiction films are not about science. They are about disaster, 

which is one of the oldest subjects of art.” 
― Susan Sontag

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping." To this day, especially in times of "disaster," I remember my mother's words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” 
― Fred Rogers

Monsoon in India 2017
(So many have lost everything and died in floods, I found it hard to choose a picture.)

Midweek Motif ~ Flood

Flood in metaphor is often a positive, delightful gift and surprise; whereas flood in reality is often devastating, especially when disaster preparation is missing.  When the idea of flooding enters poets' hearts, when we are flooded with it, we are prepared with the tools of capture and taming even if we are overwhelmed.  So where to begin today? With an actual flood and its stories?  Or with the concept overpowering the will?  You decide.

Your challenge:  
Write a new poem with a flood motif 

and post it below.

The Art Of Drowning

by Billy Collins

I wonder how it all got started, this business
about seeing your life flash before your eyes
while you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence,
could startle time into such compression, crushing
decades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.

After falling off a steamship or being swept away
in a rush of floodwaters, wouldn't you hope
for a more leisurely review, an invisible hand
turning the pages of an album of photographs-
you up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.

. . . . 

(Read the rest HERE.)

The Flood 

by Robert Frost

Blood has been harder to dam back than water.

Just when we think we have it impounded safe 

Behind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),

It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.

We choose to say it is let loose by the devil;

But power of blood itself releases blood.

It goes by might of being such a flood

Held high at so unnatural a level.

It will have outlet, brave and not so brave.

weapons of war and implements of peace

Are but the points at which it finds release.

And now it is once more the tidal wave

That when it has swept by leaves summits stained.

Oh, blood will out. It cannot be contained.

Arroyo: Flash Flood

BY JOHN UNTERECKER

The canyon walls close in again,

slant light a silver glare in brown water.

The water is only knee deep, but when the boy reaches the

   boulders—

purple dark, silvered by the smash of brute water—

water will tear at his chest and arms.

The walls of the canyon are brilliant in late light.

They would have glared red and gold for his drowned camera:

splashed blood to his left, to his right a wall of sun laddered

   with boulders.

. . . . 

(Read the rest HERE.)

A Leak in the Dike

BY PHOEBE CARY

A Story of Holland
 . . . . 

But where was the child delaying? 

      On the homeward way was he, 

And across the dike while the sun was up 

      An hour above the sea. 

He was stopping now to gather flowers, 

      Now listening to the sound, 

As the angry waters dashed themselves 

      Against their narrow bound. 

“Ah! well for us,” said Peter, 

      “That the gates are good and strong, 

And my father tends them carefully, 

      Or they would not hold you long! 

You ’re a wicked sea,” said Peter; 

      “I know why you fret and chafe; 

You would like to spoil our lands and homes; 

      But our sluices keep you safe!” 

But hark! Through the noise of waters 

      Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; 

And the child’s face pales with terror, 

      And his blossoms drop to the ground. 

He is up the bank in a moment, 

      And, stealing through the sand, 

He sees a stream not yet so large 

      As his slender, childish hand. 

’T is a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, 

      Unused to fearful scenes; 

But, young as he is, he has learned to know 

      The dreadful thing that means. 

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart 

      Grows faint that cry to hear, 

And the bravest man in all the land 

      Turns white with mortal fear. 

For he knows the smallest leak may grow 

      To a flood in a single night; 

And he knows the strength of the cruel sea 

      When loosed in its angry might. 

. . . . 

(Read the rest HERE.)

🌏

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and 
visit others in the spirit of the community—

Next week Sumana's Midweek Motif will be "Nature: Her Words."