Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Carpe Diem / Seize the Day

   “I held a moment in my hand, brilliant as a star, fragile as a flower, a tiny sliver of one hour. I dropped it carelessly. Ah! I didn’t know I held opportunity.” — Hazel Lee

“I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life…..to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” — Henry David Thoreau in Walden, quoted by the character Neil in the movie “Dead Poets Society”

Midweek Motif ~ Carpe Diem / Seize the Day

Today’s motif prompts to write about cherishing each moment, making most of the golden chance, seizing the day, living as best and fully as possible.

Remembering Jean-Paul Sartre in this connection: ‘There is only one day left, always starting over; it is given to us at dawn, and taken away from us at dusk’.

It could be the seizing of a moment of beauty or anything precious. It’s a “Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May” theme telling one to have the courage to say a complete, burning ‘yes’ to life.

Have a Carpe Diem mindset for today’s theme and write your poem of ‘now’.

To His Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love would grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vaults, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball,
And tear our pleasure with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

This living hand, now warm and capable

by John Keats

This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou would wish thy own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calm’d—see here it is—

I hold it towards you.

When I Was One-and-Twenty

by A.E. Housman

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard a wise man say,

“Give crowns and pounds and guineas

      But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

      But keep your fancy free.”

But I was one-and-twenty,

       No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard him say again,

The heart out of the bosom

       Was never given in vain;

’Tis paid with sighs a plenty

       And sold for endless rue.”

And I am two-and-twenty,

       And ’tis true, ’tis true.

Figs from Thistles: First Fig

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends

   It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

   It gives a lovely light!

One Heart

by Li-Young Lee

Look at the birds. Even flying
is born

out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open

at either end of day.
The work of wings
was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing. 

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 ~ Money)

                                                                  

POEMS ON GRIEF: BY ROBIN, ERIC, LEE SAN, AND BJORN

Today we are featuring four from-the-heart poems written by Robin Kimber, our beloved Old Egg, who blogs at Robin's Nest, Eric of erbiage, Lee San, known to us as dsnake, who blogs at Urban Poems, and the inimitable Bjorn Rudberg, of Bjorn Rudberg's Writings. Each of these poems travels straight from the poet's heart to ours. I gathered them together so we can reflect on all that life comprises: love and joy, loss and pain. Because I know we wouldn’t trade our greatest joys and deepest heartaches for anything.

SINGING THIS SAD SONG

Late evening slowly darkens
I love our walks in summer
The day's air now cool and clear
Skies darken, the stars come out

Twinkling lights take charge up there
Croaking frogs still like to shout
Your soft warm hands safe in mine
Fireflies flash as we pass them by

Moon peeps from behind a tree
For nightlife and us to see
Now lighting up your beauty
You let me taste your soft lips

But I wake up having dreamed
Singing this sad song of you
Pretending you were still here
As you always used to be


Sherry: So beautiful the dream, and so sad the awakening! Beautifully done, Robin. 

Robin: My wife and I were great explorers of the countryside and forest in search of birds, as she was an enthusiastic birdwatcher. She was always hoping to add one more Australian bird to her life list. This found us is in some odd places, such as dark forests with the trees whispering to us but not letting on where the birds were, and clambering over rocks on beaches which others shunned, looking for migrating shore birds. And even wandering around rubbish dumps and tips, where other birds, not having a rotting odour problem, searched for food as we ticked them off our lists holding our noses. 

The forests, however, were our favorite with the unseen call of birds requiring our total silence, sitting still to see if they might approach, and the delight when they did. This was especially so if we moved not a muscle and came up really close.

So I have many happy memories doing all these things, with the forest the most beautiful and romantic of them all.

Sherry: So lovely, Robin. I can see the two of you sitting there, waiting for the birds to visit. Such lovely memories you have! How you must miss your beautiful wife.

Eric speaks of a grief I am familiar with: the grief we tap down, especially as children, when we are not assisted in our grieving. You will see why I resonate so strongly with this fine poem.

A garden of grief

She'll look in my eyes, bless her so
For my loss and my pain to show
But those corners are not dark enow
For my tears to flow

By the time grandma died
I'd learnt to shut that off
Shut down my heart
And silently laugh it off

But deep within me there was
A black fist, holding, squeezing.
Stashing it all in there.  The loss
Remorse, unworthiness.

So sweetheart if you want to know
Where my tears go
Watch me dig my garden
In my sweat my tears do show

the spade cuts into earth, mother
Sweat glistens in the dark heat
Ill turn the earth to inter my grief
This is why these tomatoes are so sweet

Eric: I grew up across the street from a zoo.  The lions would wake me in the summertime with their roaring.  Not common in New Jersey.  It didn't happen that often, for the noble beasts were quite lethargic. I think that this is what happens to grief.  We take the wild thing and lock it up in a cage.  We hide, deny, ignore.  By we I mean I, I'm just hiding behind that.  

Well I went all Casks of Amontillado on my grief, so when my grandma died I didn't feel a thing.  Which only compounded my grief, and that black fist got a little stronger.  What finally broke me was my cat.  She was around for my formative years, in the cellar or outside mostly, as mom was allergic.  The cat and I were sometimes in the same place, but mostly it was more like an orbit.  

So when she passed, we put her in a cardboard box, and I dug a hole in the back yard.  I put the box in, everything was fine.  But the first shovelful of dirt caved in the cardboard box, and I just crumbled.  Tears streaming, arms trembling with each shovelful...  It's a wordless thing, felt in the body.  So I'm afraid I can't say much more about grief, except a footnote:  I forgot about that incident with my cat for many many years.  And I'm weeping again now.

Sherry: I absolutely know that feeling, Eric. As a child, my coping mechanism was to numb my feelings. As a single mom, I had to stay strong through many losses. In 2011, my wolf-dog died, and I cried for seven years - all the tears of my life.

Thank you for sharing such a long-held grief, in such a beautiful way. Sigh.  And I can't believe you lived close enough to hear lions roaring! How amazing!

The following poem by Lee San, about the loss and grief of losing someone  beloved, really speaks to our hearts. When love is that deep, the grief lasts long. Let's tiptoe in to take a look, for this poem is very tender.

TEDDY BEAR

another year already?
your teddy bear sits
alone
on the dressing table
among the combs and cologne.

today i was at the temple
offering incense to you.
silent
i have not heard your voice
for the past two decades.

the man staring back
from the dark glass
has aged.
you may not know him
as the one you had loved.

a mynah lands on the
aircon unit outside.
looks at me
perhaps to ride the rain
perhaps to see me weep.

image from pixabay

Lee San: It is my honour to have my poem ‘Teddy Bear’ featured.

This poem is about grief, and perhaps how to cope with the memories of a loss. I wrote this in the memory of my late spouse. She was a brave and lovely soul, and to have lost her after only some short years together is something quite hard to take at first. The teddy bear in the poem is one of her possessions.

I wrote this poem a couple of years back, and it stays put in the Blogger drafts until recently when I took it out to check for grammar and punctuation for posting. Anyway, I was too busy to post anything last year.

This poem is what may be called confessional poetry. I think most of the poems in my blog are of this type. This poem is quite short too, which is how I usually like the length of my poems. And yes, there is a certain form in the structure of this poem.

Sherry: It is very beautiful, Lee San. How very sad to have lost your young wife so soon. A deep grief for certain. The lines in the poem that say, were she to see you now, she wouldn’t know you really struck me. Yet, looking through the eyes of love, I am certain that she would. 

Thank you for sharing this beauty of a poem with us, Lee San. 

When I read it, I recognized that Bjorn’s poem “Spoon-Feeding Mother” would be the perfect poem to feature alongside it, since there are so many ways to lose a loved one, and Bjorn is living one of the hardest. Let’s read:

Spoon-Feeding Mother

when parting came slowly
as words you forgot
or when you were lost

we thought we had time
to listen to music
to read or to dine

we never could tell
   you
      goodbye

now when you’re silent
and we still cannot tell
but we wait
we spoon-feed you soup
and wonder
if you’ve already left.

Sherry: This is such a heartbreaking way to lose your mother, Bjorn. I am so sorry.

Bjorn: The background to this poem comes from the experience with my mother who is the victim of dementia. A couple of years ago she was still living at home and we thought that she managed, though sometimes she was a bit confused, as she lives in another town I didn’t get to visit very often.

Things got worse and we were happy that she got place at a good nursing home. At first she improved and we could visit and go for walks with her, but after a period of illness she ceased to talk and cannot walk any longer. She is bound to wheelchair and has to be fed.

Sherry: Dementia is such a long goodbye.  Our hearts go out to you, my friend.

Thank you, gentlemen, for your stirring and beautiful poems and the sharing of your experiences. And for continuing to keep coming back to Poets United. We so appreciate you! 

I am sure we can all relate to these poems on memory, love, loss and grief. We hope you take away something in your hearts from the sharing. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poetry Pantry #392

Highlight Towers - Munich, Germany - completed 2004

Greetings, Friends!  Well, the Olympics are winding down; and what interesting games they turned out to be.  Hope that, during this week, you also had time to enjoy reading and writing some poetry.

Thanks to those of you who participated in Susan's Midweek Motif - Voice - this past week. Next week Sumana's theme will be Carpe Diem / Seize the Day.

I hope that you spent time reading Rosemarie's featured poem for The Living Dead this week -- Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Conscientious Objector."  It was very appropriate, I think, after the events (in this country / but really all over) of the week.

Monday, please return to read Sherry's Poems of the Week where this Monday she features poems by four exceptional male poets who share work here.

Now, with no delay, let's share poetry.  Post your link below.  Stop in with a comment.  Visit other poets who share links.  Come back a few times to see who is new, and always be sure to comment on the poems of anyone who comments on yours!  See you on the trail!!

The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

Conscientious Objector

I shall die, but

that is all that I shall do for Death.

I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;

I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.

He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,

business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.

But I will not hold the bridle

while he cinches the girth.

And he may mount by himself:

I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabouts of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me shall you be overcome.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

In times of war, governments are inclined to introduce conscription, the compulsory drafting of young men into the military. That makes refusing the draft a criminal offence, for which conscientious objectors can be imprisoned. In both the United States and Australia this happened during the Vietnam War. Many conscientious objectors went into hiding; many others were arrested and imprisoned.

Even when the draft was not compulsory, refusing it could be seen as an act of cowardice or a lack of patriotism, as in Britain during the First World War.

This poem suggests that the Conscientious Objector of the title not only does not wish to die too early himself but also doesn't wish to kill others – which of course has always been the main reason for such a stance. Many such men (we are talking of times when combatants were always male) chose to serve as stretcher-bearers at the front, rather than fighters. (My late husband Andrew's father was one. He survived the war.)

I like the speaker's defiant refusal to countenance Death – at the same time as making a few small jokes about him.

Most if not all of us dislike the idea of war; however a case can be made for the necessity of defending one's country or even coming to the aid of others. (I was glad when Australia and other nations intervened to stop Indonesian aggression in East Timor.) Nevertheless I can sympathise with the speaker in this poem – and with the way the poet slyly likens military service to both fox-hunting and the worst evils of slavery. A manipulative argument, perhaps, but valid enough sentiments to put in the mouth of one who is so anti-death.

It is the anti-death (rather than anti-war) message that speaks to me at present, in the wake of yet another school shooting in the US. No matter how one thinks this matter should be addressed, I'm sure we are all agreed that there has been far too much death!

A brilliant and popular poet (and a favourite of mine) Millay has appeared previously at Poets United – quoted frequently in "Midweek Motif" and featured by me in "I Wish I'd Written This", by Kim Nelson in "Classic Poetry" and by Robert Lloyd in "Poet History". Both Kim's and Robert's articles detail her life story, if you'd like to know more about her.

Her books are still extensively advertised on Amazon, where several biographies also appear.

Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may be out of copyright).

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Voice

Daniella Zalcman’s project “Signs of Your Identity” explores
the legacy of Canada’s Indian Residential Schools
 Image by Daniella Zalcman. Canada, 2015

🙋

“When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.” 

― Laurie Halse Anderson, Speak

“. . . she was afraid of hearing her own voice come out of her heart and be covered with blood. . . . ” 

― Hélène Cixous, The Book of Promethea

"Powerlessness and silence go together.” 

― Margaret Atwood, Second Words

“. . . . only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. 

And that is not speaking.” 

― Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider

"Cop in the Head"

Graphic by Morgan Andrews

Philadelphia Theatre of the Oppressed

Midweek Motif ~ Voice

In this motif, voice is not a literary technique, but the willingness to speak from a specific point of view despite fear of consequences.  That is today's theme: the bravery or bravado of insisting on having a voice.

According to Voltaire, "“Writing is the painting of the voice.”  I love the ambiguity of this definition when applied to today's motif:  Does "the voice" paint?  Does writing paint "the voice"?  

Your Challenge:  In your new poem, paint a voice and make us hear it.  

.......

― excerpt from Woman and Nature: 

The Roaring Inside Her

by Susan Griffin

“He says that woman speaks with nature. That she hears voices from under the earth. That wind blows in her ears and trees whisper to her. That the dead sing through her mouth and the cries of infants are clear to her. But for him this dialogue is over. He says he is not part of this world, that he was set on this world as a stranger. He sets himself apart from woman and nature.

And so it is Goldilocks who goes to the home of the three bears, Little Red Riding Hood who converses with the wolf, Dorothy who befriends a lion, Snow White who talks to the birds, Cinderella with mice as her allies, the Mermaid who is half fish, Thumbelina courted by a mole. (And when we hear in the Navajo chant of the mountain that a grown man sits and smokes with bears and follows directions given to him by squirrels, we are surprised. We had thought only little girls spoke with animals.)

We are the bird's eggs. Bird's eggs, flowers, butterflies, rabbits, cows, sheep; we are caterpillars; we are leaves of ivy and sprigs of wallflower. We are women. We rise from the wave. We are gazelle and doe, elephant and whale, lilies and roses and peach, we are air, we are flame, we are oyster and pearl, we are girls. We are woman and nature. And he says he cannot hear us speak.

But we hear.” 

The Horrid Voice of Science

BY VACHEL LINDSAY

"There's machinery in the butterfly; 

There's a mainspring to the bee; 

There's hydraulics to a daisy, 

And contraptions to a tree. 

"If we could see the birdie 

That makes the chirping sound 

With x-ray, scientific eyes, 

We could see the wheels go round." 

And I hope all men 

Who think like this 

Will soon lie 

Underground.

Poem For A Lady Whose Voice I Like

    BY NIKKI GIOVANNI

so he said: you ain’t got no talent   

    if you didn’t have a face   

    you wouldn’t be nobody

and she said: god created heaven and earth   

    and all that’s Black within them

so he said: you ain’t really no hot shit   

    they tell me plenty sisters   

    take care better business than you

and she said: on the third day he made chitterlings   

    and all good things to eat   

    and said: “that’s good”

so he said: if the white folks hadn’t been under   

    yo skirt and been giving you the big play

    you’d a had to come on uptown like everybody else

and she replied: then he took a big Black greasy rib

    from adam and said we will call this woeman and her   

    name will be sapphire and she will divide into four parts   

    that simone may sing a song

and he said: you pretty full of yourself ain’t chu

so she replied: show me someone not full of herself   

    and i’ll show you a hungry person

🙅

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

    (Next week Sumana’s Motif will be ~ Carpe Diem / Seize the Day)

Poems of the Week ~ by Mary, Wendy and Kathleen

This week, my friends, we are contemplating poems written by Mary, who blogs at In the Corner of My Eye, Wendy, of Words and Words and Whatnot,  and Kathleen Everett, of The Course of Our Seasons. Each poem seems, to me, to be a wonderful response to the darkness of the news we are taking in these days. Each poet has a unique response and, taken together, I hope they uplift your heart and help you keep your balance as we move through troubled times. Let's take a look.

We are Ready

We are ready to dance
not the slow cheek to cheek dance
not the sensual melodic tango
but the we-will-fight-through-the-night dance
the we-won't-ever-give-up (take that!) waltz
where we clench teeth and raise our arms
we shake fists in the face of injustice.

We are ready to dance
not the sumptuous sexy samba
not the kick the heels kind of jive
but the don't-you-dare-mess-with-me dance
you can't fool us with your lies
we put no stock in your twisted words
we shake fists in the face of injustice.

We are ready to dance
not the hate and-racial-discrimination dance
not the stomp-on-gay-and-immigrant-rights dance
but the fight-for-life-and-do-it-now dance
you can't trample the ones we love
we will rise again before too long
we shake fists in the face of injustice.

We are ready to dance!

Sherry: I love the liveliness, fire and determination in this poem. We will not only Overcome, we will sing and dance while doing so! I loved this, Mary!

Mary: In this poem, I wanted to express, in a unique way, a sense of being empowered to take action. So I thought about different types of dances and how they could be used to express what I wanted to portray. I was actually quite pleased with how it turned out, and each time I read it again I can feel my adrenalin flowing (LOL), so I feel I succeeded in accomplishing my goal.

Sherry: I feel you did, too. Wonderfully!

burden of ancients

I had expected
I would be more at peace
at this place in my life, for ...
I have sought it
these many years,
in my way


instead,
I carry the weighty woes
of this planet,
like a big bass drum,
beating
to the fragile heartbeat
of our earth


to know
what it is, to live …
is to know,
that survival is precarious and hard


perhaps, ancients
are not meant
to find peace
in bearing witness to
humankind's
failure to exist harmoniously
and with diligence

perhaps, it is part of the price we pay,
for the gift of long life –
the burden of owning
the state of the world
we will leave behind, at passing

“We’re in a giant car heading towards a brick wall and everyone’s arguing over where they’re going to sit. … We have to recall the image of the planet from outer space: a single entity in which air, water, and continents are interconnected. That is our home.” – David Suzuki: Canadian environmentalist, scientist, and writer.

Sherry: I so feel the weight of it, Wendy, the burden of the world we are passing along to our children and grandchildren. Worse at this moment than we ever could have foreseen.

Wendy: The theme of ‘burden of ancients’ is climate change – but, more than that, it is about humankind’s utter ineptitude to come to terms with it.  The staggering arrogance and ignorance of the ‘powers that be’ who could and should put in place, a strategy for combatting the truly frightening planetary changes, we are facing, is shocking.  The possibility of world leaders arriving at a consensus of basic, common sense initiatives, that might, at the very least, slow the decline (while innovative scientific and technological solutions are sought) seems – at this point in time – further out of reach, than ever.  For those of us who care about life on this planet – who care about the quality of life we are leaving to our children – it is a constant heartache.   That is probably why, I find my way to this theme again and again – even when I don’t set out in that particular direction.  It is very much on my mind. 

I have mentioned the findings of the 2007, Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change before, but it bears repeating.  That panel (of 2,500 scientists in 130 countries overseen by the United Nations and the World Meteorological Organization) warned that millions of human lives and nearly a third of the planet's wildlife and plant species could be wiped out if global temperatures rise as little as 1.5 to 2.5 degrees Celsius.  The Panel predicted a rise of between 1.8 and 4 degrees Celsius by the end of this century, if measures are not put in place to reverse the current trend.  Needless to say, the earth will be feeling the effects of global warming long before the end of this century.  Indeed, it already is.  Climate change is real.  We see the effects of it, virtually every day, on our nightly news.   

The stunning prediction by The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change was issued 10 years ago.  Since then, very little – in terms of what is required to stem this looming disaster – has been enacted.  In fact, it could be argued, that we are moving backwards.  In a move, many experts deemed: catastrophic, the United States (under the leadership of President Trump) opted to pull out of the Paris Climate Accord in June of 2017, denouncing it as a violation of U.S. sovereignty.  I find that terrifying:  not for myself (I have lived my life); I find it terrifying for the children of this earth and for all life on this planet.  It is a burden, I fear, I will carry with me to my grave … as will my fellow ‘ancients’ of conscience. 

Sherry: As will I, my friend. Thank you for these wise words. 

Kathleen and her mother,

whom she sadly lost last year

an invitation

"Into this world,
this demented inn,
where there is absolutely no room for him at all,
Christ comes, uninvited."
- Thomas Merton

Turning off the news

(Suffering world)

I walk down the path to the waters edge

(Despairing angels weep at every fence post)

The cold wind whips the water into a froth against 
the gray stony bank

(Where is He in all of this?)

Autumn's landscape has changed to winter

(Pray for us now)

The world, hard and cold, in its fallow season

(And at the hour of our death)

I toss pieces of bread to the small wild ducks

(Peace be with you)

As they sail away,

(and also with you)

I turn toward home.

Sherry: So sorrowful, so beautiful, Kathleen.

Kathleen: This poem was written a few years ago at the beginning of the Advent season after another mass shooting in our country. The saddest part of that statement is that I can't tell you which one.

 I had run across the quote and, adding that to the season of the year and the news of another tragedy, the poem came together in a kind of call and response. 

Using religious imagery and scenes of the natural world that I find outside my door, this poem became quieter and more prayerful- an invitation, an invocation.

Sherry: One feels the prayerfulness, reading your beautiful words, Kathleen. Thank you for sharing the beauty and peace of this poem with us. You give us a place to go for comfort when the news is just too dark – out into the beauty of the world, waiting so patiently for humankind to awaken.

[My friends, Kathleen wanted me to tell you she has had a computer crash and may not be able to come in and respond to comments, as she only has her tiny phone. But she will read and be most appreciative of your words, nevertheless.]

Thank you, Mary, Wendy and Kathleen, for your beautiful, uplifting and inspiring words.  We hope these poems helped add something positive to your day, my friends. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!