Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Journey

   
    “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” — Lao Tzu

SOURCE

“Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.”__ Anna Quindlin, How Reading Changed My Life

       Midweek Motif ~ Journey

Not a single atom in this universe is without a journey. Everything around you including yourself is a wayfarer. Each moment is a journey enriching us with experience.

Share with us those invaluable moments about your tour, trek, voyage, safari, pilgrimage or you might even recount your inner journey.

Even if you are a stay-at-home kind you might open your eyes to the exciting, adventurous, arduous and even traumatic journeys that are taking place all around us and write on any one of them.

A few poems for you:

Up-Hill

by Christina Rosetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 

   Yes, to the very end. 

Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? 

   From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting-place? 

   A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 

May not the darkness hide it from my face? 

   You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 

   Those who have gone before. 

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? 

   They will not keep you standing at that door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

   Of labour you shall find the sum. 

Will there be beds for me and all who seek? 

   Yea, beds for all who come.

The Addict

by Anne Sexton

Sleepmonger,

deathmonger,

with capsules in my palms each night,

eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles

I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.

I'm the queen of this condition.

I'm an expert on making the trip

and now they say I'm an addict.

Now they ask why.

WHY!       

Don't they know that I promised to die!

I'm keeping in practice.

I'm merely staying in shape.

The pills are a mother, but better,

every color and as good as sour balls.

I'm on a diet from death.

Yes, I admit

it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-

blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,

hauled away by the pink, the orange,

the green and the white goodnights.

I'm becoming something of a chemical

mixture.

that's it!

My supply

of tablets

has got to last for years and years.

I like them more than I like me.

It's a kind of marriage.

It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside

of myself.

Yes

I try

to kill myself in small amounts,

an innocuous occupation.

Actually I'm hung up on it.

But remember I don't make too much noise.

And frankly no one has to lug me out

and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.

I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie

eating my eight loaves in a row

and in a certain order as in

the laying on of hands

or the black sacrament.

It's a ceremony

but like any other sport

it's full of rules.

It's like a musical tennis match where

my mouth keeps catching the ball.

Then I lie on; my altar

elevated by the eight chemical kisses.

What a lay me down this is

with two pink, two orange,

two green, two white goodnights.

Fee-fi-fo-fum-

Now I'm borrowed.

Now I'm numb.

Provisions

by Margaret Atwood

What should we have taken

with us? We never could decide

on that; or what to wear,

or at what time of

year we should make the journey

So here we are in thin

raincoats and rubber boots

On the disastrous ice, the wind rising

Nothing in our pockets

But a pencil stub, two oranges

Four Toronto streetcar tickets

and an elastic band holding a bundle

of small white filing cards

printed with important facts.

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 ~  Saints 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Books

“A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread—and Thou” — Omar Khayyam

Source

“ Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested;” — Francis Bacon

“Hungry man, reach for the book: it is a weapon.” — Bertolt Brecht

“Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.” — Anna Quindlen, How Reading Changed My Life

Midweek Motif ~ Books

These days we read both P(Print)-Book and E(Electronic)-Book. We may be traditional (being raised on ink and paper) only interested in a physical book or be prone to more complex technology. We are the happy denizens of the world of Books.

How are you connected to a book? How is your book world? How was your first meet? You might want to honor a book special to you.

The material quality of a book that is the smell and feel of a p-book of the olden world or the pleasure of tapping the glass surface of an e-book might find its place in your lines today.

You might include anything that’s also connected to books: any place, person or time.

Share your experiences of this magic world:

The Reading Mother

by Strickland Gillilan

I had a mother who read to me

Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea,

Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth,

"Blackbirds" stowed in the hold beneath.

I had a Mother who read me lays

Of ancient and gallant and golden days;

Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,

Which every boy has a right to know.

I had a Mother who read me tales

Of Gelert the hound of the hills of Wales,

True to his trust till his tragic death,

Faithfulness blent with his final breath.

I had a Mother who read me the things

That wholesome life to the boy heart brings--

Stories that stir with an upward touch,

Oh, that each mother of boys were such!

You may have tangible wealth untold;

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be--

I had a Mother who read to me.

My Days Among the Dead Are Past

by Robert Southey

My days among the Dead are past;

    Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

    The mighty minds of old;

My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,

    And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel

    How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd

With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them

    I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

    Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead, anon

    My place with them will be,

And I with them shall travel on

    Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,

That will not perish in the dust.

There is no Frigate like a Book

by Emily Dickinson

There is no Frigate like a Book 

To take us Lands away 

Nor any Coursers like a Page 

Of prancing Poetry – 

This Traverse may the poorest take 

Without oppress of Toll – 

How frugal is the Chariot 

That bears the Human Soul –

   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 ~ Holiness /Holy Day)