Wild Fridays: Deaths and Entrances

This is the Death card from the Voyager™ Tarot (my favourite deck to read with professionally) along with the beautiful image on the backs of these cards, which is a cross-section of our DNA. (Death, it seems, might be encoded into our DNA ... inevitable. Or is it merely change?)

This is not the traditional skeleton figure of most Tarots (wielding a scythe or riding a white horse, depending on the deck) but it does show images suggesting profound grief, finality, and even a hint of terror.

However the Death card doesn't refer to physical mortality; it uses that concept in a symbolic sense to denote the death of an old way of life or an old way of being. Furthermore, the message of the Death card is Rebirth, Transformation. Any drastic change is liable to occasion grief, even when it is self-chosen. We must respect that grief, but we're not supposed to get stuck and wallow in it; we're supposed to come out the other side, into something new. Carrying on the symbolism: we're supposed to be reborn.

And so farewell, 2019

As we come to the end of this year at Poets United, we find ourselves facing the ending of some things about the way we have been, as well as the new beginnings that must follow. We contemplate all this with some grief for what is over, the realisation that such changes are inevitable, and the prospect of an exciting new future.

Above all, of course, we mourn the departure of four of our staff members. I've been researching our early posts for the little History segment I've recently included (see links at top of page). I've been here a long time but wasn't quite in on the beginning, so even though I greatly value Mary and Sherry's contribution to this community, I hadn't realised the full extent of it. Robert Lloyd, who founded Poets United, credited them with being the backbone of it when he was creating and developing it. When he had to leave his own creation after only a couple of years, he left it in their capable hands. It's they who are responsible for Poets United being the wonderful home it has been for us all over the ensuing years. 

I came on staff shortly before Robert left. Mary and Sherry made this newbie very welcome and were unfailingly supportive ever after. I've come to realise that they have gone out of their way to encourage many members of our community who needed a bit of personal reassurance. (If you're a new poet starting out, or one who has worked mostly solitary before, jumping in here can feel daunting.)

Then Susan and a little later Sumana joined our staff, completely aligned with the values we already had, and adding their own unique flavours to the mix. 

All these women have looked after us very well! The fact that each is a wonderful poet in her own individual style points to the diversity and inclusivity of this community – as well as its nurturing effect on our skills, allowing us to grow in our craft. We owe them a huge debt of gratitude.

I look back now and think, 'How DID they manage to keep going so long?' And doing such a wonderful job while they were at it! Much as we'll miss their guidance, we can't grudge them time to focus more on their own lives and writings.

It was fortuitous that Magaly and Sanaa had recently come on board, bringing enthusiastic new energy. Then we twisted Rommy's arm (very gently ... well actually we didn't even have to) and she joined us. All the staff, including those retiring, were unanimous that she was the right choice. 

Onwards in 2020

In another sense, we're not losing anyone. Our retiring staff members are not resigning from the community as a whole. We'll look forward to seeing them around, just not in the same capacity.

We've been discussing various options as to who does what in future, and decided I'll stick to the Wild Fridays (where you never know beforehand which topic I'll come up with on any particular Friday) while Magaly will look after us on Sundays and Sanaa and Rommy will take it in turns to come up with the Wednesday prompts. It's always been the case that the Poets United team members have each other's backs; so if any of us has an emergency and can't do one of our regular days, we'll yell for help and one of the others will step in.

Elsewhere

Our sister site, 'imaginary garden with real toads', was also started by Robert Lloyd and then handed over in 2011 to Kerry O'Connor, who has run it so brilliantly ever since, with the help of several other wonderful poets. I and many others have loved their very creative prompts and the high calibre of poetry to be found there. 

Coincidentally that too is now coming to an end – not merely a change of staff but a discontinuation. Kerry has announced that the final post there will be on 30th December. 'All good things ...' as they say. I'm sure many will be feeling sad about that, me for one. I always enjoyed playing there as well as here. Many of you have done the same.

Fortunately the site will remain online as an archive. And what a wonderful resource it will be! It has already been a place I've liked to explore when stuck for inspiration. I'm very glad I'll still be able to do that for years to come.

(Following their good example, we're going to be getting our own archives into order in the near future, so they may always be revisited.)

Meanwhile ...

We here haven't quite bowed out of 2019 yet. Magaly has a final Poetry Pantry for you this coming Sunday. Then it's holiday time until January 5th, the first Sunday of the New Year, when we welcome you back again.

Don't be surprised if you see some changes then to the way we look. We've been using this version of Blogger for a long time – and it includes some aspects that aren't even part of Blogger itself, but were brought over from a Yahoo group which our founder Robb Lloyd once administered (the precursor to this community). It's been getting rather clunky behind the scenes; time to update. We have plans to make it sleeker and more pleasing to the eye, while at the same time more navigable: more user-friendly for both staff and participants.

Post-script

How ironic that at this point some of us (I for one) have been having trouble with the last Midweek Motif, unable to leave comments or access people's linked poems. I know several of you have been experiencing similar frustrations. 

I fared a little better on my tablet than my laptop. On the tablet I can at least access and read everyone's poems. I still can't leave comments at the PU blog, nor on your poems if you're using Blogger. However, I have been able to comment on Wordpress blogs – so it's evidently a Blogger issue. 

Neither Magaly nor I could find a problem with the html coding, the first place either of us thought to look, nor with Settings etc. We believe it's to do with some updating which we're aware that Blogger is carrying out at the moment, and will shortly be resolved.

Thanks for your patience, folks. Hang in there! 

Note: Deaths and Entrances is the title of a book of poems by Dylan Thomas, published in 1946, focusing on the conjunction of birth and death. (The title poem and others reference World War II, which had recently ended.)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Literacy

"Literacy is a bridge from misery to hope." ~Kofi Annan

International Literacy Day is 8 September 8th.  Media: Djibril Kebe, UNESCO Media Section, d.kebe@unesco.org

"This year’s International Literacy Day will be celebrated worldwide to promote literacy as part of the right to education, as well as a foundation for individuals' empowerment and inclusive and sustainable development. . . . On the occasion of International Literacy Day 2019, the main characteristics of multilingualism in today’s globalized and digitalized world will be discussed, together with their implications for literacy in policies and practice in order to achieve greater inclusion in multilingual contexts. "

"Let us remember: One book, one pen, one child, and one teacher can change the world." ~Malala Yousafzi

📖

 “Frederick Douglass taught that literacy is the path from slavery to freedom. There are many kinds of slavery and many kinds of freedom, but reading is still the path." ~Carl Sagan 

What do we mean by literacy in a digital world?

Posted on 8 September 2017 by GEM Report

Midweek Motif ~ Literacy  

          I don't remember learning to read.  How did that happen?  I remember trying to learn to read German and Spanish and achieving only minimum success.  It was harder than I had imagined to look at unfamiliar combinations of letters representing sounds and derive meaning from them.  

          And now I volunteer tutor for an adult literacy program.  My student is from the Ivory Coast.  French is the first of the 5 languages he knows, but he needs to read and write and speak in English to pass the USA naturalization test. English is not easy.  And gaining literacy is even more difficult if early education doesn't include the experience of reading.  

        Where does your life intersect with issues of literacy?

Your Challenge: Address the flowering of literacy ~ one instance/element of how it is an entry ticket or a barrier ~ in your new poem. 

source

There is no Frigate like a Book (1286)

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 –

source

Notes on the Art of Poetry
by Dylan Thomas

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

📖

Learning to Read

By Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Very soon the Yankee teachers

   Came down and set up school;

But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,—

   It was agin’ their rule.

Our masters always tried to hide

   Book learning from our eyes;

Knowledge did’nt agree with slavery—

   ’Twould make us all too wise.

But some of us would try to steal

   A little from the book.

And put the words together,

   And learn by hook or crook.

I remember Uncle Caldwell,

   Who took pot liquor fat

And greased the pages of his book,

   And hid it in his hat.

And had his master ever seen

   The leaves upon his head,

He’d have thought them greasy papers,

   But nothing to be read.

And there was Mr. Turner’s Ben,

   Who heard the children spell,

And picked the words right up by heart,

   And learned to read ’em well.

Well, the Northern folks kept sending

   The Yankee teachers down;

And they stood right up and helped us,

   Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

And I longed to read my Bible,

   For precious words it said;

But when I begun to learn it,

   Folks just shook their heads,

And said there is no use trying,

   Oh! Chloe, you’re too late;

But as I was rising sixty,

   I had no time to wait.

So I got a pair of glasses,

   And straight to work I went,

And never stopped till I could read

   The hymns and Testament.

Then I got a little cabin

   A place to call my own—

And I felt independent

   As the queen upon her throne.

Adult literacy lessons transforming Aboriginal communities

By Pallavi Singhal 
The Sydney Morning Herald, February 18, 2019

📖

A link to another Mighty Fine Poem:  Love Letters

By Lynn Crosbie

"I would give my husband drawings for grocery lists,

with smiling faces on the eggs, and spider feet

dangling everywhere. I could draw letters too.

fat senseless alphabets, lexical landscapes of

pointed trees and bloated clouds. that is how I

wished words were, with changing colours and

feathers in their spines. on road signs in my

dreams, they shimmied, their Rockette heels a

variegated sunburst. unlike the stiff black

knots and stakes that glared at me from envelopes

and books. . . . 

  📖

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 ~ Looking at Stars)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Safety

“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where 
we can go as we are and not be questioned.”
― Maya Angelou, All God's Children . . .

source

 “Would you give up the craft of your hands, and the passion of your heart, and the hunger of your mind, to buy safety?”
― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore 

source

“When we are taught that safety lies always with sameness, then difference, of any kind, will appear as a threat”

― bell hooks 

source

Midweek Motif ~ Safety

Do we have or offer safety?  A reasonable amount of safety? Or maybe a"feeling of safety"?

Mostly, I live as if I have safety, spinning an atmosphere of safety around me, inviting others in. 

Your Challenge: In a new poem, give us an experience of safety or lack of safety or a change from one to the other. 

Safety fence on side of footpath, Abingworth, photo by Dave Spicer

 Persephone, Falling

Rita Dove - 1952-

One narcissus among the ordinary beautiful

flowers, one unlike all the others!  She pulled,

stooped to pull harder—

when, sprung out of the earth

on his glittering terrible

carriage, he claimed his due.

It is finished.  No one heard her.

No one!  She had strayed from the herd.

(Remember: go straight to school.

This is important, stop fooling around!

Don't answer to strangers.  Stick

with your playmates.  Keep your eyes down.)

This is how easily the pit

opens.  This is how one foot sinks into the ground.

"Out of the rolling ocean the crowd"

By Walt Whitman

Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,

Whispering, I love you, before long I die,

I have travell’d a long way merely to look on you to touch you,

For I could not die till I once look’d on you,

For I fear’d I might afterward lose you.

Now we have met, we have look’d, we are safe,

Return in peace to the ocean my love,

I too am part of that ocean, my love, we are not so much separated,

Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!

But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,

As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever;

Be not impatient – a little space – know you I salute the air, the ocean and the land,

Every day at sundown for your dear sake, my love.

"Fern Hill" by Dylan Thomas

Yom Kippur 1984

By Adrienne Rich

 

           I drew solitude over me, on the long shore.
                                        —Robinson Jeffers, “Prelude”

          For whoever does not afflict his soul through this day, shall be
          cut off from his people.
                                                                           —Leviticus 23:29

What is a Jew in solitude?

What would it mean not to feel lonely or afraid

far from your own or those you have called your own?

What is a woman in solitude:   a queer woman or man?

In the empty street, on the empty beach, in the desert

what in this world as it is can solitude mean?

The glassy, concrete octagon suspended from the cliffs

with its electric gate, its perfected privacy

is not what I mean

the pick-up with a gun parked at a turn-out in Utah or the Golan Heights

is not what I mean

the poet’s tower facing the western ocean, acres of forest planted to the east, the woman reading in the cabin, her attack dog suddenly risen

is not what I mean

Three thousand miles from what I once called home

I open a book searching for some lines I remember

about flowers, something to bind me to this coast as lilacs in the dooryard once

bound me back there—yes, lupines on a burnt mountainside,

something that bloomed and faded and was written down

in the poet’s book, forever:

Opening the poet’s book

I find the hatred in the poet’s heart: . . . the hateful-eyed

and human-bodied are all about me: you that love multitude may have them

Robinson Jeffers, multitude

is the blur flung by distinct forms against these landward valleys

and the farms that run down to the sea; the lupines

are multitude, and the torched poppies, the grey Pacific unrolling its scrolls of surf,

and the separate persons, stooped

over sewing machines in denim dust, bent under the shattering skies of harvest

who sleep by shifts in never-empty beds have their various dreams

Hands that pick, pack, steam, stitch, strip, stuff, shell, scrape, scour, belong to a brain like no other

Must I argue the love of multitude in the blur or defend

a solitude of barbed-wire and searchlights, the survivalist’s final solution, have I a choice?
. . . . 

(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 prompt will be "Televised."