“Every novel begins with the speculative question,
What if "X" happened? That's how you start.”
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| Erin Hanson Poetry |
Midweek Motif ~ What it . . . ?
"What if . . . ?" is a wondering question. It could be speculation, anticipation or regret.
On the one hand, it leads me to science fiction and fantasy. On the other, it leads me to strategize like a chess player, a teacher or a writer.
Where does it lead you?
Your Challenge: Write a new poem that poses "What if" questions. You need not use the exact words. You need not provide answers.
Where does it lead you?
Your Challenge: Write a new poem that poses "What if" questions. You need not use the exact words. You need not provide answers.
"What if "- Reba McEntire
by e.e.cummings
what if a much of a which of a wind
gives the truth to summer’s lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
Blow king to beggar and queen to seem
(blow friend to fiend:blow space to time)
—when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,
the single secret will still be man
what if a keen of a lean wind flays
screaming hills with sleet and snow:
strangles valleys by ropes of thing
and stifles forests in white ago?
Blow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind
(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)
—whose hearts are mountains,roots are trees,
it’s they shall cry hello to the spring
what if a dawn of a doom of a dream
bites this universe in two,
peels forever out of his grave
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
Blow soon to never and never to twice
(blow life to isn’t:blow death to was)
—all nothing’s only our hugest home;
the most who die,the more we live
by Ellen Bass
What if you knew you’d be the last
to touch someone?
If you were taking tickets, for example,
at the theater, tearing them,
giving back the ragged stubs,
you might take care to touch that palm,
brush your fingertips
along the life line’s crease.
When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase
too slowly through the airport, when
the car in front of me doesn’t signal,
when the clerk at the pharmacy
won’t say Thank you, I don’t remember
they’re going to die.
A friend told me she’d been with her aunt.
They’d just had lunch and the waiter,
a young gay man with plum black eyes,
joked as he served the coffee, kissed
her aunt’s powdered cheek when they left.
Then they walked half a block and her aunt
dropped dead on the sidewalk.
How close does the dragon’s spume
have to come? How wide does the crack
in heaven have to split?
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?
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 ~ Charity.)
