Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Dance

   

“Never give a sword to a man who cannot dance.”— Confucius

SOURCE

“Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame.”— W.B. Yeats

       Midweek Motif ~ Dance

As I was thinking about this Dance motif some lines of Leonard Cohen sang out loud in my mind:

          “Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

     Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in

    Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove

                              Dance me to the end of love

                              Dance me to the end of love….”

The whole universe is in a dance mode. It would be interesting to see where you find that rhythm and beat to capture it in your lines.

It might be in the flow of a river; in rolling of waves; in raindrops; in the rhythm of seasons, day and night; in the flight of a bird; in birth; in death; in a stage performance.

There are numerous forms / types of dance. It would be lovely to read about them if you choose one of them to write about; or about the life of any well-known dancer.

And why not about dance costumes, props, masks and shoes?

Give today’s motif a unique interpretation of your like:

A few poems to share with you: 

The Dance

by William Carlos Williams

In Brueghel's great picture, The Kermess,
the dancers go round, they go round and
around, the squeal and the blare and the
tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles
tipping their bellies (round as the thick-
sided glasses whose wash they impound)
their hips and their bellies off balance
to turn them. Kicking and rolling
about the Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, those
shanks must be sound to bear up under such
rollicking measures, prance as they dance
in Brueghel's great picture, The Kermess.

SOURCE

326

by Emily Dickinson

I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,

And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,

Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls,
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—

Nor any know I know the Art
I mention—easy—Here—
Nor any Placard boast me—
It's full as Opera— 

Here is another link to a poem by Langston Hughes:

Dream Variations

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

(Next week Magaly's Midweek Motif will be ~ not-so-old-fashioned 'Hobbies')

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Morning Poem

“A monk sips morning tea,
it's quiet,
the chrysanthemum's flowering.”— Matsuo Basho

SOURCE

“In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.”— Khalil Gibran

   Midweek Motif ~ Morning Poem

Capture the time in your lines when the day is new and you are out of your slumber.

Isn’t it always a good morning whether it’s bright, gray, cloudy or rainy? Or is it not?

A few lines from Langston Hughes:

Bad Morning

Here I sit
With my shoes mismated.
Lawdy-mercy!
I's frustrated! 

Today’s motif is Morning Poem. Let’s see where the morning takes you J

Morning Poem

by Mary Oliver

(here)

300

by Emily Dickinson

'Morning'—means 'Milking'—to the Farmer—
Dawn—to the Teneriffe—
Dice—to the Maid—
Morning means just Risk—to the Lover—
Just revelation—to the Beloved—

Epicures—date a Breakfast—by it—
Brides—an Apocalypse—
Worlds—a Flood—
Faint-going Lives—Their Lapse from Sighing—
Faith—The Experiment of Our Lord 

One O’Clock In The Morning

by Charles Baudelaire

Alone, at last! Not a sound to be heard but the rumbling of some belated and decrepit cabs. For a few hours 
we shall have silence, if not repose. At last the tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and I myself shall be the 
only cause of my sufferings.
At last, then, I am allowed to refresh myself in a bath of darkness! First of all, a double turn of the lock. It 
seems to me that this twist of the key will increase my solitude and fortify the barricades which at this instant 
separate me from the world.
Horrible life! Horrible town! Let us recapitulate the day: seen several men of letters, one of whom asked me 
whether one could go to Russia by a land route (no doubt he took Russia to be an island); disputed generously with the editor of a review, who, to each of my objections, replied: 'We represent the cause of decent people,' which 
implies that all the other newspapers are edited by scoundrels; greeted some twenty persons, with fifteen of whom I am not acquainted; distributed handshakes in the same proportion, and this without having taken the precaution of 
buying gloves; to kill time, during a shower, went to see an acrobat, who asked me to design for her the costume of a 
Venustra; paid court to the director of a theatre, who, while dismissing me, said to me: 'Perhaps you would do well to 
apply to Z------; he is the clumsiest, the stupidest and the most celebrated of my authors; together with him, perhaps, 
you would get somewhere. Go to see him, and after that we'll see;' boasted (why?) of several vile actions which I
have never committed, and faint-heartedly denied some other misdeeds which I accomplished with joy, an error of
bravado, an offence against human respect; refused a friend an easy service, and gave a written recommendation to a
perfect clown; oh, isn't that enough?
Discontented with everyone and discontented with myself, I would gladly redeem myself and elate myself a
little in the silence and solitude of night. Souls of those I have loved, souls of those I have sung, strengthen me,
support me, rid me of lies and the corrupting vapours of the world; and you, O Lord God, grant me the grace to
produce a few good verses, which shall prove to myself that I am not the lowest of men, that I am not inferior to
those whom I despise. 

Morning

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

The mist has left the greening plain,
The dew-drops shine like fairy rain,
The coquette rose awakes again
Her lovely self adorning.

The Wind is hiding in the trees,
A sighing, soothing, laughing tease,
Until the rose says "Kiss me, please,"
'Tis morning, 'tis morning.

With staff in hand and careless-free,
The wanderer fares right jauntily,
For towns and houses are, thinks he,
For scorning, for scorning.
My soul is swift upon the wing,
And in its deeps a song I bring;
Come, Love, and we together sing,
"'Tis morning, 'tis morning." 

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 ~ Surprise!)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Weapon

    “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones” — Albert Einstein

                                       

SOURCE

“People often ask me how I feel about my invention being used to kill people every day and the AK being a common weapon of ethnic conflicts. I want to make it clear that I created my assault rifle to protect my country. You can blame politicians for its spreading out of control on a global scale.”— Mikhail Kalashnikov

Midweek Motif ~ Weapon

This journey of weaponry from knapping stones into desired shape - to - this age of RDS-220 hydrogen bomb has been unique. The aim is either defense or offence. It’s interesting to know that Crossbow was once considered so barbarous that it was prohibited as a weapon hateful to God and unfit for Christians. Sigh. We’ve traveled a long way from there.

Our Motif today is Weapon. To quote Malala Yousafzai in this context, “Let us pick up our books and pens, I said. They are our most powerful weapons. One child, one teacher, one book and one pen can change the world.”

Weapons are varied; in fact anything can be turned into a weapon if the user wills. One can Find one or Be one. Now, what do you say?

The Furious Gun

by Thomas Wyatt

The furious gun in his raging ire,
When that the bowl is rammed in too sore
And that the flame cannot part from the fire,
Cracketh in sunder, and in the air doth roar
The shivered pieces; right so doth my desire,
Whose flame increaseth from more to more,
Which to let out I dare not look or speak;
So now hard force my heart doth all to break. 

Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode? 

Incident

by Countee Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, 'Nigger.'

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember. 

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 ~ Moon)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Wealth

"Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants"--Epictetus

Child Plutus, Greek god of Wealth)

"To be wealthy and honored in an unjust society is a disgrace"--Confucius

"Resolve not to be poor: whatever you have, spend less. Poverty is a great enemy to human happiness; it certainly destroys liberty, and it makes some virtues impracticable, and others extremely difficult."--Samuel Johnson


"I would like to live as a poor man with lots of money."--Pablo Picasso


"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."--Strickland Gillian


                                     Midweek Motif ~ Wealth

Many people, the sensitive ones particularly, poets for example, have faith in this quote: If you want to feel rich, just count all the things you have that money can’t buy.

Yes it’s wonderful to have treasures that do not cost anything.

The word Wealth has a broad spectrum and varied meanings.

F.A.Walker specifies, "Wealth comprises all articles of value and nothing else", while The American heritage of Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition defines wealth as "the state of being rich and affluent; having a plentiful supply of material goods and money".

The subject of Wealth is today's topic: whatever wealth means to us.

Wealth

By Langston Hughes

From Christ to Ghandi

Appears this truth-St. Francis of AssisiProves it, too:Goodness becomes grandeurSurpassing might of kings.Halos of kindnessBrighter shineThan crowns of gold,And brighterThan rich diamondsSparkles The simple dewOf love

The Moment

By Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round. 

Weekend Glory

By Maya Angelou

Some clichty folks

don't know the facts,

posin' and preenin'

and puttin' on acts,

stretchin' their backs.

They move into condos

up over the ranks,

pawn their souls

to the local banks.

Buying big cars

they can't afford,

ridin' around town

actin' bored.

If they want to learn how to live life right

they ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plant

ain't the biggest bet,

but I pay my bills

and stay out of debt.

I get my hair done

for my own self's sake,

so I don't have to pick

and I don't have to rake.

Take the church money out

and head cross town

to my friend girl's house

where we plan our round.

We meet our men and go to a joint

where the music is blue

and to the point.

Folks write about me.

They just can't see

how I work all week

at the factory.

Then get spruced up

and laugh and dance

And turn away from worry

with sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin'

from day to day,

but who are they kiddin'?

So are they.

My life ain't heaven

but it sure ain't hell.

I'm not on top

but I call it swell

if I'm able to work

and get paid right

and have the luck to be Black

on a Saturday night.

Blood Money

By Syl Cheney-Coker

Along the route of this river,

with a little luck, we shall chance upon

our brothers' fortune, hidden with that cold smile

reserved for discreet bankers unmindful of the hydra

growing fiery mornings from our discontent

Wealth was always fashionable, telluric,

not honor pristine and profound.

In blasphemous glee, they raise to God's lips

those cups filled with ethnic offerings

that saps the blood of all human good.

Having no other country to call my own

except for this one full of pine needles

on which we nail our children's lives,

I have put off examining this skull,

savage harvest, the swollen earth,

until that day when, all God's children,

we shall plant a eureka supported by a blood knot.

And remorse not being theirs to feel,

I offer an inventory of abuse by these men,

with this wretched earth on my palms,

so as to remind them of our stilted growth

the length of a cutlass, or if you prefer

the size of our burnt-out brotherhood.

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 ~ Conversation )