Wild Fridays: Poems of the Week

Celebrating Susan and Sumana

– who have been our Midweek Motif hosts for so long. It's sad to see them step down from that role which they have filled so beautifully, with so much thought and so much heart. Changes in both their lives came coincidentally at about the same time, bringing a need to refocus their energies elsewhere. They generously decided to stay on until the end of the year, after Mary and Sherry's retirement, giving the new team more time to settle in. And they assure us that, although they won't be hosting any more, they will still be writing and posting.

How much I've always enjoyed the poems of each of these poets – equally thoughtful, spiritual and life-affirming, yet different in style. 

They also, of course, experience marked differences in geography and culture, yet have worked together as a team-within-a-team, preparing and hosting the Midweek Motif prompts with ongoing behind-the-scenes collaboration – another example of how Poets United (the staff and the wider community) has been able to create a harmonious common ground for us all.

Choosing one favourite poem from each of these poets would have been impossible, because there are so many I could include! I picked these first two (both posted to their blogs earlier this year) partly because, in showing their individual yet shared love of life, even in its smallest details, they also exemplify aspects of their different societies and lifestyles.

Here is Sumana longing for rain:

DANCE 

– Sumana Roy

I miss your visual splendour-

your kohl-eye, telling stories-

your swift pirouettes in the wind-

your enthralling foot-work-

did your ghungroos (anklet) have hundred bells

like the Kathak dancers?

Wasn’t I mesmerized hearing the dance steps

on glossy, green leaves; on metal shades?

the touch of those graceful hands

blossomed Kadam flowers-

your odhni (veil) of cloud

seemed infinite-

where are you my pretty, danseuse?

Have we killed you

like the colonial British trying to smother

the Kathak dance

calling its practitioners ‘nautch girls’; harlots

in contemptuous fun?

In our desert homes

we are missing you sorely-

Sumana added in a note:
[Whatever I try to write now it leads to the rain-less days we are living here. So my Kathak dancer is the monsoon here.]


Sumana, we here in Australia can very much relate to such a longing, as we have been suffering a serious drought for a number of years. I know other places around the world, including parts of America, are in a similar plight. I hope your plea may act as  a prayer!

Then we see Susan enjoying both friendship and solitude:

After an Evening with Friends  

– Susan Chast

After fudge and cream on brownies, after

the last delicious kiss goodnight,

after the train deposits you

a mere half mile away—

you walk. The door opens

and closes. Then, 

do you, too, sigh,

perk up, rally to spend

time with yourself at last,

to catch up on quiet and joy?

Home’s divine solitude settles

like gold dust, surrounds like Bach cello suites.

Susan, you take us straight into both feelings with marvellous economy of well-chosen words! I feel with you the pleasures of such an evening of good food with congenial friends, then the bliss of 'home's divine solitude'. Having lived alone for the past seven years, maintaining an active social life yet also relishing my periods of solitude, I can say a big 'Yes!' to both verses. 


Perhaps the overriding quality I receive from Sumana's poetry is gentleness; from Susan's integrity. For me these are their signature characteristics – but of course no-one can be categorised by just one quality; I don't mean to suggest the poems are not varied.

I see both, also, as women of great resilience.

Here is Susan coping with the 'writer's slump' we all experience from time to time, yet using it – with great wisdom – to reconnect with the source of inspiration, in faith that it is indeed so:

What a Writing Slump Is

A hole I slide into, below

the surface of consciousness, I say—

But my body protests:

It’s a hole you want to dig but can’t.

You’re slumping, and haven’t the strength

to wield a shovel to break through

the surface of consciousness.

The hard ground won’t receive the seed. 

No, I reply, trust me:

The seed is there with fledgling roots, 

but the hole is too deep for the stem to reach 

the edge where I could translate through arms, 

eyes and hands into the light.  Instead of floating 

over the hole, notebook and keyboard—I am

inside, as close to the seedling as possible. 

I slide into the hole, below

the surface of consciousness, I say—

and slump there for a long long time.

And Sumana lifting herself up via the words of the famous Indian poet Tagore, whom she so loves and admires (some of whose work she has translated):

Tagore

Your words are the buzz-song

of a bee–

dripping sweetness unto

my tattered soul–

I have morphed into

a thousand honeycomb

holding your nectar–

the world isn't all honey–

when it stings I sing your forever song

to be lifted up, to fly

with my newly grown wings–


Susan replies:

Rosemary, thank you for choosing my poem “After an Evening with Friends” for this sweet feature with Sumana.  You, she, and Poets United have been with me many of these luscious evenings.  And then, “What a Writing Slump is”! I am not slumping now, but I know the hole, seeds and roots intimately. 

I love Poets United.  I loved working with the old team and look forward to changes the new team will bring.  Based on what you have already done, I know PU will continue to nourish poets and writers in exciting ways.  Poets United nourished me at a time when my confidence in blogging my poems was flagging.  Then you, Mary, and Sherry wholeheartedly invited me to join the team after Kim Nelson's year.  The new weekly Midweek Motif built on Kim's success.  And just when I was feeling overwhelmed, Mary suggested that I share Midweek Motif with Sumana Roy.  I soon became enchanted with her poetry and choices, and we became partners here.  I felt my life blessed ever since.  (Truly, Sumana. Poems like your Respect from 2017 live in my home. And I want to use your Tagore translations forever!) 

Now, I hope to put my creative time into writing. In addition, I've come out of retirement to substitute teach, and I am co-leading a spiritual nurture program through my Quaker meeting. I expect to join the poets who blog here quite often. Throughout the years, your poetry and commentary have been good company. 


And Sumana says:

I feel so honored to be featured with Susan in your Poems of the Week, here at Poets United, Rosemary. Thank you so much. Yes, it’s been a wonderful journey with you all. I enjoyed my every moment being here. Thematic prompts always motivate me to write my lines and it was so amazing to see all the insightful responses from the poets from all over the world to such prompts. And such a dream team of partners! I can’t thank Mary enough for offering me to be a part of the Midweek Motifs with Susan. Aah…those behind-the-scene chats with Susan for Midweek motifs! And who can ever forget all those sun-shine words from all of you during my cloudy days! I am ever so grateful to each of you for being with me during my hard hours.

Wish you all my best.

And thank you once again Rosemary for selecting the poem Dance. This poem is definitely a sigh of exasperation only an Indian summer and a forgetful Monsoon could bring about. 

I am so very obsessed with Tagore! And what a delight you’ve chosen this poem also for this feature. It’s a little tribute to my poet who has become a shelter to me specially after those stormy nights. At present I am reading a memoir of Tagore in Bengali. Name of the book is : Swarger Kachhakachhi by Maitreyee Devi. Meaning of the book title is ‘Close to Heaven’. No title could be more appropriate.

Though now most of my time is occupied with extreme traveling I still have managed some space for reading and diving once again into the translation of Tagore’s songs.

***********

I'm sure you'll all be glad (but not surprised) to know that these two exceptional poets, who have become our dear friends through their many months of hosting Midweek Motif, will still be very much engaged with poetry, and that we may continue to see them here sharing their wise and beautiful words.

Material shared in this post is presented for study and review. Poems, photos, and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners, usually the authors.

POEMS OF THE WEEK - POEMS OF PEACE

Our thoughts are on peace today, with beautiful poems written by Susan Chast, of Susan's Poetry, Sumana Roy, who blogs at Sumanar/Lekha, Gillena of Lunch Box, and Wendy Bourke, of Words and Words and Whatnot. Each poem talks about peace, what it is, and what it isn't. By the end of this feature, I hope all of our spirits are soothed and encouraged. Let's dive right in.

PEACE IS THE HORSE

Peace is the horse of my daydreams

with paces smooth as silk, and speed

enough to comb wind through my hair

while still allowing me to see

the panorama passing by.

Peace is the horse everyone rides

workdays, Sabbaths and holidays,

holding the reins loose and kind

as if their moods and tempers were

the same, horse and rider as one.

Peace is the horse that takes us home

when our day ends and dark sets in.

We let them lead us to surprise

that well-known lands look bright and new

in the twilight as our day ends.

                                 
                                                                            source

Sherry: How I love this poem! Especially "Peace is the horse that takes us home." Where did this poem come from, my friend?

Susan: Where my poem came from:  I thought "How I wish for peace!"  And then I remembered the little rocking rhyme "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."  If peace were a horse and everyone could ride, so much would be possible.  I've been told horses pick up the tiniest mood changes, and that opening up to horses and not fighting them is key to having good rides.  I put that in the poem, too, with the mutual relationship between horse and rider what makes the world anew. Wouldn't that be lovely?  And, of course, you can substitute in any animal or the earth itself or even God--because acknowledging presence, having conversations, and building mutually beneficial relationships make peace possible.

Sherry: My Grandma used to quote that saying all the time. I would love to see us all riding the horse of peace. Thank you, my friend, for this beautiful poem, and image. Sumana's poem shows us the other side of peace, lurking in the shadows of man's tendency to war.

PEACE

Peace lives

as the shadow of war -

where gunmen smell darkness

in every flower -

when this heart morphs

into a desert

peace comes out

as succulent

with spine -

peace is the mirage

of the green shadow,

walking with a lute in hand -

yet you are deaf -

source

Sherry: Peace walking with a lute in its hand, yet we are deaf. True.

Sumana: Thank you so much Sherry for selecting my Peace poem for your Monday feature. Feeling greatly honoured to be teamed with all my favourite poets.

"Peace" was written as a response to one of Susan’s Midweek Motifs.

I tried to use subtle, tender, vulnerable and resilient imagery to describe ‘peace’ in the poem. Peace is a concept beyond the reach of the belligerent and gross humans; so it will remain ever elusive to them. Tennyson wrote almost 150 years ago:

Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Yet we are seeing thousand wars and no trace of peace. Sad, isn’t it?

Sherry: Yes, it is very sad, that in all these centuries, humankind has not found a better way to live together. Sigh.

Gillena's poem points us in the direction of hope. Let's read.

OF PEACE

The wings of the butterfly are not still

They are white, flapping in the breeze

The colour of the sky is not overcast

It is the azure of a bright sunny day

The absence of birdsong is not disturbing

It is fleeting and transient

They will be there again maybe in a second

Maybe in an hour, who knows

The quality of peace is not turmoil

It is the assembling and arranging

Of everything into  channel of hope

Of gratefulness and of satisfaction

                                   
                                                                         source 

Sherry: I love the idea that "peace is the assembling of everything into a channel of hope and gratitude". So well said, Gillena.

Gillena: ‘OF PEACE'  is one of those poems i wrote in response to a prompt. Though my approach was haiku-like in its birthing, I wrote from observation and contemplation, not knowing where my muse would take me. The poem starts with the carefree nature of a butterfly, the trust, the providence and the gift of the creator. There is a continuity of trust in verse two, even though there is a shift to design and the completed task of Creation.

We live in a world where peace is on the wish agenda of so many; yet, we are faced with war, strife, and change, disturbing us and forcing us to question our very existence and creed. So that Verse three dives in pulling out the remaining gift in the Box of Pandora, hope. Hope is really all that is left to us to claim as ours, in everything, as we strive for peace on our beautiful blue planet.

So there we have it, poem -  OF PEACE.

Sherry: I so feel those words, Gillena, that hope is all we have left. As well as activism, I suppose,  refusing to allow our leaders to destroy the world for the sake of money and power. Sigh.

Wendy recently wrote a poem that reflects such a beautiful, soulful peacefulness, I wanted to share it here as a poem of peace. Let's bask in its beautiful lines and soothe our souls a little.

Wendy Bourke photo

The Lavender Hour

lavender is the colour …

of the hour ... of peace ...

somewhere …

in all the moments

of day ... or night ...

or dusk ... or dawn ...

there is a flowered confluence …

hidden amongst the heavy fronds of living …

a portal to a space ...

far ... far away ...

from the revving fatigue ...

time rests ... there ... in that place

above the pale

intents and purposes ...

the sorrow and the pain

... and floats … 
as simple as a leaf
upon a lavender sea

... and drifts ... and drifts ...

eyes closed …

it whispers from the deep

nebulous of being

… let it be ...

note: this is a poem I wrote using a method laid out by Elizabeth (in an interview she had with Sherry) in the Monday, May 27 Blog of the Week Feature, entitled: How to Write a Poem When You're Blocked. Check it out, if you haven't already. I found it very helpful.

source

Wendy: My poem 'the lavender hour' is one of several pieces I have written lately that harken back to – or spring from – childhood reminiscences.  So much of living – in my case, living in a very big city – seems to be getting more and more tumultuous.  Whatever the reason (or combination of reasons), I do feel a growing harmonious connection to those things from my childhood that have an indelible and tender place in memory ... be they: sight, sound, fragrance, taste or feel.  Revisiting those things (when it is possible to do so) is pleasant, calming and peaceful.  Of course, it is often not possible to physically recreate that which speaks so compellingly to us.

As I mentioned in my short story 'in the stream of consciousness', lilacs were a big feature of spring in the town where I grew up and, thus, many fond memories, centered around lilacs, return to me, particularly at this time of year.  Alas, I have not seen, or smelled, lilacs, in decades.  Lavender, on the other hand, is far more commercially available ... at least the scent of lavender, which is known for its calming properties. I very much like lavender, as well – though it is not quite as redolent as lilac. But, like everything in life, we must work with what we have.  Thankfully we have stream-of-consciousness to get us where reality won't take us ~ smiles ~

Though I no longer meditate, I do find that simply resting in a tranquil setting, several times a day, is very restorative to the spirit. Often I play light classical music or soft nature sounds in the background.  Sometimes I light incense or scented oils. Sometimes I put a fan on low to stir the air, a bit. And then I simply relax and float away to whatever envisioning I drift upon.  I find these little idylls beneficial in several ways.  They promote creativity.  Indeed, many a poem has sprung from one of these rests (as was the case with 'the lavender hour').  They foster a sense of being able to take control, at least on some level – and that, by extension, I think, contributes to a pleasanter head space (as opposed to one's state of mind, zooming pell-mell through the hours).

While we do live in very distressing times, we can at least carve out a little peace for ourselves.  It's a good place to begin finding it.  One cannot help but think of all the wonderful possibilities for our planet, if more people paused occasionally, throughout their day, in peaceful reflection. 

Sherry: Yes. I am thinking of the million children in China meditating for peace recently. Hopefully some of those vibrations wafted across the sea to North America, in all its present angst. Your poem is lovely, Wendy. We needed it!

Well, my friends? We hope you take away some hope and some peace from the sharing of these poems. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Writing Poetry

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”

― Robert Frost

Art by tenth grader Julia Wang from San Jose, California, who has won the inaugural National Poetry Month Poster Contest. Wang’s artwork was selected by contest judges Naomi Shihab Nye and Debbie Millman . . . . It incorporates lines from the poem "An Old Story" by current U. S. Poet Laureate Tracy K. Smith.  
 Read more about Wang’s winning artwork.

“Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.”

― Aristotle

"Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility."   --William Wordsworth

Allegory of Poetry by Francisco Goya

Midweek Motif ~ Writing Poetry

Writing Poetry is what we do. Why?

According to Jane Hirshfeld: 

"One reason to write a poem is to flush from the deep thickets of the self some thought, feeling, comprehension, question, music, you didn’t know was in you, or in the world. Other forms of writing—scientific papers, political analysis, most journalism—attempt to capture and comprehend something known. Poetry is a release of something previously unknown into the visible. You write to invite that, to make of yourself a gathering of the unexpected and, with luck, of the unexpectable."   (Read the rest HERE.)

Is she right?  What is a poem? 

Your Challenge:  In a New poem, tell us Why Write Poetry? and/or What Is Poetry?  Consider limiting yourself to addressing one poem rather than generalizing.

🟍

Last Monday, Sherry gave us Poems of the Week ~ Three Poets on Poetry in which Sanaa, Rajani and Sumana answered that question.  Below I provide a few excerpts of the feature:

In POEM HOLDING ITS HEART IN ONE FIST*, Sanaa notes: 
". . . sometimes it’s better to counsel with our hearts alone. 

I have found that pink buds are perfect within  

and destined to open. . . . "

In THE POET HAS GONE, Sumana notes: 

". . . Things of beauty,  
Scattered everywhere 
Like a Mary Oliver page- 
Yet there’s an uncanny calm . . . ."

And in JUST MATH, Rajani notes:

"Even Rumi, who could fit the entire
universe inside his poem, was yearning
for the grace of the Beloved. The universe
is not enough. . . ."

Poetry Is the Gnomic Utterance from Which the Soul Springs, Fluttering

BY JOYCE CAROL OATES

At the podium

measured and grave as a metronome

the (white, male) poet with bald-

gleaming head broods in gnom-

ic syllables on the death

of 12-year-old (black, male) Tamir Rice

shot in a park

by a Cleveland police officer

claiming to believe

the boy’s plastic pistol

was a “real gun”

like his own eager

to discharge and slay

  

while twelve feet away

at the edge

of the bright-lit stage

the (white, female) interpreter

signing for the deaf is stricken

with emotion —

horror, pity, disbelief —

outrage, sorrow —

young-woman face contorted

and eyes spilling tears

like Tamir Rice’s mother

perhaps, or the sister

made to witness

the child’s bleeding out

in the Cleveland park.

We stare

as the interpreter’s fingers

pluck the poet’s words out of the air

like bullets, break open stanzas

tight as conches with the deft

ferocity of a cormo-

rant and render gnome-speech

raw as hurt, as harm,

as human terror

wet-eyed and mouth-grimaced

in horror’s perfect O.

The Parnassus: The whole room shows the four areas of human knowledge:
philosophy, religion, poetry and law, with The Parnassus representing poetry. 
by Rafael (1511)

Poetry

BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY

Morn on her rosy couch awoke, 

   Enchantment led the hour, 

And mirth and music drank the dews 

   That freshen’d Beauty’s flower, 

Then from her bower of deep delight, 

   I heard a young girl sing, 

‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 

   For ’tis a holy thing.’ 

The Sun in noon-day heat rose high, 

   And on the heaving breast, 

I saw a weary pilgrim toil 

   Unpitied and unblest, 

Yet still in trembling measures flow’d 

   Forth from a broken string, 

‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 

   For ’tis a holy thing.’ 

’Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, 

   ’Mid agony severe, 

While there a willing spirit went 

   Home to a glorious sphere, 

Yet still it sigh’d, even when was spread

   The waiting Angel’s wing, 

‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 

   For ’tis a holy thing.’

Skyscrapers

by Matt Haig

I

Like

The Way

That when you

Tilt

Poems

On their side

They

Look like

Miniature

Cities

From

A long way

Away. 

Skyscrapers

Made out

Of

Words.

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

                (Next week Sumana’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Temptation)