Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Balance

"You have to laugh at the things that hurt you just to keep yourself in balance."
 ―Ken Kesey

God's Hand, sculpture by Carl Milles (2007)
photo by Ellgaard Holger

“Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds' wings.” 

― Jelaluddin Rumi

	Balance Scales: symbol of Libra

Balance Scales: symbol of Libra

Midweek Motif ~ Balance

Astrologically, we're in Libra.  Is that not reason enough to think of balance, balance with grace and poise?  

How easy is balance in any area of life?  Do you look for balance? lose it? create it? guard it? suspect it?

Your Challenge:  Explore the possibilities of balance in a new poem.

A woman demonstrating the ability to balance (1904)

⚖

Balances 

by Nikki Giovanni

In life

one is always

balancing

like we juggle our mothers 

against our fathers 

or one teacher 

against another 

(only to balance our grade average) 

3 grains of salt 

to one ounce truth 

our sweet black essence 

or the funky honkies down the street 

and lately i've begun wondering 

if you're trying to tell me something 

we used to talk all night 

and do things alone together 

and i've begun 

(as a reaction to a feeling) 

to balance 

the pleasure of loneliness 

against the pain 

of loving you 

Rock balancing (Counterbalance)



⚖








GOODBYE TO TOLERANCE







BY DENISE LEVERTOV






Genial poets, pink-faced   



earnest wits—



you have given the world   



some choice morsels,



gobbets of language presented



as one presents T-bone steak



and Cherries Jubilee.   



Goodbye, goodbye,



                            I don’t care



if I never taste your fine food again,   



neutral fellows, seers of every side.   



Tolerance, what crimes



are committed in your name.





And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,   



blood donors. Your crumbs



choke me, I would not want



a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped   



by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never   



falter: irresponsive



to nightmare reality.





It is my brothers, my sisters,



whose blood spurts out and stops



forever



because you choose to believe it is not your business.





Goodbye, goodbye,



your poems



shut their little mouths,   



your loaves grow moldy,   



a gulf has split



                     the ground between us,



and you won’t wave, you’re looking



another way.



We shan’t meet again—



unless you leap it, leaving   



behind you the cherished   



worms of your dispassion,   



your pallid ironies,



your jovial, murderous,   



wry-humored balanced judgment,



leap over, un-



balanced? ... then



how our fanatic tears



would flow and mingle   



for joy ...












Spiderman in old age, Reykjavik by Pobel (2010)

⚖





An Irish Airman foresees his Death


BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

I know that I shall meet my fate 
Somewhere among the clouds above; 
Those that I fight I do not hate, 
Those that I guard I do not love; 
My country is Kiltartan Cross, 
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor, 
No likely end could bring them loss 
Or leave them happier than before. 
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, 
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, 
A lonely impulse of delight 
Drove to this tumult in the clouds; 
I balanced all, brought all to mind, 
The years to come seemed waste of breath, 
A waste of breath the years behind 
In balance with this life, this death.




⚖

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 ~ The Owl.)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Lust

 

 “Curiosity is the lust of the mind.” — Thomas Hobbes

SOURCE

“There is a lust in man no

charm can tame: Of loudly

publishing his neighbor’s

shame: On eagles wings

immortal scandals fly, while

virtuous actions are born and die.” — William Harvey

            “Society drives people crazy with lust and calls it advertising.” — John Lahr

             Midweek Motif ~ Lust

 To me the meaning of ‘lust’ changed forever when I first read Irving Stone’s ‘Lust For Life’, a biographical novel based on Van Gogh’s life.

                 

Today I want you to write about whatever ‘Lust’ means to you. It may be a special ardor, desire, passion, libido, fancy, craving and all the meanings referring to ‘lust’ in the dictionary J

 The Spur

by William Butler Yeats

You think it horrible that lust and rage
Should dance attendance upon my old age;
They were not such a plague when I was young;
What else have I to spur me into song?

Mystery

by D.H. Lawrence

Now I am all
One bowl of kisses,
Such as the tall
Slim votaresses
Of Egypt filled
For a God's excesses.

I lift to you
My bowl of kisses,
And through the temple's
Blue recesses
Cry out to you
In wild caresses.

And to my lips'
Bright crimson rim
The passion slips,
And down my slim
White body drips
The shining hymn.

And still before
The altar I
Exult the bowl
Brimful, and cry
To you to stoop
And drink, Most High.

Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a Mystery,
Like wine that is still
In ecstasy.

Glimmering still
In ecstasy,
Commingled wines
Of you and me
In One fulfill,...
The Mystery. 

Tourists

by Yehuda Amichai

                      

Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial,
They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.

Blood Guilt

by Georg Trakl

Night threatens at the bed of our kisses.

Somewhere a whisper: who absolves your guilt?

Still trembling from the sweetness of nefarious lust

We pray: forgive us, Mary, in your mercy.

Out of flower vases greedy scents climb,

Wheedling our foreheads pale with guilt.

Exhausting under the waft of sultry air

We dream: forgive us, Mary, in your mercy.

But the well of the sirens rushes louder,

And the sphinx rises darker before our guilt,

So that our hearts sound again more sinfully,

We sob: forgive us, Mary, in your mercy. 

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 ~ Human / Homo sapiens)

          

                                   

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ A Tribute Poem

   

“In recognizing the humanity of our fellow beings, we pay ourselves the highest tribute.” — Thurgood Marshall

SOURCE

“The czar was always sending us commands – you shall not do this and you shall not do that – till there was very little left that we might do, except pay tribute and die.” — Mary Antin

Midweek Motif ~ A Tribute Poem

For today’s Motif you are to write a Tribute Poem expressing praise for your subject.

The subject can be varied and is of your own choice. Select someone / something (an abstract concept will do too) worth celebrating and honor them in your lines.

A Farewell

by Lord Tennyson

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever. 

Rose Aylmer

by Walter Savage Landor

Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee. 

A Drinking Song

by William Butler Yeats

WINE comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That's all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh. 

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 ~ Truth)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Water

   

“Nothing is softer or more flexible than water, yet nothing can resist it.”— Lao Tzu

SOURCE

“All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.”— F. Scott Fitzgerald

           Midweek Motif ~ Water 

Those who live in an arid, desert land know too well how precious Water is though rest of the mankind has taken Water for granted. And it is a sin. Hope we don’t have to see that day when there’s “water, water everywhere, / Nor any drop to drink”.

Water plays an important role in many legends and myths in every culture all over the world. Your poem today may include everything concerned with Water from ancient times to our present day. And mythological water beings, gods, goddesses, dragons, naiads etc. are welcome.

           

Water is the elixir of our life. Let’s honor water in our lines today:

Water

by Pablo Neruda

Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam. 

135

by Emily Dickinson

Water, is taught by thirst.
Land—by the Oceans passed.
Transport—by throe—
Peace—by its battles told—
Love, by Memorial Mold—
Birds, by the Snow. 

To An Isle In The Water

by William Butler Yeats

SHY one, Shy one,
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
pensively apart.
She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.
With catries in the candles,
And lights the curtained room,
Shy in the doorway
And shy in the gloom;
And shy as a rabbit,
Helpful and shy.
To an isle in the water
With her would I fly. 

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 ~ Happiness)

             

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Vision

     

“Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.”__ Jonathan Swift

SOURCE

“The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn, the bird waits in the egg, and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities.”— James Allen

          Midweek Motif ~ Vision

Helen Keller was asked, “What would be worse than being born blind?” She replied, “The only thing worse than being blind is to have sight without vision.”

Now we can’t say that this world of ours is sight without vision because we are seeing how little ones are rising and shaming the adults. Remember the March For Our Lives marches? I feel these kids are trying to live a lifestyle matching their vision.

Let’s share our Visions on anything for today’s Midweek Motif: Vision.

I’ll share a song composed by Rabindranath Tagore. It’s his vision on a firefly:

The Firefly Song

by Rabindranath Tagore

Little firefly,    how happily    you open out those wings.

In the dark, in the twilight, in woods,  elated   you pour out your being.

             Neither the sun nor the moon you are

             But is any the less      your pleasure!

 You’ve lived to your fill    to kindle your own glowing.

What you have you have;   to none you are indebted,

To the call from the power within        you have obeyed.

             Unfettering the darkness around       up you rise,

              You’re not at all small dear      despite your tiny size.        

In all worlds    wherever light there is     you’ve made them all your own.

(Translated by Sumana Roy)

          

 Here is another Vision poem by Yeats:

The Second Coming

By William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

       

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 ~ Invention)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Silence

       “In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” — Martin Luther King, Jr.

SOURCE

“The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed.” — Charlotte Brontë

       Midweek Motif ~ Silence

We all know how still, quiet or at rest Silence is. What an absolutely soundless world we enter into if we could really step into Silence!

How to bring Silence into this cacophonous, noisy world?

Where to find that soundlessness? Is Silence merely absence of sound or more than that?

Or is it this Silence that we fear most so we fill up every inch of it with sound? Is Silence oppressive?

Let’s explore the world of Silence today:

Silence

by Thomas Hood

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. 

           

After Long Silence

by William Butler Yeats

Speech after long silence; it is right,
All other lovers being estranged or dead,
Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,
The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,
That we descant and yet again descant
Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:
Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young
We loved each other and were ignorant. 

Silence

by Marianne Moore

My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
nor the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self reliant like the cat --
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth --
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "`Make my house your inn'."
Inns are not residences. 

Aprons Of silence

By Carl Sandburg

Many things I might have said today.
And I kept my mouth shut.
So many times I was asked
To come and say the same things
Everybody was saying, no end
To the yes-yes, yes-yes,
me-too, me-too.

The aprons of silence covered me.
A wire and hatch held my tongue.
I spit nails into an abyss and listened.
I shut off the gable of Jones, Johnson, Smith,
All whose names take pages in the city directory.

I fixed up a padded cell and lugged it around.
I locked myself in and nobody knew it.
Only the keeper and the kept in the hoosegow
Knew it--on the streets, in the post office,
On the cars, into the railroad station
Where the caller was calling, "All a-board,
All a-board for . . . Blaa-blaa . . . Blaa-blaa,
Blaa-blaa . . . and all points northwest . . .all a-board."
Here I took along my own hoosegow
And did business with my own thoughts.
Do you see? It must be the aprons of silence. 

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 ~ Meteor Showers)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Kintsugi: Art of Mending

“And they can’t understand, what hurts more — Missing the other person or pretending not to.” — Khadija Rupa, Unexpressed Feelings

  

SOURCE 

     

 “When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see which one has opened.”— Alexander Graham Bell

Midweek Motif ~ Kintsugi: Art Of Mending

 Kintsugi (golden joinery), also known as Kintsukuroi (golden repair) is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver or platinum to highlight imperfections.(Wikipedia)

This disintegrating world, Nature, life, belief-system, trust, promises, relationship etc. etc. could be mended too. And the scars will become precious.

Write your poem on such a repairing.

’Tis Anguish grander than Delight

by Emily Dickinson

’Tis anguish grander than delight

’Tis Resurrection Pain –

The meeting Bands of smitten Face

We questioned to, again.

’Tis Transport wild as thrills the Graves

When Cerements let go

And Creatures clad in Miracle

Go up by Two and Two.

Fergus And The Druid

by William Butler Yeats

Fergus.

 This whole day have I followed in the rocks,

And you have changed and flowed from shape to shape,

First as a raven on whose ancient wings

Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed

A weasel moving on from stone to stone,

And now at last you wear a human shape,

A thin grey man half lost in gathering night.

Druid.

 What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?

Fergus.

 This would I say, most wise of living souls:

Young subtle Conchubar sat close by me

When I gave judgment, and his words were wise,

And what to me was burden without end,

To him seemed easy, so I laid the crown

Upon his head to cast away my sorrow.

Druid.

 What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?

Fergus.

 A king and proud! and that is my despair.

I feast amid my people on the hill,

And pace the woods, and drive my chariot-wheels

In the white border of the murmuring sea;

And still I feel the crown upon my head

Druid.

 What would you, Fergus?

Fergus.

 Be no more a king

But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours.

Druid.

 Look on my thin grey hair and hollow cheeks

And on these hands that may not lift the sword,

This body trembling like a wind-blown reed.

No woman's loved me, no man sought my help.

Fergus.

 A king is but a foolish labourer

Who wastes his blood to be another's dream.

Druid.

 Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;

Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

Fergus.

 I see my life go drifting like a river

From change to change; I have been many things -

A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light

Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,

An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,

A king sitting upon a chair of gold -

And all these things were wonderful and great;

But now I have grown nothing, knowing all.

Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow

Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing!

 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 ~ Flood)