Words that sing

Above my firmly planted feet
my slender waist sways
as I turn to show myself
in my full glory.

I tread, as all beauties must
that delicate knife edge -
Seducing those with what I need.
Avoiding those who might hurt.

Youth is achingly short - so I
must seize each sunlit hour.
Before age’s frost can wither
the very life in my veins.

So don’t call me names
or criticise my seductive ways.
Don’t blame me because I
dress in the sexiest colours;

chosen to flaunt, not conceal
my secret parts, which glisten
with the tantalising nectar
so many bees have died for.

This was inspired (rather belatedly) by an old Totally Optional Prompt - to write a poem from the point of view of a flower! Well, what else did you think I was writing about?

Once
just
a dream
quietly
beckoning my heart
towards a dimly seen future

Now
here
heavy
in my arms
all senses announce
that the idea has become flesh

And
smells
more real
more vivid
than I imagined
with the eyes of my hopeful mind.

Strange
gift -
to see
ideas
shape matter - into
a house, a child, or a poem.

I wrote this as a companion poem to “waiting” - which I wrote some time ago for a blog friend and a real-life friend who were both close to having a child. Now both mothers have given birth to wonderful small people, I wanted to take the opportunity to reflect on humans’ miraculous ability to turn dreams into reality. The poem also responds (HT to readwritepoem) to the beautiful picture above, which is by Rick Mobbs, one of the new fathers - click on the image to see it in greater detail.

This idea also has a lot of resonance for me now, as, in my work, I see the things I have planned start to happen. In many of the jobs I’ve done, the goals were so far off that I moved on before I could see tangible results. So it is a real satisfaction to actually see the results of my decisions!

I was also lucky to come across a new (to me) form today on Nicole Nicholson’s blog Raven’s Wing Poetry. Like hers, this poem is a fib chain - the syllable count in each stanza is 1,1,2,3,5,8. Which seems rather appropriate, as Rick’s picture is called “fibonacci”!

“Ye can stow yer clobber here
And bed down in yon hay
If ye hear summat wail in t’night
It’s just our Rosie – she’s on heat
(Not the sort of behaviour
we encourage here
even in bitches, mark ye!)
So yer a writer, then?
Well, scrawl away. It won’t
put food on yer plate, or mine
but happen it’s harmless enough.”

This was a response to the friday five at poefusion - to write a poem including the words: clobber, wail, encourage, scrawl, and hay.

So they were true,
the words you said!
I knew, deep down -
yet still found it
astounding we
could stop grieving
so easily -
once more free, to
just be in love.
Like a dove wings
above the wood
to her good home,
we could nest too,
me and you, with
our wounds now healed.

>>>
This is my first attempt at a Burmese climbing rhyme, an intriguing form that I came across thanks to Michelle at Poefusion, who came across it at The Miss Rumphius Effect. Each line is of four syllables, and uses end and internal rhymes in the following pattern: 

x x x a
x x a x
x a x b
x x b x
x b x c
x x c x
x c x x

(Edit - I’ve just realised it’s possible to go on indefinitely with this form, so have expanded the poem beyond its original seven lines!)

Through a gate of words
My heart escapes its fear. Rests
In other minds’ dreams.

Do I spend too long,
Safe but lonely, inside my
Paper-walled fortress?

Life’s music may set our arms mourning or our feet dancing
And yet whatever its melody, we are always dancing

A bright lightning flashes between the minds and hearts
Of a man and the desirable woman he espies dancing

Some may baulk, finding dancing too spontaneous or sensuous
Yet who can live freely who is hesitant when he tries dancing?

Revelling in compatibility and caressed with compliments,
Lovers smile at each other, their bright eyes dancing.

Some spin webs to trap their lovers and bind them close
Yet love is starved by conversations that are merely lies dancing.

Love has a power to give our fleeting lives
The brilliant beauty of butterflies dancing

Some walk the journey of their life, others run or crawl.
Happiest those whose words sing, who spend their lives dancing.

This is my first attempt at a ghazal, prompted by totallyoptionalprompts, on whose site you can find links to guidance on this form, and will soon be able to find examples by other poets. It’s a challenging form and I’ve not quite got the hang of it yet!

Edit - I’ve just been reading more about the Ghazal (HT to Brad) and have changed the last line, which used to be: “But the wise and happy travel through their lives, dancing”.

High in the cold air of the mountains
Where rain and clouds are rarely seen
I sit and dream of lush tropical green,
Hot humidity and refreshing fountains

And next week, I will be longing for a breeze
To freshen the the humid, insect-thick nights
Yearning for the coolness of the heights.
Humans are such hard creatures to please!

This was written for read-write-poem’s prompt - to write about the negative side of “fun in the sun” - check out other poets’ work here.

I am about to travel from high in the Andes (where the tropical sun is weakened by altitude and winter) to Central America, where neither of these cooling influences will apply in summer at sea level! It’s a tempting prospect now, but I have a feeling I will be glad to come back again!

Someone, somewhere is playing a tune
his fingers strumming in the gloom
on the trembling strings. And my heart
echoes the pulse of his subtle art.
Someone, somewhere is playing a tune,
calling to me through the rainswept dark.
In the unknown distance, under the moon
someone, somewhere is playing a tune
on the trembling strings of my heart.

This is a response to the picture above, by newjack at photobucket, the Monday mural at poefusion.  My response came to me as a very complete visual and aural image, though it’s nothing I’ve ever experienced! It started as a triolet but I modified it because I didn’t want the refrain lines to appear together until the final couplet, and because the repetition just seemed to work better this way.

In the supermarket
I turn to pick up some tomatoes
and find my feet
pivoting in a dance step.

Later on, choosing a bag of sugar, I notice
they’re doing it again - one foot
skimming the outline of the other,
rhythmically crossing
in front
behind.

And I realise that, this weekend
I have danced further than I have walked
and my feet are enjoying
their new,
less pedestrian,
vocation.

Indeed my feet feel alive -
tingling softly with a happiness
that seems to have very little to do
with what my mind is thinking. So
wherever I go, I arrive on a cushion
of happiness
(like a hovercraft on air)
which makes it hard to be sad, or daunted.

A strange feeling -
to walk around on happy feet
and feel cheerfulness spread up my body
as if every tiny cell is dancing
to some unheard music.

…that the Humanist symposium is up at faith in honest doubt. Some interesting posts, and one of mine!