There's something about spending nights at the beach, windows open with the sound of the waves rushing endlessly in and out. I could have done without the constant roar of fighter planes overhead, but there were quiet and peaceful moments. Some days I think we forget how to listen and just be in the stillness or cacophony of the world. It's not just the sound of the world I love, but the sound of poetry in all it's rhythms, rhymes, meters, assonance, consonance, and well, the list is endless.
While we often write about what we see, my experience at the beach reminds me that sometimes we need to write what we hear. So, your challenge is to write about what you hear in your world. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
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ReplyDeletecat's meow in counterpoint
to robins' songs
Goodbye to the Gulls
ReplyDeleteFor two weeks, down the flue,
from their nest on the chimney pots,
the black-backed gulls cackled and called,
spitting out bird words—food, flight, danger.
When the baby slipped down the slant
of the canted roof and landed in the patio,
Aal fluff and legs, screaming for food,
his beak wide open for hours at a time,
I thought I’d go mad with the noise.
Yet for three long weeks I fed him,
named him George or possibly Georgette,
with baby gulls it’s hard to tell.
I ducked when Mama Gull dived down at me,
crying out danger, food, flight, all of the above.
For three long weeks I watched over George
feeding him crackers., cooked chicken, bread.
He always demanded more, in that insistent
creak of a voice., and well-trained, I supplied it.
Four days ago, fully fledged, he flew
over the garden hedge, into the town
where gulls scream all day and all night long,
and the residents complain, their voices
louder, trilling their Scottish r’s
like kettles on the boil.
As for me, strangely, I miss the gulls
who all flew off after George,
carrying their cacophony with them.
The silence is worse than the cries.
© 2010 Jane Yolen All right reserved
Clocked
ReplyDeleteMinutes click by like the song
of a metronome. Not from the four
digital clocks with their thin
white proclamations. Those hum
to themselves so quietly
I cannot hear them. I mean
the one who still has a voice,
determined accountant, exacting
my minutes, strung like the unit clones
beading a number line, extending
to infinity as if it were as simple
as reaching out an arm. Measuring
the vastness of forever with nothing
more than a school ruler, my small
box of a bedroom clock, its face
incongruously encased in flowers.
—Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved
"determined accountant" WOW! Great line.
ReplyDeleteJane
The plop of butter slides around
ReplyDeletethe frying pan. Minutes tick
until the sizzles begin.
Fork scrapes porcelain bowl
while beating two eggs once
whole. Broken shells cracked
scrunch down with the trash.
Whipped eggs sizzle and fry
in the bubbly butter. Omelet
gives way to quiet chewing
then peach drips juice and
slurps set in. Giant gulps
of milk, but only five.
Stomach happy for an hour.
Grumbles and growls gnaw my
insides. Nine chimes on the clock
make me shudder to think how
long I have to wait for the
next meal of this diet.
Daisy
ReplyDeleteHer collar
made a jangling sound.
Her nails
clicked on our floor.
Her tail
thumped on my bed.
We giggled
at her snore.
She splash-lapped
in the toilet.
She scratched
at our back door.
The house is quiet now.
But I liked it before.
© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
Thanks, Jane!
ReplyDelete--Kate