In Whales Weep Not by D.H. Lawrence, the poem begins this way.
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
I thought it might be fun to to write a contradictory poem that begins with the words "They say .... but" and describes something or someone in a very different fashion.
So, are you up for the challenge? What will you write? Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
Love, They Say
ReplyDeleteThey say love burns as hot
as the sun in the Sahara,
so why does sitting beside you
feel cool and fresh as a slice
of watermelon?
They say passion rages,
blasting the sky like lightning,
so why does my stuttering heart
find calm in the pond ripples
of your voice?
And love is for the young,
they say. Then why has my love
woken up so late, yawning
and reaching, surprised,
for its glasses?
Love is a vampire, they say,
drinking all in a grand red pain.
So why is our love
more like splitting a sandwich
at the deli?
--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved
A FEW DISCREPANCIES
ReplyDeleteBy Steven Withrow
They say the broken watch fixed time,
but the water clock and the hourglass run on.
They say the old grow wise and circumspect,
but toddlers learn to lie and split the difference.
They say the sharper knife cuts quick,
but the duller dulls the whetstone equally.
They say what's done is done, enough's enough,
but are they the same who spoke of knives and time?
They say the aster and the rose, but I,
I say the withered marigold, the baby's breath, the balm.
Lovely poems, you two!
ReplyDeleteHere's my pitiful attempt.
They Say
They say a child grows up, but a child
grows down as well, crawling to discover
the world in miniature scrawling in italics
more about the world than you could ever teach them.
They say a child leaves home, but home
goes with the child, like the hermit crab, turtle, snail,
like a blanket clutched between sleeping fingers,
a first birthday card, a teddy bear, a favorite book.
They say a child grows distant but to a child
that distance is not measured in miles,
but Skype syllables, FaceBook pages,
or frantic phone calls asking for money.
They say a child cleaves to another, but the child remembers
birthdays, anniversaries, yours and theirs,
makes surprise visits with caravans and friends,
and then there’s the one day of the year
you actually set the alarm when you went out
having changed the code, returning
to find your daughter and a policeman
in passionate conversation,
remembering their wild adolescent days.
They say a child never really returns.
They forget to tell you about the grandchildren.
©2010 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved
Jane--"hermit crab, turtle, snail...blanket...teddy bear..." Yes! When my mom moved out of state, I wept. To which an older gentleman remarked, "They have these things called telephones, you know." (Not the same!)
ReplyDeleteMmmm...lovely poems.
ReplyDeleteFavorite bits so far:
Then why has my love
woken up so late, yawning
and reaching, surprised,
for its glasses?
and
They say the broken watch fixed time,
but the water clock and the hourglass run on.
and
but home
goes with the child, like the hermit crab, turtle, snail,
like a blanket clutched between sleeping fingers,
a first birthday card, a teddy bear, a favorite book.
and
They say a child never really returns.
They forget to tell you about the grandchildren.
Wow.
OK, here's mine. I haven't been doing my daily poem since all hell broke loose in my life in late July. It felt good to have a Poetry Stretch. Thanks, Tricia!
Fall Fashion Show
They say you shouldn’t wear white after Labor Day
but the froth of foam swirling along shore’s runway
and bottomless blue skies wearing white necklace clouds
and night’s marble moon pendant
say different
They say
fall owns every color
so don’t hold back
don’t limit her to orange and gold and scarlet
with goose feathers and falling leaves
Fall uses a full palette
including lime green and downy grey and Easter pink
and white
snowberries, waxy and oval
swans gliding over dark water
onions dusted with garden dirt
fleece on sheep dotting the hillside
mini-marshallows in hot cocoa
eggshells on the counter
fresh notebook paper
Elmer’s school glue
sparks of bonfires
calendar squares whipping by
Especially white
--Laura Purdie Salas, all rights reserved
Trust
ReplyDeleteThey say you can’t trust anyone
but today we picked berries
all alone at a roadside farm.
A wooden sign beckoned
U-PICK RASPBERRIES
so we poured out of our car
into the homestretch of summer.
Berries dangled like earrings.
Tying pails around our waists
we danced bush-to-bush
tickling them loose
wiping juice from our chins.
Dreaming of jam in winter
we wanted to pick forever.
Two hours later
filled with fruit
we weighed our pails
counting carefully
adding with the little pencil
in the little notebook.
We dropped dollars
in the red coffee can
knowing we’d be back.
A berry farmer trusted us.
And we paid.
© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
Laura - Hope life is smoother now. Here's a contradictory poem just for you:
ReplyDeleteThey say all Hell breaks loose.
I'd say some days it draws in tight
as a hangman's noose.
They say that Paradise
rolls out like Heaven-come-eleven.
I'd say some days a lucky pair of dice
won't do, though mint tea would be nice.
Julie--Thank you for that poem. You are so right. Hell is like a noose, drawing tight and clawing at my neck. Powerful, horrible image.
ReplyDeleteEven poems about awful things can make me happy. That, along with a mug of mint tea, can definitely make a day heavenly:>)
Great poems! Here's one involving a literal stretch:
ReplyDeleteThey say you're only as old as
you feel.
I felt the blow in spring
when my Achilles tore,
could almost hear the roar of blood
in my calf.
"This doesn't happen to couch potatoes,"
the doctor said.
"It doesn't mean you're old."
Barely limping now, I'm off
to therapy,
a little mashed, twice-baked.
I feel a hint of fall, swirling
in the wild, winsome wind.
I grin,
pick up my pace.