Words
The world does not need words. It articulates itself
in sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on the path
are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.
The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.
The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken.
Read the poem in its entirety.
How do objects or events express themselves without words? I'm not thinking of mask poems here but rather of poems that help us hear the thoughts and feelings of things that cannot speak. So, there's your challenge. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
Not quite sure if this is what you mean, but here goes:
ReplyDeleteGreen Onion
The knife cuts
like an archaeologist,
revealing small layers
of white and pale green,
then dark green, neatly
circling. A sharp scent
rises up, softer
than a skunk's.
There is water, too,
the lightest of dews.
Little wheels made
from what was tall once.
Pretty as pearls, pretty
as springtime, tumbling
off the board into
the round blue bowl
full of leaves.
--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved
Donut
ReplyDeleteHe was already not an object
but became an event.
The technician's wand rolled
over the glazed dome of my belly
and someone flickered into view,
someone who, according to the tech,
was certainly a boy.
"Hello, Jasper." I greeted him,
certainly, with our favored name;
loud and clear, a soul's voice answered,
"My name is not Jasper."
I looked around to see who else had heard--the tech?
His other mother?
His little sister, who had been there herself not so long ago?
No--only I heard him speak so certainly,
and silently called him Duncan,
Donut out loud.
~Heidi Mordhorst 2010
arr, matey
Thanks, Tricia, and hi, Kate.
ReplyDeleteParticularly fond of knife as archaeologist and of "little wheels made from what was tall once," a pungent transformation.
Realized the word "little" for sister should be deleted--incorrect and extraneous.
Thank you, Heidi. Ultrasound belly as glazed donut--hooray! And you know, I always catch things like that ("little")approximately 0.5 seconds after hitting SEND. :)
ReplyDeleteA Dandelion Taught Me
ReplyDeleteMany people will not like me.
Some may try to ruin me.
Anyone can be replaced.
New heads pop out each day.
Death comes quickly.
Green – Yellow – White – Gone.
Still
I will keep a bright face
find hope in the sun
bounce back
even after they mow me down.
© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
LEFTY SCISSORS
ReplyDeleteBy Steven Withrow
Those southpaw snippers never make the cut.
They clip and slice as nice as any righty,
But the fact remains they always ride the bench.
There’s something of the mighty underdog
About those unsung rookies overlooked
By every scout, and all they need is one
Chop at the plate to prove beyond a doubt
They won’t strike out. Instead, they bide their time
With grace, while righty fans sneer, sinister,
And boo. How do the ambidextrous test
Their heft? Left out, left over, left alone,
They still could split the team and field their own,
Decide it scissors, paper, fist, or stone,
The only just and right way to go left.
Copyright 2010 by Steven Withrow. All rights reserved.
I reworked the last line:
ReplyDeleteLEFTY SCISSORS
By Steven Withrow
Those southpaw snippers never make the cut.
They clip and slice as nice as any righty,
But the fact remains they always ride the bench.
There’s something of the mighty underdog
About those unsung rookies overlooked
By every scout, and all they need is one
Chop at the plate to prove beyond a doubt
They won’t strike out. Instead, they bide their time
With grace, while righty fans sneer, sinister,
And boo. How do the ambidextrous test
Their heft? Left out, left over, left alone,
They still could split the team and field their own,
Decide it scissors, paper, fist, or stone,
The only just and right way left to go.
Copyright 2010 by Steven Withrow. All rights reserved.
Utter Stillness
ReplyDeleteBy Liz Korba
Silence
I have heard you – in my lifetime -
Only once,
White
To the horizon
In the Arctic Circle air.
A frozen lake,
An empty sky,
As nothing stood
So full
And all was
Still.
And still it is
That you,
Not I,
Speak
What it is
To hear the sound
You bear.
FAN SPEAK
ReplyDeleteI am a fan
of cool air,
not celebrity,
that sirocco
of no talent.
Mine is movement,
a small clanking
that pushes
gusts, tempers,
temperatures,
into the lower realms.
You cannot see
what I do,
but you will feel it,
that brief kiss
of cool,
that moment
when heat
is one short letter
away from heart.
©2010 by Jane Yolen All rights reserved
Hi, Tricia,
ReplyDeleteI've been emailing you to prep for our upcoming NCTE session together, but I'm worried that my emails are not finding you. Could you contact me asap please? Thanks bunches,
Sylvia
Hi, Tricia,
ReplyDeleteThanks for your email. Just want to confirm that I replied to it and hope it's coming through. Plus, feel free to delete these comments once we've connected! Thanks for your patience.
Sylvia