What if I wrote the
Poem in five beats
Dactyl and spondee
Ponder that as if
Speaking was just an
Uneven meter
Moving me out of
Pent up precision
Until I finally let go
Response to Day 12 Prompt on http://www.napowrimo.net, a challenge to write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self. The images are 5 point mandalas made on an open source Mandala Maker that is rather gratifying.
Sometimes in my head, sometimes coming out of my mouth,
more often in my head.
Well that sounded kind of weird, oh well, I don’t care
Didn’t I say I wanted to be more badass
How much time do you need to get it done?
Wash me with hyssop and I shall be clean
Why do the words trail off at clean like they’re hard to write.
Should I dye my hair, or let it go grey and why does that seem like a bigger existential question than it should be?
Mmmm…
hmh
Why is it hard to record my thoughts without being overly poetic?
If I’m writing a poem about things overheard, should I include things overheard on the radio? hmmh, well don’t I still hear them in my head?
“and they’re going to blow them up with a kilo of explosives”
Maybe that was the other day. Today it’s AR15s on NPR, or was that the other night too. It undoubtedly was both.
The clouds in the sky are so beautiful Sometimes when I use this towel I think of its previous owner. I saw two butterflies today, one appeared to be a monarch. The other was small and yellow. I wonder do her skin cells still hide in there? You look handsome. I should call him. I hear the coyotes.
I love you.
Good morning!
Let’s start our favorite way!
Today’s poetry prompt on http://www.napwrimo.net is to play around with the idea of overheard language. I am interested in the overheard and the innerheard.
The spiritual herdsman rides up on her 4 wheeled steed She is accompanied by her small minion in a cage She smells of perfume her hair curls in grieving ringlets her chin hangs under her smooth-skinned cheeks her accent tastes like over-sweetened butter She is preceded by Jess from what town? Richardson? Who brings along a small goddess who walks in casually My day closes here in reflection of who walked in my door ah-weh, the way of the day is caught up in the sound of a stick on a skin The gathering tables of imagination And setting sunrise of dawning connection draw us So we cast fire from our souls over fields lined with highways ss if the insistence on this one aim will be the voice that speaks to her feet The day closes in busy comfort That shakes it dice In the cup of creation The finger counts how many moves she can advance wait no the herdsman long departed The goddess safe at home I sit with my beloved As they count their moves 1, 2, 3
A blue speaker with a happy blue dolphin perched atop Five candles Two intricately sculpted by dripping wax A sacred rattle A crouching leopard A flute woman giving birth A temple block A drum key and wrench next to a pile of foreign coins Kuan Yin at the center She sits next to a tree of feathers planted in a little clay pot A round ocean drum hangs from L A square drum hangs from O A resonating gourd from V A feather and a puppet hang from E Deities abound: Ganesh... Krishna and Rhada lean into one another next to a blue orb Saraswati A Mayan god Jagged crystals and smooth stones Sculpting body stones A pipe, a wooden drummer Two shiny warbling birds thirsty for water and breath Three elephants (if you include Ganesh) A lantern Kashaka balls in a clay vessel A diminutive Guanyin rests by the V The archangel, Michael peers through the O Three cycles of twelve - sacred sound geometry art Two of them framed in gold One leaning on the L Bells Two square wooden boxes One with a bearded man carved on the lid Wire A gold frog Half-burned Palo Santo in a tarnished leaf A cast heart decorated with smalls stones that rattles when you hold it
Today’s prompt for day six of NaPoWriMo was to find a poem from Poetry International in a language you don’t know and then, “read the poem to yourself, thinking about the sound and shape of the words, and the degree to which they remind you of words in your own language. Use those correspondences as the basis for a new poem.”
Because isiZulu was listed as a language, I of course went there. It is a beautiful language spoken by the father of my 5 children, Mbuso Cele. I know only enough to recognize when it is being spoken. I posses a small vocabulary and can sometimes identify the subject a Zulu speaker is speaking of, but not the details. I spent almost a year in Pietermaritzburg, and regret not having learned more. I was able to get by with English such that I didn’t attempt Zulu for fear of making a mistake.
In 2015, composer and friend, Dan Lis wrote the piece, The Places of the Past. and dedicated it to Mbuso. It was written for the student string orchestra at the Music School at Sound Crossing. Dan incorporated the poem, Umlando Yinto Enzima (History is a Heavy Matter) by Gcina Mhlophe into the composition and recorded Mbuso reciting a portion of the poem. I have held onto that recording just as I’ve held onto the fondest of my memories of the time Mbuso and I were married and raised our children together.
The bittersweet inevitably draws the poet’s heart. I’ve included the recording of Mbuso’s recitation below.
Iqiniso (Truth) Of course that would be the poem I find on the sixth day. “I miss his voice” she said when you left so suddenly A parent’s voice is planted deep. History is indeed a heavy matter. And this, these words, they capture more than just the timbre, low, sweet and rich. You still have a captivating voice so I played it over and over for her that winter. Did your worst memories leave you so perplexed, speechless? Your voice is still golden to her. Khumbula, don’t forget to honor your sweet maiden, nkosazana yakho with the sound of your voice. The words rise and fall like the beat of drums. izigubhu, zithi gu gu! Gu gu!, they say gu gu! a click of the tongue here and there I’ll play it for her when she gets home today. I am still thankful for such places of the past.
He spoke of his friend Laughing at the comedy Love and joy graveside I see myself now My intentions unfulfilled I can only laugh Through the screen I smile His system in need of breath I should have said breathe Watching with my child Funny silly videos So disconcerting The sounds from the phone Cacophony of sweetness Tingling my ears I think about a bath flowing hot soothing mmm,aahh coaxing out my ache
Small Burdens 