Day 10: pleasure, sonnet, apostrophe. Using artistic license when I refer to a monthly therapeutic massage — I’m waaay overdue for one!
The first massage I guess was a
millennia or so ago:
soothing touch for a crying child,
calming hands on someone dying.
My imagined scenes … a touch to
heal, moving hands to ease an ache.
All done by shamans and mothers,
connecting with kindness, love, hope:
connected to me here, on the
therapist’s table, my body
being put back together from
the month’s usual tugs and strains.
I breathe deeper, move easier:
primeval massage that’s bone-deep.
Elements in Day 9: cold, concrete poem, anaphora/epistrophe
What is the common good?
Mass shootings in 2015 so far; not counting domestic violence or police-involved shootings. People whose bodies spent cold time in the morgue. Dead in Flagstaff AZ — 1. Dead in Roseburg OR –9. Dead in Chattanooga TN — 5. Dead in Charlston SC — 9. Dead in San Francisco CA — 4. Versus
My Second Amendment
Rights: protect. My
family: protect. My-
self: protect. Where
is common ground??
Day 8 is flavor, elegy, and enumeratio. I spoke at my Mom’s and later on my Dad’s memorial services, so elegy carries some “baggage” for me. But I never spoke at my Grandma’s — I was too young — so this submission is about her. She was the only grandparent I knew. BTW, the book I mention is still available on Amazon.
My Grandma’s home was magical.
I felt so free at her small house.
I’d just cross the small field with the
tall weeds to be in a new world:
a patch of pansies and runners
of sweet peas outside: pink, purple,
yellow, green — the sweet smell of the
sweet peas was only at Grandma’s.
Inside … African Violets,
purple lighter than pansies, and
velvet leaves I just had to pet.
She taught me how to stitch and baste.
Sometime I’d watch her pedaling
her old sewing machine to make
it work. I’d thread needles for her,
glad to help, made me concentrate.
I can still recall her saying,
“Here now!” which must have meant “Behave!”.
I obeyed some or not I think.
When I was three she gave me The
Contented Little Pussy Cat
and wrote inside, “To my Precious
Little Grandaughter”, misspelled, but
no matter; I was her only
grandchild. And my lucky days were
tapioca pudding days. Her
kitchen warmed by simmering milk,
sugar, eggs, and vanilla with
tapioca. We ate a lot
the moment it was done, warm and
made with love. No else tastes as good.
One day Grandma was alive, the
next day not … I still hope in my
little girl heart I told her that
I loved her. Being with Grandma
was the closest to a carefree
Heaven on Earth I’ve ever been.
Tuesday’s assignment is using neighborhood-ballad-assonance. I don’t want to get any more behind so I’m publishing this draft … not that any more time would make it better!
Aunt Flo’s Toes
My Aunt Flo has twelve toes,
She loves to show them off;
The rest of her looks pretty plain,
She’s got a 50’s coif.
She came to town just last week,
With no time to visit;
Turns out she went to see a doc,
Reasons not explicit.
Flo was gone just five days,
And with a gift she shows:
Some people have pig’s feet pickled —
Aunt Flo has pickled toes.
Faces, Found Poetry, Chiasmus
Counted every four words in two random docs. The first one I got crazy and organized every word by parts of speech. Scanning these two lists, some words grabbed me so I used them in today’s assignment, but they do not make up the majority of words in it.
WITH MIRRORS LEFT, RIGHT, AND CENTER
looking at me looking at me looking at me.
What do I see when I am
looking at me looking at me looking at me?
Is it a woman, is it a girl, is it a crone
looking at me looking at her looking at me?
Oh, I know all three as they all are me,
looking at them looking at me looking at them …
looking at me.
I’m extending the “Weekend: Potluck Poetry!” so I can mention one of my favorite poets, William Blake. I don’t think he gets much notice nowadays beyond high school English lit. From the little I have read of his poems, most parts sound rather outdated, even irrelevant. And then it’s distracting and difficult to get around the “gender-centric” pronoun use, just like so much literature imo. But there are a few gems that I am quoting here.
He who binds himself to a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sun rise.
[I especially like the last two lines of this poem!]
Another poem of his is too long and much of it is too preachy for my taste, but it also has a few gems that made me stop and think and feel the message.
from Auguries of Innocence
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
[then many lines later]
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
[these last two lines speak to me of all the good-sounding phrases we hear
that are actually truths twisted by self-interest and bigotry — I’m sure
you can think of some examples.]
What you see is a Mountain Dulcimer. It’s claimed that it originates from Appalachia, but who knows for sure. There are different names for it even. Instruments of similar structure exist in Northern European countries.
Thought I’d include this background information before I submit the Day 5 assignment of map-ode-metaphor.
My Newest Mountain Dulcimer
When I set you on my lap
and start to play
I hear a map of my feelings.
Your therapeutic sounds transport me to a
where all is well.