Saturday, August 30, 2014

Island town


For Open Link Night tonight I offer my interlocking Rubaiyat (set of quatrains) which was suggested by Bjorn for our last posting.  Also, at the last minute I am hurrying to send in my contribution for the anthology selection, so I will catch up with reading and comments later this evening over at ;-)

 Island Town

Island town, restful and serene
turns the hazed veil of summer's scene
Summer's end becomes autumn's spear
hot chocolate replaces ice cream

Island town after blue skies clear
sun sets low as a mouses ear,
painting cloudbanks a purple gray;
shadows crawl longer and nearer

Island guests part with grand soire
apple stands line the streets by day
offerings of mushrooms and mums
hot seafood chowder by the bay

Island town's ardor for arts seen
throughout the whole year following
rolling out its crafts galore and
keeping its homeland sequin green

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Homophonic translation...or, how interpreted a Romanian poem wrongly..

posted twice ...

Today at we are translating poems from a language we do not know using just the sounds and look of the words instead of meaning....called "homophonic translations".
Don't ask me how I got this...I don't know!  Romanian poem is below - knowing latin is the key I suppose, but this verse took on a life of its own..

The name of my last lover was Russian                                                                
 he lay in his bed in a simple lean-to                                                                     
 he lay in his bed wrapped in white sheets 
 peering out at fiery skies of the season             
 Floating from the terrace garden blooms 
 purple and white scented perfume;
 he felt a coolness and breathed in the 
 night air as he slept peacefully                                                       

 Pollen spread over him during the night
 and he began to roam in his pajamas,
 floating above his body;  until finally
 resting near me, moved closer

 The timber of each little bell flower  
 reached my ear and I smelled orchids;
 all my senses gathered in full grandeur,
  as our dreams began cascading together    

 The name of my last love was Russian
  he lay in his bed in a simple lean-to
  he lay in his bed wrapped in white sheets
  peering out at fiery skies of the season  

 Out from the dream we awoke together,
 slowly the aura of the dream disappeared;
 we stood at the altar before us at our feet
 then spoke our matrimonial forever vows

Ne-om aminti cândva târziu
de-aceasta întâmplare simpla,
de-aceasta banca unde stam
tâmpla fierbinte lânga tâmpla.
De pe stamine de alun,
din plopii albi, se cerne jarul.
Orice-nceput se vrea fecund,
risipei se deda Florarul.
Polenul cade peste noi,
în preajma galbene troiene
alcatuieste-n aur fin.
Pe umeri cade-ne si-n gene.
Ne cade-n gura când vorbim,
si-n ochi, când nu gasim cuvântul.
Si nu stim ce pareri de rau
ne tulbura, piezis, avântul.
Ne-om aminti cândva târziu
de-aceasta întâmplare simpla,
de-aceasta banca unde stam
tâmpla fierbinte lânga tâmpla.
Visând, întrezarim prin doruri -
latente-n pulberi aurii –
paduri ce ar putea sa fie
si niciodatã nu vor fi.


Friday, August 22, 2014

Pattern of the Osprey..

This week at  we are writing about pattern.  It can be about anything in art or life, so a broad range of meanings and applications to choose from.  This is my mindset this week.

His wing power and wild spirit,
countenance of a bodyguard,
lead our eyes into the white
He sails the westward breeze
above the sandy shore
Along high cliffs his flight,
where crimson fire-weed waves,
catching same sunlight
He flies over sparkling sea,
wingspan fifty five inches wide,
back home to his residence
of gabled fir, cedar trees, and pine
Having traits of the bald eagle,
as well as owls',
he wears a snowy down suit,
vest, and majestic crown
He flies a straight line then dips
as he surveys the beach below,
between the tides where
kelp and sea urchins drift

Osprey outperform the kingfisher,
when hunting the abundant sea
for dogfish snails, other mollusks
swimming and digging to be free
Cattails in the marshes
gather dragonflies delfin blue,
Ospreys each year launch o'er
the Caribbean's turquoise hazy hue,
take extraordinary trips to
places where they can laze,
and stay a few...
before returning to breed,
in a climate cool,
raise a family
There is every reason for us to abide,
conserve, protect and maintain
the species,  letting nature be our guide
to help them survive...
prolong their  sustainability

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

If pub walls could talk..

The last Saturday of each month is Open Link night at to choose
any topic - I was too late putting this together last week for Victoria's prompt about celebrating
pubs and the anniversary of this website, but here it is:                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            
Warmth seethes from inside the bar,
flowers in a planter tickle noses
pressing against outside window panes
Inside, time worn wood buffed
to gold highlights,
comfy chairs by a fire, tables full,
usually regulars from everywhere arriving,
filling the space with electricity
Open Mike Night is about to begin
Bundled in casual dress,
people order their preferred beverage;
some find the ear of the bartender
Sound of paper shuffling -
some sheets float to the floor
to be picked up
while chairs are moved
to best advantage

Comradery and poetry are served here!
interpreters not needed,
for it's understood we are here
to meet and greet,
absorb nourishment for the soul
Microphone tested, throats clear
as we listen for each voice to read,
enact, intone their recently conceived works,
revealing new ways of saying what we feel
Sonnets, haiku, triolets presented;
maudlin metaphors, steeped alliteration,
thoughts for food -
not unlike food for thought
Here, word groups are given birth,
find their way through the vessel of
hope and reason,
forming a whole poem

Free verse or rhyme,
prose poetry
all to be tasted, savored,
swallowed and digested -
to resonate in minds and hearts,
ears tuned for slightest hint of irony;
eyes take in gestures
unseen on a blog -
Intimacy descends because
he reads what you feel, but could not
find the right words for;
what she writes brings you to tears
Gee, I wish I had written that..
Kinfolk we are,
toasting to the wee hours,
like fresh wisps of air we breathe in deeply,
and release with a sigh
There's sunshine to grab
on a mostly cloudy eve
how words are laced into stanzas,
become tonic to cure what ails

A man expresses new-found joy
in a good shepherd dog;
another, his courageous flights of fantasy,
or, science fiction, curiosity,
 sorrow and pain
One spills a secret, not to judge
There is unmatched beauty
in profound emotions described,
pressure released by letting go
of internal woes, or forever love
Discover empathy....
hearing poets read their writing
ripping open the seams of
the human condition
Words echo in a refrain from
a stream of consciousness
Poetry becomes you,
as in easy...and inspiring

Often it can be dripping, bleeding,
seething to a point where the doors expand;
poems can uplift  us
just as delightfully..
or thrust their essence at us
in multiple ways:
a river rages, a tide pools,
an ocean rocks us
Responses begin as baby raindrops that
swell ...
until they must burst into smiles
or tears
We've heard the best..and the worst,
and in serious consternation,
we've faced our fears
We have more questions,
more insight, but our thirst
for words is never sated
Applause, we leave,,,
we write and return again
to share

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Home.....Aug. 2014 - for

To help us remember what a good man
he was, we quote his lines in his movies
"All of life is a coming home...
we all are restless hearts trying
to find our way home":  Patch Adams
This dog day of August we recall 
his smile, his courage, 
how he rocked the DMZ
We know our passions for poetry,
music, and art are not passing fancies
from Dead Poets' Society
Like summer winds with scent of sugar pines,
it is what we breathe in, 
and exhale with heartfelt sighs
"What is our verse to write?,"
asked John Keating,
prose, poetry, or songs of revolution 
and human dignity?
In our world, our fight 
is against indifference and ignorance,
Death is not the enemy
As we remember what sustains us
in our need -
our mantra, our beliefs or creed,
we remember Robin

His humor carried us all,
staved off many a mean season
of stark wars, hunger, loss and hate
He entertained joyfully,
causing laughter till sides ached
He left us abruptly this summer day,
for he had given his all;
the world was now too much for him,
he heard his drummer call
As the heat drenched flower heads wilt, 
in sorrow we mourn his passing
May he find peace from suffering
We could not channel 
his energy for him, 
or know his private pain
For his choice was his choice;
'too soon for us'..we say again
His head now rests in beds of red clover,
his furrowed brow no longer frowns
Forever wrapped in sheets 
of adoration and love, he left 
as low, soft thunder rolled
His despair was unrelenting
yet he's not the first, or the last,
we will be lamenting
But there is something else
in the universe, a harmony 
between all living things, the stars
Finding that balance escaped him,
hence he lost his stride
So, another restless heart 
has found it's way home;
we will remember Robin always 
in the heat - of  summertide


Sunday, August 3, 2014

..small curses

Yesterday, I rounded the hill with ease;
how is it I move so slowly today, again.
after heeding the mountain's keen advice,
why the turn about so quick this time,
for I turned myself inside and out
to get out of the house

I asked the sagacious sky if it's
more frequent because of age,
body's steam runs hot and then suddenly cold
Energy realized one day is again sapped,
like climbing backwardly

It can be difficult to stay on an even keel,
of ebbing and waning the moon must know
I asked the all knowing falling rain why
I'm turned around, lost, going down,
more these days than not.

Today I'm less able to run the race,
circumvent the fact that I'm in the throws
of another fibromyalgia attack,
only I'll be fine and I'll be back,
as the hill diminishes  -
worse things have given me flack onward as she finishes
but what about the inside and out of things