The first thing that comes to mind re the Ragtag Community prompt is Hope is a Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson. I read this poem as a response (and a response I need badly) to the admonition that one must "Have faith to garner wings of an angel."
Chilly as after-this reception— Cold as a whenever shoulder— Frosty as forget-it’s smile— Frigid with never embraces— Glacial as if.
Again, for today’s Ragtag Community Prompt, I turn to another poet who has spent time thinking about hewn and how the hewing examines precious. This poem by Maya Angelou is less about man’s action in hewing, than it is about the universal hewing that takes all life. In it we hear what we lose when … Continue reading “When Great Trees Fall” By Maya Angelou
Again, today, I turn to Theodore Roethke to help me with the Ragtag Community Daily Prompt, "reckoning". Here is his Poem The Reckoning. I find particularly interesting the grammarage of the word "keep" in the last verse. It makes its subject plural--and so suggests that "lack" is a collective noun, that what we lack in our … Continue reading “The Reckoning” by Theodore Roethke
My contribution for the Ragtag Community prompt of the day, sleep, is not my own. It is a poem by one of my favorite poets of the mid twentieth century, Theodore Roethke. I share this villanelle from the Poetry Foundation (poetryfoundation.org). The Waking, by Theodore Roethke
It was a challenge for DeeDee And for Jim, her current squeeze, to get down to the birds and bees because when it came to please both insisted on Me Me.
DeeDee of the golden hair just wasn’t there and she was well matched to Jim who’s head, well thatched, also held what wasn’t there. Posted in response to the Ragtag Community Daily prompt: vacant. Apologies to the many "of golden hair" and "well thatched" heads who seek and who manage to fill the glory of … Continue reading All that Hair and Nothin’
A sound sounds and, sounding, rises, rises sounding loud, loud as the beginning, a beginning that is but noise a noise named God. And God is the sound, a sound full of its rising, that sounds a sound that wants an articulate for the inarticulate rumble of a sounding, a sounding empty of sound but … Continue reading In the Begin. . . .
How can you hurry a poem? You can’t. The simmering stew on the fire satisfies sooner. Lovers under the slow moon come faster. The seed of a soul, nine months making, makes quicker. Opening the door on a poem begins with finding it first, only to learn the key has been lost ‘till it’s found … Continue reading One Way a Maker Makes
For Kathy This empty hand, like our home is emptiest when empty of your hand; these awkward elbows, their graceless worst without yours graceful near by me, these knees, would not could never kneel to thrust up thanks to God if you were not what thanks were for; of loins: the nearer yours to mine … Continue reading What Thanks Are For