Thursday, October 1, 2015

October 1


Link to Auden's poem
Link to Williams's poem


  1. the sun grants
    glimpses, quiet staging
    to the grounds that demand
    tending sheep

    skin sails catch the air
    on false colored lines, a fisherman’s

    best intention
    disturbed by a child’s


    of ancient builders
    raising island structures

    while a Blue Jay sings
    the morning through,

    heard and unnoticed.

    1. I like that last line. You're continuing the theme and idea of the other poems!

  2. The evening sun has started its descent along the roaring ocean’s horizon. Ships chase it, pushing forward through each ebb of the tide—the promise of a golden age reflect in the pupils of their crews. The plowman is three quarters through his field when he hears a splosh from below—someone is drowning. The plowman follows his donkey’s hind thinking, ’The shepherd is closer to the water, surely he’ll do something’. The shepherd, though closer to the water, stares up at the clouds. Had only the good Lord granted him access to those wooly monstrosities, he could earn a place as a statesman. His ears are all but completely deaf to the water as his many fluffy sheep circle the field, baaing at various decibels. Down upon the shore, a sea turtle is poised over its nest, the hundreds of newly laid eggs sleep close to one another because there is strength in numbers. As the water sloshes from the feverish flapping of a winged being in the water, the turtle stays put until two bubbles plop and the gigantic seagull has sunk. With its young now safe, the turtle swipes sand over its eggs and returns to the ocean, following the path of the ships before. The gray buildings along the perimeter loom over the ocean, like headstones in a graveyard.

    1. For someone who says she doesn't write poetry, you have written a fantastic prose poem. That really strong.

    2. Thanks, John. I guess it's easier when you have a source to examine. :)

  3. A gentle breeze drifts along the shore
    the mist is lightly creeping
    adding to the mystery and lore
    the plowman carefully carves the ground
    his donkey is ever steady
    its hooves project a gentry sound
    a ship bobs lazily on the tide
    its brothers in the distance
    capturing the wind in canvas hands
    the falcon guards no eggs
    but waits for the fisherman...


    Is that a pair of legs?

    1. me too. Because of this poem I've been laughing about the pair of legs all week

  4. In the midst

    Bruegel let the sheep in the field
    Run wild with the shepard
    And the ship in the bay
    Sail gently away
    As the farmer
    Tended to his plow
    Without a second glance
    To a boy drowning
    In the midst
    Of their daily routine
    Where all heard the
    But unconcerned
    As this tragedy
    was one of many
    In their lives
    Herding and plowing
    And without turning
    back into port

  5. On the Fall of Icarus

    Bruegal’s man heaves the weighty plow
    Eyes sifting dirt in sync with scratching blades
    Stones and harvest past uprooted
    Icarus crash into the sea unnoticed
    As muscles sweat to dispel hunger

    I plant lavender and sage today
    Watered sparingly from my bucket
    I sift the clay in my hands
    Wondering if the wild turkey
    Will nip away the tender shoots.

    My picket fence stands firm in weathered gray
    Street people pass and nod my way
    My neighbor dies in a pool of blood alone
    As the wind whips litter to my garden’s edge
    And I dream of butterfies and bees
    that will someday visit.

    1. I love how you've brought this in and made it personal! Actually it works with your medical collection as well.

  6. Hi John, Thank you for the awesome and thoughtful prompt. I'll be playing a bit of catch up.

    From The Prow We See

    No ploughman—no
    winged person falling
    from the sky made
    grey green contiguous by suspension
    in oil with the spat-up belly of
    sea, an illusion of connection
    painted by
    us, untouched
    by either of these

    elements. Lamb-look
    into the laid aside pleats
    where the womb-land veins
    pulse—where our furrowed
    brow opens it—riverdream
    the mercury pushing through the delta into the ground
    water like mistyped blood. This patient
    writhing. See these clay gill slits through which
    the seedlings once gathered the wet breath

    left by the calm
    this trudger whom leans
    into her load city-ward in the split
    of the well bled horizon of gasping sunfish
    unblooming while we prow, a belly
    under sail,
    mind full of coin.

    1. I love it man, and I love that you're on board! Saw you at the reading the other day, but didn't get a chance to say hi!

    2. "from the sky made
      grey green contiguous by suspension "

      I keep thinking about those seshades of green.

  7. Hey! Sorry I didn't get to say hello! Thank you. This is a difficult/different sort of work mode for me. I love it.

  8. A painter transfers Daedalus onto canvas
    Drawing the inventor as a field hand who plows
    uneven furrows that match the folds of his clothing
    A tunic that should be long, flowing and Greek
    boats in the background that should be pointed, narrow and sleek
    Bruegel’s painted world is medieval, staid and woolen
    But it captures a moment the father will remember forever
    the hard brightness of the sun as it
    is reflected upwards into an expansive sky
    Shining with cheerful possibilities as
    Icarus splashes in the sea below, and dies

  9. the fools have fallen
    sun slides into the sea
    the plowman's sweat