Ms Quickly prompt for today was a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, which I have bowdlerised in a haiga. The two pictures were borrowed from Celie at The Kitchen’s Garden. The story about the chicks is that the incubator was turned over by the dogs in the cold Illinois night, and the about-to-hatch eggs fell, as well as cooling rapidly. Happily some of these heritage chicks survived, thanks to Celie’s tender care.
L’hippogriffe d’après un dessin de
Gustave Doré pour le Roland furieux.
A foofaraw of wings and things
decorate the hippogriff,
epitome of heraldry,
legendary ancient myth,
one of those weird beings
beloved of historic fable,
issue from miscegenation
of female horse with eagle.
The Hippogriff, courageous beast,-
rescued distressed maidens
by flying high and far and fast
to see off wicked Satans.
Ms Quickly is having such fun with her prompts, and it’s rubbed off on me. I thought a hippogriff was a phonetic term (hypoglyph?) so I dived into Wikipedia to discover how wrong I could be. A foofaraw is one of Dictionary.com’s words of the day, and means an excessive amount of decoration or ornamentation.
for Ms Quickly’s March 3 prompt
Takes, uncaring of the future.
Wastes resources and energy
in wanton consumption
negligent of consequence
for our descendants.
The Anthropocene is an informal geologic chronological term for the proposed epoch that began when human activities had a significant global impact on the Earth‘s ecosystem
Spondee is a metrical foot consisting of two long syllables, of equal stress.
Abhra at dVerse tells of the horrendous murder of a Hindu writer in Bangladesh. He wants us to write a protest poem.
Cri de coeur
Oh you who judge men
for believing something different
from your own beliefs;
who kill in hatred,
killing good people you don’t know;
learn to love instead;
in shared sympathy,
celebrate the differences
Margo Roby has us thinking about fire – mostly in terror at a runaway fire in the open. I’m re-blogging one of my old favourites, in honour of our new woodburning stove, which is such a comfort.
A friendly word
for the start of warmth.
Splinters, shavings, chips of oak,
chopped sticks and kinked twigs
then serious timber, a handspan thick.
The catalyst, a fizz of sulphur,
prelude to atavistic pleasure
in spits, sparks, flames,
and quietly glowing cinders.
Ms Quickly is continuing to inspire us daily with her quirky prompts. My first line, except for the last word, is the prompt.
I have here in my hand a list of words
long words, short words
defining words describing words
active words and passive words
rude words and buzz words
jargon, slang and swear words
but without a zing of creativity
they’ll never tell a story
make a poem or sing a song
Through hardened arteries and granite veins
blood circulates sluggishly, stops.
Consciousness fades and I howl with fear.
Through ghost memories of other times
I see my flesh on theatre table,
with needles and tubes, electronic flickering,
equipment for which I know no name.
Through whirling haze I feel the weight
of hands working on me – I push them away,
“Don’t do that” I say, ” I’m back now.”
Smiles all round.
A true story for Brenda’s Sunday Whirl. I hope others are less gruesome.
Ms Quickly is generously posting a prompt every day. Today’s is: Poetry Is … https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/02/28/28/
Felix Mendelssohn wrote Songs Without Words.
Poetry is Words Without Song … or is it?
The poems that I love are all musical,
meaningful, rhythmic and melodic,
they put a glow on the humdrum,
romanticise the unexciting,
weave magical words
to convert boring
Also posted at dVerse Open Link Night
That which was lost is found
Last Saturday morning, while having coffee with some friends, I discovered that my very expensive hearing aid was missing from my worse ear. Retracing steps, frenzied searching, alerting the village shop and the Mairie – all fruitless.
Several blurred days followed.
Yesterday at lunch, we gave up and decided that it was time to inform the insurance company and the hearing centre. Before we could suit actions to intention, Jock came rushing in holding the minuscule plastic gizmo, shouting Eureka. He had found it on the floor in the darkest corner of the garage. Sounds became sharp and clear again and my belief in the indestructibility of matter was vindicated.
Posted at Cate’s place.
Ile de Brehat by Maufra
Softly silken shifting shadow –
no glimpse of light – I cannot see.
Add a little glitter,
glisten, gleam, and gloss.
a shimmer starts to sparkle,
twinkle, flicker, add the shine
of recognition, bring back to life.
Margo Roby gave us some lovely pictures and asked for a poem about the quality of light. Mine is pure play.
Colourful adventures, courtly love –
in days of old a counterpoint to
men of boldness risking all for glory.
Adored by ladies for their exploits
knights in shining armour honoured war,
with lance and horse and bravery.
But someone always gets hurt, so I deplore
those days of so-called chivalry
when all was risked in search of victory
and losers lost their lives.
All is mediaeval panoply at dVerse, where two of the original hosts are going out with a bang, and I felt I should contribute even though the subject is not a favourite of mine! We shall all miss Brian and Claudia as jovial bartenders.
Hopeless yearning for the unattainable
takes me stumbling towards the river.
Dark reflections echo my morbid contemplation.
Beneath the umbrella of the forest canopy
tiny delicate petals are striving to open,
searching for light
until a gleam from behind the clouds
gives the impetus
to unfurl budding petals
and release despair into the blue.
Thank you, Brenda at the Sunday Whirl for the words, which are:-
umbrella, river, hopeless, petals, post, uncut,
yearning, delicate, tiny, perched, blue, until
There are daisies in the lawn
and a dandelion or two,
primroses and celandines
stand out here and there
violets just peeping through.
Catkins on the hazel boughs
still hide their rosy flower
but it won’t be long
before a cheer
salutes the thaumaturge
who shows us Spring is almost here.
Written for Margo Roby’s prompt to write about flowers, as well as for 6-Word-Saturday.
Thaumaturge was Dictionary.com’s word of the day a few days ago, and I just had to use it. It means maker of magic, miracle bringer.
Miz Quickly gave us a couple of quotes to spur us into (poetic) action. Here is what they did to me. The first line is by William Blake and the third line is by Henry Fielding. The rest is mine own!
I give you the end of a golden string
to follow along until you find Spring,
when all Nature wears one universal grin
and people do the daftest things
for joy at liberation
that warmed us.
through the doleful grim
Bjorn at dVerse tonight is talking about that wonderful poetic device, the volta - I suppose “about face” describes it. Long ago I wrote a sonnet called Viva la Volta, which I can’t find anywhere. A couple of years ago it was turned into a Rondeau for dVerse, and you’ll find it here. I’d like to write a new one, but my poetic oomph seems to have deserted me of late, so here’s another oldie which is one of my favourites. It has a very distinct sestet volta.
Night thoughts – a Petrarchan Sonnet
As I was lying in my cosy bed
I thanked the Lord for giving me such warmth,
and shelter from the havoc of the storm
in comfort in my hilltop home. I said
my prayers of gratitude as aforesaid.
Thankfulness for bounty is the norm
for every caring person, to transform
a grumpy-guts to happy bunny. Instead
of self-congratulation, thoughts of others
who do not have the haven of a home—
of prisoners of conscience, dispossessed,
or orphans cruelly deprived of mothers,
of people tyrannised, oppressed, alone—
aroused my anger, would not let me rest.