NaPM April 16 2016

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 


Topic 16: Write a palinode retracting a view you wrote about earlier this month.

Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[just mercedes]

The house of palinode


The house of woman, a plate glass skyscraper
taller than the rest of the city towers, stands
between the river and the open lake.
Women move behind windows, making
the future world from their bodies while
around them vines and roses, glowing lights
sing of home and hearth, of kin and love.
Lightning flashes from pregnant clouds,
waves reach up for the wind from the water
and eyes soft as mothers’ watch from the dark
as the crimson secret that keeps breasts pure
falls as flakes of snow. The crescent moon
holds the world to come between its horns,
with the promise of the house of woman.

[LunaDeLore]

Retracting Untitled 62

said i didn't know you
my fallacy to bare
said your whereabouts
unknown to me

on this bed of broken rails
when your living
just off the crescent road
named by Mr. Whales

spoke of you not knowing
but that's truly just a shame
for we're interlocked
forever in the gearing of our clock.

[Tracy Mitchell]

   Reconsidering the Nutmeg

It’s the light which blinds me happy.
The weight of the heat of the light
appears at dayspring, stays the chill hand,
the sodden quick vision imagined.
It’s the light, the idea once thought
never now to be unthought, not gone
not to vanish in bright beyond, but
taut in first blush renewed, spangles
like first love, morphed to climber vines
and set to course from soil upward–
bread, cheese and thee -- it is the light.

[ellajam]

What My Father Hinted At

She has the strength to turn the world her way,
above the city's spikes her will holds sway.
She makes the scene her own and plants her feet;
she's rooted firmly, blind to all defeat,
attracting those who join in her soiree.

With street-smarts edging her naiveté
she savors life like long-aged cabernet;
just mildly buzzed, relaxed but still upbeat,
she has the strength

to cherish but move on from yesterday,
maintain her joie de vivre, a bit risqué
but knowing when to be discreet.
Her husband revels in her grin replete
upon the bed she's made, content they lay
within her strength.

[bedeep]

And Let Us Make a Good End

I said of the dead
it would be kinder
to pave the ground
and let them sleep.

I lied. Their nightmares
are loud and the land
groans with their sorrow.
There is no sleep
in peace for them.

Rather we should unpave the earth,
make it soft with gardens,
open it wide with kindness,
and then invite the lost and buried dead
to depart their exile, to arise and go
that last distance,
into that place
they long must have dreamed
where impossible grace
heals unbearable grief.

Let that be
the way it goes,
because we still alive
have much
to atone for.

[Leanne]

The name seemed so exciting: Come By Chance
a promise of adventure and romance
come west and watch the million stars that dance:
it's heaven.

We sold our city house. Here land is cheap;
we thought we'd plant a garden, run some sheep
and take it easy, maybe even sleep
til seven.

The day we signed the contract, there was rain,
the creek was full and all across the plain
spread greening;
we both surveyed our magic land and sighed,
sipped tea and then I set about inside
to cleaning.

A hundred sheep we bought, and all were dead
by winter; and inside our produce shed
was sorrow.
No drop of rain was seen again that year
and we expect the bankers to appear
tomorrow.

They wait for folk like us, who think we know
how farming is from television show
or novel;
in cities, dodging weather is a game,
but here it kills. Now we admit our shame
and grovel.

The bankers have a buyer, we're in luck --
a coal seam gas man -- fracking, what the fuck?
Those thieving --
Now darling, don't get too wound up, it's true
they're scum, but what's it got to do with you?
We're leaving.

[bedeep]

Leanne that is one splendid poem and I hope it is not a true story. Well, I'm sure it is, come to think of it, but I hope it didn't happen to you. :/

[billy]

No Longer

Oh such a little fluffy cat,
meowing eyes and gentle pur.
I fed you till your gut was fat;
to dangle string and scratch your fir.

Once grown; a whirlwind you became
apart from when you lost your balls.
To hurt you Tom, was not my aim
I did it to curtail your calls.

I hate it when the wickers clawed,
you never use the scratching post.
You just draw blood because you're bored,
or climb up on the Sunday roast.

If there's a message i could send,
it would be you round toilet bend.

[Leanne]

Leanne that is one splendid poem and I hope it is not a true story. Well, I'm sure it is, come to think of it, but I hope it didn't happen to you. :/

Oh hell no, I'm a consummate bullshitter.

[Todd]

Further Down, Further Out
 
I could not walk forward so I went back
before the time of the knife,
before you got into my bed.
Your shadow stretches like a string,
until you are less than shadow,
a fuse ignited by the frozen sun.
Dishes fly back into hands unbroken,
and all is frozen in the gray
between seconds. A fawn stands
at a lamp post, smoke returning
to his pipe like an inhaled breath.
The lion drifts down, a feather
to settle upon the seamless stone surface.
Blood pours from the ground into his torn neck,
as a knife pulls back sealing the wound.
A small girl looks for a place to hide.
Her hand is on the door.

[just mercedes]

What My Father Hinted At

She has the strength to turn the world her way,
above the city's spikes her will holds sway.
She makes the scene her own and plants her feet;
she's rooted firmly, blind to all defeat,
attracting those who join in her soiree.

With street-smarts edging her naiveté
she savors life like long-aged cabernet;
just mildly buzzed, relaxed but still upbeat,
she has the strength

to cherish but move on from yesterday,
maintain her joie de vivre, a bit risqué
but knowing when to be discreet.
Her husband revels in her grin replete
upon the bed she's made, content they lay
within her strength.

I like this, a strong poem, something good to work on after all this is over.

[RiverNotch]

ARIEL HERSELF

Swmming through seas of books
and substanceless souls, I encountered
my fellow swimmer Leviathan,
core of my nature, half-woman
half-whale, head helmeted
with crown of woven hair --
I readied my blade
and tore through her breast.

Reaching the shore, walking through woods,
finding a feast -- upon the table,
goblets of wine, platters of bread,
bowls of honey, spits of lamb --
a lion a bear
Behemoth appeared before me,
with claws, copper neck
overlong, face compressed
into a horror, hair
extended into horns --
I readied my blade
and tore through her breast.

Climbing the tower
and resting curious in the astrologer's lab,
crown of my nature, Ziz the woman the swan,
swooped down to scratch me to kiss me
from the stars or perhaps from their reflection
upon the mirror the lens --
I readied my blade
and tore through her breast.

Returning to the library and parlor, I remembered
my lover Babylon, mailed to me by an angel,
cloaked in white yet crowned with red,
surrounded by the masters --
Carvaggio boys and Gentileschi girls,
Titian gods and El Greco saints,
Bosch and Brueghel, Watteau and Wright,
the burrs of Blake, the homilies of Goya,
Cole's landscapes, David-Friedrich's landscapes,
the symbols of Dore, of Moreau,
the Ophelias of Millais, of Waterhouse,
the anguish of Munch, the ardor of Schiele,
Vereschagin's vivid portraits of war, Vasnetsov's fantasies,
the bastards of Vrubel, the fables of Bilibin,
Kuindzhi's studies, Nesterov's contemplations,
the contemplative sensualities of Kramskoy,
the innocent seductions of Borovikovsky --
still, I readied my blade
and tore through her breast,

then found myself awaking again,
naked wet alone,
uttered practiced prayers, thick saliva vapors
like Lady Godiva
on Spirit's back Truth riding, peeping Tom
now forgiven.
Oh God, Oh Mighty, Oh Immortal -- consume me.

[just mercedes]

Yes - I'm loving this one.

[RiverNotch]

Dang, this is all good stuff! I'm not very good at remembering poems, though, so I really wanna see links to what these respond to ---

[ellajam]

Thanks, JM, the rhymes were fun to play with.

[Tiger the Lion]

The River Mersey
 
The River Mersey everyday
through Northern England weaves its way
from Manchester past Liverpool
to find the Irish Sea and drool
its murky mud into the fray.
 
It’s cleaner now than in the day
when father’s father worked the bay;
a strict young bobby keen to rule
the River Mersey.
 
So finally I feel okay
while standing in the English grey
a block from father’s grammar school
where all those years are miniscule
as ashes in one last ballet
upon the River Mersey.

[Leanne]

Paul, I think you have a rondeau problem. Maybe you should refrain...

[ellajam]

Paul, I think you have a rondeau problem.  Maybe you should refrain...

Or not refrain.

Seriously though, they are a joy to read.

[Keith]

Feeding field mice

Mother had the colour of heather
Father became the house,
strong as granite, supportive as the stones
his back sheltered us all
from the raging moors.

When I worked the fields
the scarecrow saw me,
he was always talking.
When the sunlight peaks the barn
it shimmers across the crops,
it was then I could hear all things speak.

I watched the walls at night
facing the flames,
the children danced a shadow show.
He told me to watch
so I watched them leap above the fire
flying with the sun and rain,
setting the height of our summer crops,
getting higher each year.

I remember the children as a child
outside all day,
imaginations fit to fill the moors
and fuel the breath of dragons
yet gentle enough to feed the field mice
in the scarecrows pocket.

I can see them outside the window,
summer days dancing on their tiptoes.
The house grew warmer as the wind picked up fresh scent
blowing food onto our table,
we held hands and sang thanks in evensong.

It only takes our touches, to become all we make.

I’m in the top field
standing where my father stood
the children have grown, rooted with the fields
each year brighter than their mothers eyes,
stronger than the voice of the wind.

I put my arm around the scarecrow
and thank him for his service,
he doesn't answer any more
but I know he can hear me.