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Posts Tagged ‘free verse poetry’

Poetry Friday round-up is with Sylvia at Poetry for Children.

 

 

It was one of those all day rains.  One of my last days of  our holiday break, and I was bored.  I cleaned out cabinets, watched shows on Netflix, made a fire in the fireplace, and played around with magazine collage.  During the hectic days of teaching, I crave this kind of time.  Funny how our minds work.  On this day, I was restless and wishing for the rain to stop.

100 % Chance of Rain

(with a borrowed line from Robert Frost “Revelation”)

Wind blown ripples
the water,
whipped like frothed cappuccino,

Rain slants, shower bending,
branches leave the trees.
Saturated earth bleeds
muddy moisture.

Oh, the agitated heart.
The lemons hang, ripe and wet.

But I am still today,
quieted by the storm.
Listening, longing
for the sun.

(c) Margaret Simon

Art Journal collage for my 2019 One Little Word, Grace.

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A few days ago, I celebrated my 31st wedding anniversary. Why does this seem so hard to believe? I heard you all gasp! On this day, Amy from The Poem Farm posted a link to Famous, a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, on Facebook. Naomi (I feel we will be friends one day and will be on a first name basis) is a favorite of mine. My husband, however, has never heard of her. This is not surprising because he doesn’t really read poetry, so he is not familiar with any famous poets. But he likes to talk about being famous. It is one of those “familial phrases.”

Let me explain. We live in a small town, so it is not that uncommon for one of us to be in the paper every once in a while. That doesn’t mean we’re famous, but when you see your name in print or see your picture in the newspaper, you feel famous. The phrase around our house is “you are famous” if any part of you is mentioned in the Daily Iberian.

When I read Naomi’s poem, I was compelled to send it to my husband. Maybe because it was our anniversary. Maybe I was flirting. But he actually read it and sent a message back to me. He wrote, “You are famous to me.”

Now I hope you are sighing “Aw!”

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.

(See the entire poem here.)

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Renee at No Water River.

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Renee at No Water River.

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Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

Me with Sandy Sarr at a local restaurant.

Me with Sandy Sarr at a local restaurant.

I enjoy connecting with new people online. I met Sandy Sarr through a mutual friend. Our friend thought we would like each other because we are both authors. So I friended Sandy on Facebook, and we read each others’ blogs. But meeting someone face to face, the old fashioned way, is so much better.

Sandy has spent the month of May in Louisiana for the last three years. She comes to meet people and to work on her novel, The Road to Indigo ( her working title). We had brunch together on Saturday. Jen was right; we connected easily and immediately. Sandy is about to complete an MFA program and has been writing her novel for 3 years. This project led her to Louisiana to meet many different people. She has some wonderful stories, some of which give you the goosebumps because they are so full of connectedness and coincidence, the do-do-do-do-twilight effect. Please visit her blog The Road to Indigo to read about her process of writing.

I wrote a poem for Sandy. I am attempting to post the Soundcloud recording of it.

The Road to Indigo
The traiteur says the stories are yours to tell.

For Sandra Sarr

The traveler arrives from Puget Sound
to paddle a pirogue on the bayou.
She sees the black alligator on the bank
dive deep, barely rustling the burnished water.

She knows there are stories hiding here.
No longer alone, the train’s whistle
awakens her as it weaves
in and out of her mind
leading her on a journey.

Tracks cross as if joined for a greater purpose.
An artist,
a poet,
a healer,
a plantation proprietor
all tell their stories—
tell her to make them live again.

The steam trumpet pierces her skin,
opens blood vessels to bleed
something new of something old—
something profound,
something healing,
something eternal
–Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

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