Wholed by Ink

Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Kerry invited us to write a poem inspired by Clarence White’s Morning. The image—a woman in a nightgown, sitting on the edge of a tub, thinking… in front of a window—made me think of moonlight, storytelling and such. So, here’s my poem:

 

I am dark stories
glittering, ragged wings
wholed by ink,
nightlight risen
through shadow and storm.

 

the finished piece brought to mind this painting by Shelle Kennedy

also, the original poem is a blackout

this is what it looked like before the inking and stitching

 

Linked to Poets United.

 

Garden in Lust

“When the flower blooms, the bees come uninvited.” ~ Ramakrishna

1.
I’m a star
blooming just for you,
can’t you see?

2.
I love the feel of you
in my hand, the sun
kissing your skin, my mouth
imagining the taste of you.

3.
can you see me now,
my petals growing luscious
for your eyes alone?

4.
let’s curl up
under the dark sky,
never blue

5.
for passion
flowers, I do like
a wild bee

 

the garden bits that bloomed the poetry

 

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

 

To Want Is Not Enough

To want is not enough…

to keep me,

you must love

your want.

the (not so) wee notes…
– I spent most of last night talking to a friend who is having a total gastrectomy as I write this note. She’s worried about the pain and discomfort that will come with recovery. She fears the pain-boredom combination “will drive [her] nuts” (a body can’t get very physical after stomach surgery). “How do you deal with it (pain)?” she asked me. “How do you keep your mind from wanting to escape your head?” I told her the truth: “I busy my skull with tales. Then, I challenge my brain to remember them until my hands have the time to birth them in ink.”

She sighed… and reminded me that not everyone has my memory. I explained that when one feels like pain is eating one’s gut from the inside, remembering epics is not an option. If you have been walking this blogging journey with me for a while, my Wicked Luvs, you might remember why I started dancing with poetry. I didn’t do it because I thought poetry was easier than fiction *eyeroll*. I welcomed poetry into my life because almost anyone can remember a line or three (pain be damned). The remembering is easy. The hard part is what keeps the brain-housing group busy: I distract myself from pain by embracing all the effort it takes to shape the remembered lines into poetry.

Take the micropoem above, as an example: I crafted the blackout part on a day I couldn’t get out of bed much. When sitting up became tiresome (and torture on my lower back), I put the old book aside, and started to play with the shape of the poem in my head. “To want is not enough” says quite a bit. But I wanted the poem to say more. Not enough for what? for instance. So, I added the 2nd and 3rd lines to answer that question. And lastly, the 4th line to reiterate what it is that the subject must love if she wants to keep the speaker.

Doing that used some time, but… my gut still wasn’t ready to let me get on my feet. So… of course, I worked it some more. I played with the structure, layered the lines so that they would say other things within the poem bit. To me (and to some of you, I hope), this poem doesn’t only say

To want is not enough…

to keep me,

you must love

your want.

It also says:

– To want is not enough to keep me
and…
– to keep me, you must love
and…
me, you must love
and…
must love your want
and…
…it probably says things that I haven’t seen (yet).

 

That’s the magic of micropoetry (and of all heart-kissed poetry), methinks. Just a bit can say everything… if we brain-love that bit enough.

– while we are on the subject of brain-loving poetry, if you have a minute or 13, visit Poets United, where Sherry is featuring my poem, “How Different We Are Not”, next to the poetic yumminess of Kerry O’Connor and Rajani.

– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.