For Monday Big Tent Poetry Prompt June 28 – conversation
This first piece was my original response to this week’s prompt. The second follows it.
When you asked me
I said one thing
but now, would say
When you asked me
I was much younger,
still floating bright-colored
balloons, tied with long
white string to my
then scrawny wrist.
When you asked me
I had yet to walk
through all of those
Had yet to learn
that moonlight rippling
across water, needs
that depth of darkness
to hold it in place,
allow it to dance.
When you asked me,
I gave you a truth
that is no longer
and you were still with me,
holding my hand,
encircling my wrist,
still willing to listen.
Elizabeth Crawford 7/2/10
This second piece needs a bit of explanation. It is the result of a mnemonic devise I often used when I was in college. It helped me, while taking numerous courses in Literature and Writing, to remember which author wrote what piece, and many of the other things I needed to learn. It later turned into a challenge and a game I used in my classroom, as well as in private.
After finishing the piece above, I thought I was finished with the prompt and could go about my business. But, there was something I truly wanted to say to all of the poets who responded to last week’s prompt. I read each response and responded to each. However, the puter grumblies seemed to have lost a few of those comments. And one site simply wouldn’t allow me entrance.
My intention is to gratefully thank each and every one of you for rekindling a fire that I was beginning to fear was banked into dying embers. Be aware that there is a belief that giving an individual back his/her own words is a high form of flattery, and even a compliment. The underlined and capitalized words and phrases are the separate and individual titles of each of the response poems from last week’s prompt. And one last note: the sentiments expressed are the result of the placement of the words and not those of this author or any other. That holds true throughout the piece except for the final and last verse.
Well Entitled Conversation
Please Don’t Be Angry, but I Don’t Want to Write A Poem
about the Disaster In The Gulf, that Spill of Black Rainbows
In The Water, that made Front Page News. Nor do I want
to write about how Black Death Revisits in the form
of supposed leaders, Liars, Stewards to Lunacy, Dispersants
of Extinction’s Shadow. And not about Crowds, Throwing Out The Pits
In Toronto, Days Before The G20 Summit.
Instead, Slippery Words Spew, and I Can’t Stop the Flow, only find
strung out circle of language with a disjointed Curvature. So, I Struggle,
and after seeming Eternity, although I have Seen The Missing,
I Always remember being Sixteen and terribly Shallow. Still wondering
why Kevin Rudd Gets Shafted, or why Houseplants never flourish
in the Arctic, Never. And why the Stars Do Not Respond, even to
Cochon de Lait? Or worse, why, although It Didn’t Create History,
that Poem in Four Photos still begs The Form of the Question:
Will Some Poet Out There Write About Bhopal?
Being somewhat Introspective, if I got The Call, hired a Tutor, suffered
his Tender Mercies #12 through 47, I might just write about everything
from Oil Spills to Watermelon Seeds, never finding an ending. And What If…,
My Creation were to be built upon anything but solid Values?
If I Could Write, I would Want To Write about how each of these poets
is like a firefly: flashing bright while fencing with a dark and unknown night;
a prophet, proclaiming her truths; and a hermit, at home , owning his aloneness.
Elizabeth Crawford, et al, 7/2/10