#writing201 #fingers #prosepoem #assonance

A Week In-sanity

day 01
The webbed fingers of lotus leaf veins, move outwards, and quiver along the surface of water. When the breeze makes them gently sway, they send ripples out, like a thought stream that has just entered my mind.

day 02
The bile yellow light of the bulb spills out of the windows and onto the fingers of the roof thatch. A cricket sings, a flog croaks, and hot summer sweat runs down the back of the woman in the kitchen, making rotis.

day 03
When she sang out loud, all he wanted to do was run his fingers down her neck, the back of it, her spine, and the small of her back. He thought he was in love, until he met her… now he is obsessed with her voice.

day 04
On a cold, blue morning, as the sun tried to come up the horizon and push out through the clouds like the birthing of a child, dull gold sunlight crept in through the blinds in slanted fingers of honey.

day 05
Cycling down the steep slope, no brakes, pedals freewheeling… the wind cuts through her hair and makes it blow past her ears in dark black fingers of freedom… she comes to a slow halt as the slopes die down.

day 06
In a glade within a dark, deep forest, a lone flower grows, with finger-like scarlet petals. A sudden stillness is disturbed by a sensational flurry of butterflies, as they twine up in turrets and go higher, higher.

day 07
On his palette, an explosion of colours. I asked him, ‘What are you going to draw for me?’ ‘Your hands,’ he said. ‘All those colours, friend?’ ‘So I can trace the outline of every finger as I see it in my head – different.’

#writing201 #heroine #ballad #anaphora

Song for Sweet Isabel

Sweet Isabel by the North Sea,
Had naught to love.
Maybe she said, it was not to be,
On land nor heaven above.

Her days were spent in darkened thought,
Her nights on a cold hard bed,
Her mind with black stories fraught,
Of being stone cold dead.

With heavenly beauty was she born,
But only wished to die.
Her hair, the colour of ripened corn,
Her eyes, the colour of the sky.

Sweet Isabel by the North Sea,
Had naught to love.
Maybe she said, it was not to be,
On land nor heaven above.

One day she met a bonnie lad,
And gave her heart to him,
With him she could never be sad,
He seemed come from her whim.

He took her out on moonlit nights,
And on the days they swam out to sea.
He said he understood her plight,
And was her love to be.

Sweet Isabel by the North Sea,
Had naught to love.
Maybe she said, it was not to be,
On land nor heaven above.

Decades passed and moons went by…
And on a grey damp morn,
The foam was low, the waves were high
Sweet Isabel’s heart was shorn!

For the lad was but a selkie man,
Whose heart belonged to none.
He swam away, bid back to his clan,
With nary a backward song.

Sweet isabel back in her shell,
Vowed never to give her heart.
From heaven she had come to hell,
And now she couldn’t tell them apart.

Sweet Isabel by the North Sea,
Had naught to love.
Maybe she said, it was not to be,
On land nor heaven above.

#writing201 #poetrypotluck

I had to read a lot of unusual and previously unread poems when I started doing the literature course last year. One poem that stuck with me was Keats’ Hyperion. Out of many favourites, this is a recent addition. I enjoyed studying it because of the ease with which I understood it and the theme on which it is based. The imagery is beautiful and in my opinion is one of Keats’ best works, it is also his last. I cannot imagine he was only 26 when he finished it.

The poem opens with the scene when the Titans have been defeated by the Olympians. Saturn, who has lost his throne to Jupiter, sits sad and broken. Thea, an Amazon, attempts to rouse him to stand back up and motivate the other Titans that all is not lost. The still unfallen Hyperion rejoices n his palatial abode but eventually he too, admits defeat to Apollo.

It is a very long poem and so I am not posting all of it; the following is a good part to get a flavour of the poem and then you can follow the link to go read the entire text.

He stood, and heard not Thea’s sobbing deep;
A little time, and then again he snatch’d
Utterance thus.—”But cannot I create?
Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth
Another world, another universe,
To overbear and crumble this to nought?
Where is another chaos? Where?”—That word
Found way unto Olympus, and made quake
The rebel three.—Thea was startled up,
And in her bearing was a sort of hope,
As thus she quick-voic’d spake, yet full of awe.
“This cheers our fallen house: come to our friends,
O Saturn! come away, and give them heart;
I know the covert, from thence came I hither.”
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went
With backward footing through the shade a space:
He follow’d, and she turn’d to lead the way
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist
Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest.

For the entire poem, click here.

#writing201 #fog #elegy #metaphor

Elegy for Edinburgh

On this night in February,
I watch pinprick starlight
faintly disturb darkness.
The moon, sublime,
not quite round yet,
not quite white, hangs low
and you weave your black magic
over me.
O city of sights
and gothic architecture!
O city of the 56th North!
You fill me with the memories
of days lost and lyrics
lying scattered
on the sidewalk…

When the haar* rolls in
from the Firth
and covers all of your
presence –
the stars, the moon –
all snuffed out candles,
I feel as though
a curtain has been pulled over
the eyes of my mind.
Rest now, good night.

*Scots word referring to a cold sea fog on the east coast of Scotland.