Poetry is when an emotion has found its
thought and the thought has found words.
– Robert Frost
It’s April again—where I live,
the daffodils are in bloom, hyacinths have broken ground, and there are leaf buds
on the lilacs. In addition to our natural world “rites of spring,” National
Poetry Month begins today—a month-long celebration of poets and poetry.
Established by the Academy of
American Poets in 1996, National Poetry Month begins on April 1st and runs
through April 30th. This
month-long "event" is held every April “to widen the attention of
individuals and the media to the art of poetry, to living poets, to our complex
poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of wide aesthetic range and
concern.” During April, poets, poetry lovers, publishers, booksellers, literary
organizations, libraries, and schools throughout the US celebrate poetry.
One of the challenges of NPM is
to read and/or write a poem every day. So ... in the spirit of the observance,
as I’ve done for the past several years, I offer you inspiration words/phrases
and related poems for each of April’s thirty days.
This year, I’ve selected poems by
poets whom I call friends—poets I know personally, have read with, spent time
with, and respect. Links to the poems appear beneath each day in April after
the inspiration words and the titles and poets’ names. You may wish to read,
write, or do both. If you choose to write, be sure to extend the inspiration
and travel away from the example poems. You’re not bound to any content or
subject matter in the example poems—only the inspiration itself and however
loosely you wish to interpret it.
Tips:
1. Don’t feel compelled to match
your content or style to the examples—in fact, do just the opposite and make
your poems as different as you possibly can. The inspiration titles and the
example poems are only intended to trigger some poetry-spark that’s unique to
you, to guide your thinking a little—don’t let them enter too deeply into your
poems, don’t let their content become your content.
2. Let your reactions to the
inspiration phrases and poems surprise you. Begin with no expectations, and let
your poems take you where they want to go.
3. Give the topics your own spin,
twist and turn them, let the phrases trigger personal responses: pin down your
ghosts, identify your frailties, build bridges and cross rivers, take chances!
4. Keep in mind that writing a
poem a day doesn’t mean you have to “finish” each poem immediately. You can
write a draft each day and set your drafts aside to work on later.
5. Whatever you do this month,
find some time (a little or a lot) to enjoy some poetry!
As always, your
sharing is welcome,
so please don't be shy about posting your thoughts and poems as comments!
Regular prompts will
resume on April 29th.
In the meantime, I
wish you a wonderful and poetry-filled April!
Happy National Poetry
Month!
April 1
Inspiration: Music
Example: “The Risk of Listening
to Brahms” by Michael T. Young
April 2
Inspiration: The Tree of Life
Example: “Tree of Life” by Gail
Fishman Gerwin
April 3
Inspiration: Through the Lens
Example: “The Lens of Fire” by
Penny Harter
April 4
Inspiration: For the Love of …
Example: “For the Love of
Avocados” by Diane Lockward
April 5
Inspiration: Finding Our Way
Example: “You Are My GPS” by
Linda Radice
April 6
Inspiration: Seasons
Example: “I Hate to See October
Go” by Laine Sutton Johnson
April 7
Inspiration: Parental Memories
Example: “Breakfront” by Bob
Rosenbloom
April 8
Inspiration: Oz and Other
Mythical Places
Example: “The Yellow Brick Road”
By Donna Baier Stein
April 9
Inspiration: Wilderness
Example: “Let There Be a Wilderness” by R. G. Rader
April 10
Inspiration: A Place Remembered
Example: “Morning at the Elizabeth Arch” by Joe Weil
April 11
Inspiration: Loss & Grief
Example: “Grief” by Maria Mazziotti Gillan
April 12
Inspiration: Vacancies
Example: “Vacancy” by Tony Gruenewald
April 13
Inspiration: Reflections
Example: “I Have a Theory about Reflection” by Renée Ashley
April 14
Inspiration: Yes or No
Example: “Yes” by Catherine Doty
April 15
Inspiration: Teaching
Example: “Dream teaching” by Edwin Romond
April 16
Inspiration: Newspapers
Example: “The Star-Ledger” by B.J. Ward
April 17
Inspiration: Age
Example: “The Age” by Emily Vogel
April 18
Inspiration: Husbands & Wives
Example: “Once My Husband” by Priscilla Orr
April 19
Inspiration: What I Wanted
Example: “Thanksgiving” by Martin Jude Farawell
April 20
Inspiration: Silences
Example: “Silence” by David Crews
April 21
Inspiration: Fire
Example: “Built Fire” by Charlie Bondhus
April 22
Inspiration: Memorials
Example: “Trains: The Memorial” by Deborah LaVeglia
April 23
Inspiration: Seeing
Example: “How I Took That Picture” by Basil Rouskas
April 24
Inspiration: Evolution
Example: “Evolution” by Jessica de Koninck
April 25
Inspiration: Being Alive
Example: “The Grand Fugue” by Peter E. Murphy
April 26
Inspiration: People
Example: “Colored People” by Charles H. Johnson
April 27
Inspiration: Revelations
Example: “Revelation” by Charlotte Mandel
April 28
Inspiration: Streets as Metaphors
Example: “River Road, East Paterson” by Nancy Lubarsky
April 29
Inspiration: Rain (April Showers)
Example: “Things We Do and Don’t Say of the Rain” by Robert
Carnevale (scroll down to poem)
April 30
Inspiration: Stillness
Example: “Still” by John McDermott (scroll down to poem)
ReplyDeleteMichael T. Young’s poem reminded me of the challenges of becoming an adult, separating from parents, firing a gun, taking a bus to nowhere: All attempts for establishing personal credos and discovering what are the “big” and “true” things in life.
It reminded me of my unsuccessful attempt to connect with my physically exhausted father
by introducing him to an “artsy” movie in the after work hours.
BRAHMS AT AN OPEN AIR CONCERT
It was the night
I introduced father to Brahms
in an open air theatre
under the Attic air
in a half mooned sky
to find out
culture couldn’t keep
his calloused fingers
awake… I cut his
snoring arpeggios
short and we walked home,
each to his own music.
Basil Rouskas
HOORAY! It's National Poetry Month in America and Basil is back!
DeleteI'm so delighted to read your poem, Basil, and thank you for sharing it with us. I hope you'll post more!!!!
Nice poem, Basil. Glad you were inspired by Adele's prompt.
DeleteThanks Jamie!
DeleteBasil, I love this poem and remember it from our workshop group. Those "snoring arpeggios" — brilliant. Thanks so much for sharing with us here on the blog. And ... welcome back. You've always been an important part of NPM!
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ReplyDeleteSuch a crafty weaving of powerful sound images in a short poem!
DeleteSailing ship, blind man in the street and night counterpoint of Brahms music.
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DeleteWonderful, Lewis! Some very well-thought and well-crafted imagery. It's so good to have you sharing with us again!
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ReplyDeleteVery nice, Lewis! Great twist at the end. Thanks for sharing with us!
DeleteWhat a dapper gentleman-- yet the deception-loaded dismount cautions us to watch our wallet. I liked that poem very much.
ReplyDeleteApril 2
ReplyDeleteGail Fishman Gerwin’s poem TREE OF LIFE documents the trauma of moving to a new place and contrasts it with the safety of a permanent home, especially one just built.
In January of 2017 I moved from New Jersey to California, so I am still in the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder stage for every decision we made about family and personal things we needed to leave behind.
THE MOVE WEST
It snows out. She shows me
old books and family ware
strewn in between
pack boxes around us. Her
carpal-tunneled hands hold
things from shelves we just sold.
I ponder which family
photos to keep for
our move west,
and at our age, it feels
we’ve just started to
flow into the dust of time.
Basil Rouskas
Beautiful, Basil! Thank you again for sharing a poem! Moving across the country has to be a major challenge, especially when we're not young. I wish you and Tamara all good things and a long, wonderful life in your new home.
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DeleteThank you Lewis!
DeleteBeautiful, Basil! You capture the essence of making a major move later in life. I'm assuming your poem is based on fact and hope that you are prospering in your new home.
DeleteApril 3
ReplyDeleteAnd the prompt is “The Lens of Fire” by Penny Harter
In Penny Harter’s poem the images and symbols are primordial. They connect us with forces of nature (sun, light, heat, fire) which, with time’s passing, shape, damage, and sculpt permanently our uniqueness. They give us pain, redemption, joy and wisdom. The interwoven mystery of all these were my inspiration for these lines.
FROM A PALM READING
Veins,
Serrations
Brown edges of a tree leaf
Blood
Cross cuts
Fire remnants
Sun giveth
Time taketh away
My palm reader knows only the future
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteBasil, A wonderful "assessment" of Penny's poem and a wonderfully inspired poem of your own! Thank you for sharing it!
DeleteAgain, Basil, bravo! So glad you're back!
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ReplyDeleteNice surprise in the final line!! Interesting how the word "fire" produces so different results depending on the context (our viewpoint)
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DeleteWhat a unique and truly creative idea, Lewis! It's wonderfully amazing how a single word can become the spark that ignites a poem. Thank you for sharing!
DeleteWell done, Lewis! I'm trying to keep up with comments and may miss some, but I'm reading all of the poems! My thanks to you for posting your very creative words.
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ReplyDeleteWell done, Lewis! I love that Diane's words, "the broken pieces" were an inspiration to you! Thank you again for sharing with us!
DeleteHappy to know that my words led to your own poem.
DeleteDiane Lockward, your poems and your Crafty Poet books have inspired many! Linguini, avocados ...
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DeleteApril 4
ReplyDeletePrompt: For the Love of Avocados, by Diane Lockward.
The poet with a subtle finesse captures the arc of a relationship. I see a mother separate from her son. After years of being away, he comes back. Changed. Adult. Capable of sustaining his life. The softness of the avocado plays ball with the hardness of the knife. The unskilled youth shows new mastery skills. The poet plays ball between describing textures, colors, skins, and then suggesting symbols (reunion, admiration, pride, and love.)
I took a different path, to a Mexican resort:
Avocado pulp in the bowls
Mariachis begin to play
We order more tequila
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteAnother good one, Basil! You have a real gift for saying a lot in as few words as possible.
DeleteLovely response to my poem, Basil--your interpretation and your own poem.
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ReplyDeleteI was reliving Stanley Kubrick's PATHS OF GLORY when reading your poem, Lewis.
DeleteAnd then the intro of the stray horse. What a dismount!!! "In time for tea"
I agree with Basil, "What a dismount." Well done!
DeleteApril 5
ReplyDeleteI can still see Linda reading her poem at one of our workshops. Soft, understated with grateful reflection, cherishing her husband’s guidance to bring her home… Bless her memory.
THE ROAD HOME
The rain cleared the fog and I am
in a dark sky stretch, past a
turn I should have made.
I am lost, but
the North star illuminates —
and puts me back on the
road home.
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteBasil, yes, may Linda's memory be blessed and may she rest in peace. This poem of hers is a signature piece for which she'll be remembered by those who heard her read it. I read your poem, Basil, as a kind of tribute to Linda: the dark stretch of her illness, and then her going home. One wonderful thing about special poetry is that there's room for the reader to enter and experience the poem in his or her own way. Thanks so much for sharing this with us. I know Linda would have loved it.
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ReplyDeleteLewis, Wonderful Haiku-ish quality in this farming scene.
DeleteApril 6
ReplyDeleteAnd the prompt is I Hate to See October Go
by Laine Sutton Johnson
A poem rich in symbols and feeling: Seasons and cycles, personification of October into a woman, poetic license to chase her, visuals of disrobing trees, the enjoyment of late adult life before old age moves in…
IN OCTOBER
In forests,
when trees
drop their dry leaves,
and waves erase
footprints of broken up
lovers on empty beaches,
this is the month
when hikers take paths
to be with friends who left for
lands of silent
snow, scented with
rebirth vows from daffodils below.
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteLewis,
DeleteI also have the pleasure of reading your poetry. Where is home for you?
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DeleteApril 7
ReplyDeleteToday’s prompt is the poem Breakfront by Bob Rosenbloom
offered as an inspiration for parental memories.
I had the pleasure of seeing Bob read this poem. With the sharpness of a photographer’s camera, he captures all the objects (from furniture to baseball cards) in the room where his mother prayed. He records the back and forward motion of his mother’s prayer ritual and confirms with his lines the transformation of a simple room into a sacred temple. A mother’s love of her faith and commitment to her family is the kind of India ink that no passage of time can erase.
The poem inspired a parental memory for me after I recently watched a 40 year old film transferred to a DVD.
THE CRUELEST
Mother walks down the stairs of our country home,
laughs mocking moves of a belly dancer.
Father laughs with her as he looks at the camera of his
visiting son from America. Cameras are the cruelest of inventions
— reduce our past happiness to fading grains
in the dust of time.
Basil Rouskas
Well done, Basil and Lewis! It's always interesting to read a bit of background on the poems, and I thank you both for including your "poem histories".
DeleteBob Rosenbloom, your poem is stunning – an amazing look at love and faith. Your mom would be very proud of this poem! I keep re-reading it. Bravo to you!
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ReplyDeleteWhat a lovely way to remember your mom, Lewis! You certainly make wonderful collages of words.
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DeleteApril 8
ReplyDeleteToday’s prompt is the poem “The Yellow Brick Road” By Donna Baier Stein
offered as an inspiration for Oz and Other Mythical Places. I recently read Donna’s novel The Silver Barron’s Wife and enjoyed her rich language which, in my opinion, is a great marriage of Poetry and Fiction.
Her poem triggered the following lines:
HEROES STORIES
Myth is the fuel of hope
kindling youth’s fires
burning past our bedtimes
when dreamland’s yellow
brick road confirms
myth is the fuel of hope
and parents tell
pillow-side stories
burning past our bedtimes.
Invincible knights
fight for land and kin for
myth is the fuel of hope
and when castles begin to tumble
heroes die on bedroom comforters
burning past our bedtimes.
Near us, on crenelations between
us and the enemies
myth is the fuel of hope
burning past our bedtimes.
Basil Rouskas
Hey, Basil, you're a day early, but what a great beautifully imaged poem. I love the line, "myth is the fuel of hope." Keep em coming, my friend.
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DeleteThis is so enjoyable! I love reading the inspiration poems and the comments. I'm not a very accomplished poet, so I won't post anything myself, but I'm grateful to those who do.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteDitto about others offering their inspirations to the blog. This is a safe place in my opinion... Not judgmental at all
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ReplyDeleteLewis,
DeleteI like your evocative poem. Mystery, love, flower, secrets all suggested in just 5 lines!
I agree with Basil!
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ReplyDeleteSuch a surprise dismount!
ReplyDeleteHigh level craft in these lines:
"and the sun's glow through
the bullet-riddled farmhouse, and the trees
above which a white drift
of smoke as if in surrender— "
April 9
ReplyDeleteInspiration: Wilderness
“Let There Be a Wilderness” by R. G. Rader
Wilderness implies unpredictability, out of control conditions, turmoil, and conflict. On the other end, too much order and an excessive compliance with established rules followed mindlessly leads to boredom, to a life of no bold creation.
Predictability is the worst sin of a poem. So, learning to live without full control and taking risks and new roads in art and life is essential to change, growth and excitement.
Not taking risks (not accepting wilderness and adversity as part of a full life) leads to stagnation, paralysis and a desire to excessively control self and others.
R. G. Rader’s poem inspired these lines:
RISKS TAKEN
So, love, show me your claws
bring wilderness to our home.
Hand glide lessons complete,
drives to the launch point,
mounts his gear,
and jumps off the cliff.
Lines rehearsed,
stills the knots in her stomach,
and walks to the
raising curtain.
So, love, show me your claws
bring wilderness to our home,
start a fight the moment
“same old, same old” shows
his tired face
at our doorstep.
Basil Rouskas
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ReplyDeleteHow subtly drawn connections... How original lines: "how hard can it be to tear up the doctors prescription..."
DeleteApril 10
ReplyDeleteInspiration: A Place Remembered
Today’s prompt: “Morning at the Elizabeth Arch” by Joe Weil
I moved to Santa Monica, CA about three months ago. Beautiful place, blue skies, palm trees and sandy beaches. Sadly though, too many homeless and mentally ill people. The winos in Joe Weil’s poem triggered these lines:
MORNING IN OUR SEASIDE TOWN
Grass still wet
coffee shops set up tables
a homeless man looks in his bag
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteThanks Lewis.
DeleteI also am making a focused effort to capture critical details in a few words as possible. Difficult to do, but what a satisfaction when I get it. The less in poetry is more...
April 11
ReplyDeleteToday’s prompt is Maria Mazziotti Gillan’s poem “Grief”
How masterfully she blends the past with the present, the dream with reality and the grief with gratefulness!
Here is a poem of mine inspired by grief.
WHO DIED THAT DAY
We buried you
next to father
that day
in a shaded grave
between cypress-trees and
the cemetery white wall.
And I don’t know who
was worse off
that evening —
you, far away from
your birthplace
in Mani,
or I
on the plane
back to America.
Basil Rouskas
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ReplyDeleteI am against capital punishment and I read anything about that subject with a lot of emotional charge.
DeleteHaving said that, I think your powerful poem is one of the most impactful ones I have ever read on that issue.
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DeleteWhat a great response to the prompts and the poems that readers are posting! I can barely keep up, but I'm enjoying it all (and so are my students)!
ReplyDeleteApril 12
ReplyDeleteTony Gruenewald’s powerful poem “Vacancy” is the prompt on Adele’s blog: The death of a lodging business because of the relocation of a highway.
Very emotionally charged issue about the impact of new technology on lives of people. Small town manufacturing, coal mining, automation of repetitive tasks, green eye-shade accountants, are all affected by it.
And those who can change or run business with some new service or twist will survive. Others who can’t or won’t, will die a slow death complaining about the Chinese worker who stole their jobs.
I recently moved into a west coast city with horrendous traffic problems: Los Angeles. Uber and Lyft use is booming.
Against that backdrop, you can imagine the shape of the taxi business here. It was this that served as the inspiration for my poem.
TAXI TAXI
For hours they sit idle in the driver’s seat
playing games on the I-phones,
devices that kill their business.
Few years back at the airports
customers bribed dispatchers
to get a taxi, but those were the good times.
Now, taxis lost their case in court to keep
the Ubies out. They try to earn a living with those
who can’t learn software or can’t afford smart phones.
Basil Rouskas
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ReplyDeleteLewis,
DeleteYou got my curiosity teased.
Basil
April 13
ReplyDeleteAvoidance of predictability recipes: Allow the mind to play, to run wild, or try and record your dreams early in the morning after you’ve woken up.
Both Renée Ashley’s poem (Reflection prompter for the day) and Lewis Oakwood’s response, a slice of theatrical act (I can’t wait to see the next scene) are good examples of how to be unpredictable, funny, unorthodox, and provocative.
Here’s a poem of mine that sprang out of my dreamland:
OUTSIDER’S DREAM
Ralph Billerman hosts another event.
Men and women drink water with lime,
ponder process issues, debate group dynamics.
They describe
models of leadership,
give convincing examples.
I, as usual, float between groups —
observe, listen, but don’t speak.
I’ve got something to say, but doubt they’ll listen.
No one comes over for a conversation.
I’ve stopped counting the years I’ve felt old,
but I still hope for a conversation, or a touch on the shoulder
leading to it.
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteReally beautifully expressed, Basil. I know that feeling of being an "outsider" and hoping for a "touch on the shoulder." Well done!
DeleteP.S. I'm reading comments every day, I promise! But ... please forgive me for not commenting on every comment and every poem.
Adele,
DeleteI think this is Okay. You put so much effort in making the blog a rich resource for poetry. You shouldn't have to respond to each individual entry. My wish is that more people share more comments or make more entries; that would create a more diverse forum. A thought not shared is a thought that did not see the light of the day.
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ReplyDeleteStrong emotions. Uncertain who she is, but the torture she suffers intense. Could be a mother, a heroine of a play, a symbol of a country in war... Who knows? I like that uncertainty
DeleteI agree with Basil — strong emotions, and I really like the mystery of who the woman might be.
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ReplyDeleteRelated to your lines:
DeleteTo a notebook of penciled poems,
and of dozens of pages
of fragments-reminders—
...This is the normal state of affairs for the poet's desk — isn't it?
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DeleteApril 14
ReplyDeleteThe prompt poem for today is Catherine Doty’s poem “Yes”
Is this poem about a patient in a hospital, the erotic invitation of a lover, the painful arthritic episode of an old woman or a happy baby waking up in his crib? Who knows?
It reminded me of a poem I once wrote about an ill but dignified old woman who lived alone:
NIGHT DAMAGES
Wrinkles on her face got deeper —
the bare limbs of her soul
thirst for water
to cleanse past sins.
In the mornings she ponders
to stay in bed, or rise
to face more
night damages to her life.
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteApril 14
ReplyDeleteThe prompt poem for today is Catherine Doty’s poem “Yes”
Is this poem about a patient in a hospital, the erotic invitation of a lover, the painful arthritic episode of an old woman or a happy baby waking up in his crib? Who knows?
It reminded me of a poem I once wrote about an ill but dignified old woman who lived alone:
NIGHT DAMAGES
Wrinkles on her face got deeper —
the bare limbs of her soul
thirst for water
to cleanse past sins.
In the mornings she ponders
to stay in bed, or rise
to face more
night damages to her life.
Basil Rouskas
April 15
ReplyDeleteThe prompt poem is “Dream Teaching” by Edwin Romond.
I read it several times, with more joy each time. A good poet is like a new places gatekeeper - he transports you convincingly to places you’ve never been. Although I have not ever taught high school English, I was reminded of phrases teacher-friends of mine often use, down to the details “of calling in sick today” or cafeteria scenes “…at lunch the grouchy food lady discovers smiling and sneaks me an extra meatball.”
Another strength of this poem, I found, is the imperceptible crafty use of audio devices. For example, in the last stanza I enjoyed the repeating “ch” sounds: “I check the weather…” “stretching like dominoes…” I pick up my chalk…” “ ask me to teach them…”
Such a funny, witty poem that blends dream and reality.
THE END OF CLASSES
The students exit classrooms
fill hallways to buses and
an old teacher rakes his fingers
through his hair.
Tomorrow another day,
another lesson plan.
Basil Rouskas
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ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful imagery and dismount!
Delete"Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable and the handle of a blue silk parasol..."
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DeleteApril 16 and B J Ward’s poem “Star Ledger” is the prompt.
ReplyDeleteMy dad’s job demanded lots of manual labor and excessive hours to manage his dairy business. It limited his family time and increased my guilt for not helping him more. So, B J Ward’s poem speaks to me directly.
MAKING YOGURT
Bare breasted, my father and I
just boiled the milk and
done pouring it in the yogurt cups.
We drip with sweat
and he looks at the floor:
“Forty years” he says
“I’ve done this forty years”
he says again, gaze fixed on the floor.
I gently take the brush from his hand
and set the exhaust fan faster.
We make eye contact.
I scrape the vat.
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteApril 16 and B J Ward’s poem “Star Ledger” is the prompt.
ReplyDeleteMy dad’s job demanded lots of manual labor and excessive hours to manage his dairy business. It limited his family time and increased my guilt for not helping him more. So, B J Ward’s poem speaks to me directly.
MAKING YOGURT
Bare breasted, my father and I
just boiled the milk and
done pouring it in the yogurt cups.
We drip with sweat
and he looks at the floor:
“Forty years” he says
“I’ve done this forty years”
he says again, gaze fixed on the floor.
I gently take the brush from his hand
and set the exhaust fan faster.
We make eye contact.
I scrape the vat.
Basil Rouskas
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ReplyDeleteLewis,
DeleteThis poem intrigues me! Quite a succession of visual and audio images connected with a distant train approaching. Violence, screaming, frightened black birds...and a mother crying. Very well crafted, original poem.
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ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteWhat an interesting experimentation/play Lewis!
DeleteApril 17
ReplyDeleteEmily Vogel’s poem “Age” is today’s prompt.
Surrealistic,unpredictable, disconnected and open to so many interpretations: Is “age” synonymous to “epoch?” Or is it a season in a person’s life. Is the poet’s position that an event becomes part of an age when the right narrative gets attached? Or is it describing the creative process of an artist??
These haiku-ish lines popped in my head:
SCENES FROM A KITCHEN
A jar full of broken pencils at the table’s south east corner
Grandma’s knitted shawl hangs from my neck
and a cat meows by the kitchen door.
Basil Rouskas
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ReplyDeleteLewis,
DeleteI think this is a good example of your ability to create powerful scenes with few words.
Basil
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DeleteApril 18 and the prompt is Priscilla Orr’s poem “Once my Husband.” Few poems express the aging of two people who care(d) for each other with such a gracefulness and subtlety.
ReplyDeleteThis an evocative poem, full of images so familiar, yet illusive. Priscilla Orr “nails” them: “ I nearly burn my tongue on the latte…” or “lilies ablaze on the one, a cane on the other…”
I took two lines from her poem, modified them slightly, and recast them in a villanelle.
SUBURBAN LIVES
And I still remember fragments from people
we knew, places we lived
in our suburban homes.
Fall leaves turned orange
but longer days returned
and I still remember fragments from people,
once neighbors,
with morning coffee wafting
in our suburban homes.
The basketball hoops now rusty
and the garage doors need paint
and I still remember fragments from people
who kept fresh the
white picket fences
in our suburban homes.
Now, the broods eased into retirement
in succession of seasons’ greetings cards
and I still remember fragments from people
in our suburban homes.
Basil Rouskas
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DeleteThere's a lot of richness in these poems. What a delight to read them and to be inspired by them.
ReplyDeleteApril 19, 2017 and today’s prompt is
ReplyDelete“Thanksgiving” by Martin Jude Farawell
A symphony of blue ridges, mountain forests subtly blended with reflectons of a man about his life and pursuits.
The poem led me to borrow landscapes in the Pocono, Kittatinny and NJ where I lived more than 20 years, before I moved to California.
EAST WEST
Normally sun swept,
in blue skies
and Pacific air,
the west coast town
I moved to four months ago
from New Jersey
does Thai Chi this morning
in a mat of fog
like the grey clouds do between
Pocono and Kittatinny.
And I touch the wet wintery
barks of ash and oak
near my old Black River
home and see images
of the lonely old man
I used to meet on my walks.
Basil Rouskas
Beautifully written, Basil! You've captured the feeling perfectly! Another journey, maybe another book? Thank you for all your sharing this month!
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ReplyDeleteThis is a fun exercise for me as well. It feels like a pleasant problem solving with (often) surprising results.
DeleteIn your poem, I like the device of "highly explosive" and then 5 lines later a deafening "BOOM"
Basil
It is April 20 and today’s prompt is SILENCE by David Crews.
ReplyDeleteI used the exercise Lewis Oakwood described in yesterday’s post:
I picked the words “my mother,” “little boy vs. little girl,” “dark wood,” and “footprint” from David Crews’ poem.
I then wrote these selected words on a piece of paper, looked at them for a few minutes and then I wrote this haiku-like poem:
DAWN SILENCE
The forest footprint
stops at Black River’s southern bend.
The sun is about to rise and I miss mother.
Basil Rouskas
This is perfection, Basil. Thanks for all the sharing this month!
DeleteIt is April 21 and Charlie Bondhus’ ekphrastic poem “Built Fire” is the prompt for the day.
ReplyDeleteUnique in selection of subject, this poem seems to incorporate a series of opposites:
Crossed slats (Opposite-directions)
Painted-Weathered pieces of wood
On the inside - On the outside
Aflame - Extinct
For the poet, all these “cryptic” symbols joined in a visual unit held together by FIRE. For me CAUTION seemed to emerge. Caution for a life in which the fire (maybe passion?) burns out leaving a sense of an unfinished, incomplete arc. The words of an old guru come out as an ominous life advice.
CAUTION
Beware, my son,
of the flame extinct
before its time
Don’t heed my words, son,
and in time you shall be
a frustrated arsonist.
Basil Rouskas
What a wonderful idea -- something for every day of National Poetry Month! Thank you!
ReplyDeleteApril 22 and Deborah LaVeglia’s “Trains: The Memorial” is the prompt.
ReplyDeleteThis poem is a grieving memorial of a childhood loss. In every line the reader feels the deep, unhealed, pain of the poet, so many years after the accident.
Trains for some reason have a strong emotional gravity pull for me. Families part on platforms. Soldiers go to war from train platforms. Lovers return after long absences. The departing train whistles blend all passengers’ emotions into a distinct symbol of something ominous about to happen. Train stations are the funnels where the personal turns collective.
THE TRAIN PLATFORM
This April Friday I’ve come again
to the platform we parted
because of words you say you
did not mean but couldn’t undo
although to take them
back I tried
but the hurt still there
and we now are with others.
Basil Rouskas
April 22 and Deborah LaVeglia’s “Trains: The Memorial” is the prompt.
ReplyDeleteThis poem is a grieving memorial of a childhood loss. In every line the reader feels the deep, unhealed, pain of the poet, so many years after the accident.
Trains for some reason have a strong emotional gravity pull for me. Families part on platforms. Soldiers go to war from train platforms. Lovers return after long absences. The departing train whistles blend all passengers’ emotions into a distinct symbol of something ominous about to happen. Train stations are the funnels where the personal turns collective.
THE TRAIN PLATFORM
This April Friday I’ve come again
to the platform we parted
because of words you say you
did not mean but couldn’t undo
although to take them
back I tried
but the hurt still there
and we now are with others.
Basil Rouskas
April 24 and the prompt poem is “Evolution” by Jessica de Koninck. I find this poem an exemplification of the high craft: To say so many things in so few words and images. To say it in a subtle way without simplifying it, without relying on slogans of pollyanna futures. This is an elegy of a loss. She’s learned to breathe, to survive, but the hurt is still there.
ReplyDeleteSTREAMS
This morning I walk the path by the narrow stream
where we parted
I have learned to come here from other directions
but you still
immerse me in your
stream
Basil Rouskas
So many beautiful poems to read and remember! Thank you for this, Adele!
ReplyDeleteIt is April 25 and today’s prompt is Peter E. Murphy’s poem “Grand Fugue.”
ReplyDeleteBy the device of fugue, the blending of two or more themes, Murphy creates a dreamy, anesthetic universe of surrealistic images. In this poem pairs of death/life, illness/health, harmony/atonality, order/anarchy, and gratitude/anger play havoc in each other’s domain. And, despite the dizzying movement of hard to take images, the poem ends in celebration of a million songs and being alive.
Surrealism has always been intriguing for me. The blending of opposites, the disregard of laws of physics or time and the sheer freedom of creating and exploring. Most dreams fall in that category. So, here is one poem that originated in one of my dreams. It is dated from quite a few years ago, when I was pondering career choices.
TEA LEAVES
We walk towards the Olympic stadium. No friends or family. The group, mostly women, speaks English. Dressed like hippies from the sixties, they behave that way. We join hands and form a dancing line. We cross the street. Traffic stops. We are singing songs of revolt. We continue to walk, dance and chant. Then I am in a shop, the crowds no longer with me. It is tea shop. It is run by two women in their late thirties. I don’t know who told me, they have advanced degrees. They answer clients’ tea questions woven with witty conversations. I am wondering to myself why they would work here with so much higher education, but I don’t ask the question. It makes sense they do what they want and damn the common sense. At peace with the explanation, I wake up.
Basil Rouskas
Today is April 26 and the prompt poem is “Colored People” by Charles H. Johnson. I see it as a multidimensional poem that touches on many themes. The transitional velocity of a neighborhood is one that triggered me the most, when years ago a total stranger drove into my yard, by Black River in Long Valley, NJ looking unsuccessfully to make “reconnections" with people, homes, ponds, trees from his childhood neighborhood of 50+ years. I had written a poem about the encounter.
ReplyDeleteHere it is:
THE MULTIETHNIC WEAVE
Black River Circa 2010
In his 70‘s, he pulls his car
into my driveway on this
sticky-skin Sunday afternoon.
I’ve done my yard weeding,
and I am about to swim.
He parks and asks
about Mrs. Fritzl
and other fishing folk
along the river. He now lives in
Chatham (ran a newspaper there)
and he remembers family names
of tumbling brick chimneys
and fieldstone boundaries of
this extinct bungalow
community of 60 years back.
But I ponder sixty years forward:
A Spanish speaking father
(weekend archaeologist)
will bring his kids
to these lands
where developers haven’t
yet touched Hacklebarney Park.
He’ll still see NO TRESPASS
signs and tell his kids
about the Lenape Indians’
battles with the white man.
He’ll miss the history of this house—
my Greek name as the 3rd owner;
he’ll miss Havana’s top architect’s
name who designed it in the 70’s
(running from Castro) as a gift
to his daughter. He’ll also miss
the Bolivian contractor’s homemade
sign “HECHO POR THOMAS”
low on the NorthWest post of my bridge.
And he will never learn about the old Norwegian who lived on above
Pottersville Falls and in his early years
did business in South East Europe —
just north of my homeland borders.
Basil Rouskas
I'm just loving the posted poems and all the wonderful poems posted by Basil Rouskas. Wonderful sharing. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteToday is April 27 and “Revelation” by Charlotte Mandel is the prompt. The poem speaks to someone (no longer alive) who touched others’ lives with his/her ability to open their eyes to see things anew in the visual beauty of nature.
ReplyDeleteI dedicate these lines below to all teachers, mentors, leaders, parents, and friends who have the gift to open our eyes and inspire us to set worthwhile goals, though at times unreachable.
PRAYER TO SEE THE INVISIBLE
The best books,
wrote Orwell,
are those that tell us
something we know
but I think best roads are
those that point us
where we can
not go.
May I inherit your fresh
eyes to see my
invisible
stars.
Basil Rouskas
One of your best, Basil! Thank you for all the sharing!
DeleteKudos to Basil for all the wonderful poems. I remember his work from previous years.
DeleteToday is April 28 and Nancy Lubarsky’s poem “River Road, East Paterson” is the prompt. As Adele’s inspiration phrase suggests streets are metaphorical in nature. They could be directions of our lives at a certain age, or signals of a memory from early family life, or the story telling of a school incident, etc. It is a physical world. It is memories loaded with emotions. I read someplace that even prisoners have positive emotions for their cells: It is the physicality of an environment that gets connected with us and therefore becomes a channel of associations, a safe place where we can remember a universe of physical symbols loaded with emotions.
ReplyDeleteFor me, having been raised in Athens, Greece, the old neighborhood streets are the playground where childhood dramas are still staged, replayed and re-interpreted. I am attaching one below:
OUR FIRST HOUSE
Condemned for occupancy
in a neighborhood bombed
by guerrilla artillery,
she still stands — a two story stucco —
our home in the war years.
Inheritance battles in Athens
courts keep the spider webs in
and the bulldozers out.
I go there when I revisit
the homeland. I turn
into the narrow street and
struggle keeping my eyes dry.
In the drizzle, I turn on the
windshield wipers and gaze at
her tired two-story frame
next to the Megalophon family home.
One of the brothers became
a doctor — that much I remember.
Their basement tenant,
the ghost of a lonely slow woman
in her fifties, approaches me
with half the neighborhood cats
trailing her in the back yard.
A dying palm tree still upright,
the trunk an exclamation point
under the pierced roof of a shed —
remains of artillery strikes on the German
Kommandantur building next door.
I park the rental car
and walk the narrow
street. On the second floor
the gendarme (our tenant)
still plays the violin.
Mrs. K’s dogs growl
at me when they figure out
I am not their Ulysses.
Basil Rouskas
This is a deeply moving and beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing it with us, Basil. The "dismount" is superb!
DeleteToday is April 29 and Robert Carneval’s “Things We Do and Don’t Say of the Rain” is the prompt.
ReplyDeleteI read this poem with growing curiosity as the paradoxes and non-sequiturs unfold. Things that make no sense in the way we traditionally think, but (thank poetry for the license) can be viewed under a different lens. This mindset of unexpected questions challenges our reality: Is it real or just our own schema? That is why, I think, surrealism, poetry and dreams feed so well from each other. One of the most powerful enemies of predictability in a poem is the power to make us rethink, doubt and ask “what if?” Carnevale’s poem has done that.
Here’s a poem I wrote where I also tried to play with the power of the paradoxical question.
The MASKS
For half a life I’ve worn them
to put on smiles, fake real
beliefs and hide anger.
So, if I stop the fake smiles,
and have faith there will be
love, I have no anger
to hide. So, in a nutshell, if you
love me why do I need the
masks?
And if you don’t, how can I afford
to lose
them?
Basil Rouskas
Today, April 30th, marks the end of National Poetry Month in America and its celebration on Adele Kenny’s terrific poetry blog THE MUSIC IN IT. The prompt today is John McDermott’s poem “Still” - one of the best poems I have read about the similarity of the human condition. That is how alike we are despite being different in the way we look or the way we’ve lived. McDermott’s lines are short, the adjectives masterfully woven to avoid sentimentalism. But the mood of the poem is consistent in my ears: Life is life with its ups and downs. To enjoy it you’ve got learn to accept it AS IS and be willing to start each morning as a launch to a new place.
ReplyDeleteMany years ago when color photography was introduced (and still expensive,) I saw a photo for sale. It was the silhouette of a man and a woman boarding a single engine plane against an Eastern morning sky. The sense of a launch to a new adventure is still in my eyes and I am still regretting I did not buy the picture. But, thanks to poetry, I am still moved every time I re-read this poem and recall that memorable shot.
Dawn in the Heartland
In the endless flats
of this land I stand on
the tarmac of a small,
regional air strip.
The outline of the small plane
faces a dimly lit eastern sky,
and dawn starts to swim into
clouds of pink yellow bands.
A man and a woman climb
the ladder and board the plane.
They both look east
where dawn greets the sun.
A new day begins.
The man throws the switch.
Basil Rouskas
Bravo, Basil! Another great poem, and that dismount is fantastic. Would be a great title for a book. My sincerest thanks to you for all the poems you posted this month. You really got into the spirit of the celebration and produced some solid work. I'm delighted and grateful that the prompt inspired you. Keep writing!
Delete