tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post2574365057083457736..comments2024-01-18T05:29:43.265-05:00Comments on The Music In It: Adele Kenny's Poetry Blog: Prompt #277 – National Poetry MonthADELE KENNYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556261298519747516noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-76986470779390055642017-04-30T09:07:25.459-04:002017-04-30T09:07:25.459-04:00Bravo, Basil! Another great poem, and that dismoun...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! ADELE KENNYhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09556261298519747516noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-53172815822814134512017-04-29T23:23:28.199-04:002017-04-29T23:23:28.199-04:00Today, April 30th, marks the end of National Poetr...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.<br /><br />Many 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.<br /><br /><br />Dawn in the Heartland<br /><br />In the endless flats<br />of this land I stand on<br /> <br />the tarmac of a small,<br />regional air strip.<br /><br />The outline of the small plane <br />faces a dimly lit eastern sky,<br /><br />and dawn starts to swim into <br />clouds of pink yellow bands. <br /><br />A man and a woman climb <br />the ladder and board the plane.<br /><br />They both look east <br />where dawn greets the sun.<br /><br />A new day begins.<br />The man throws the switch.<br /><br /><br /><br />Basil RouskasBasilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-2687645543132545802017-04-29T11:14:09.279-04:002017-04-29T11:14:09.279-04:00Today is April 29 and Robert Carneval’s “Things We...Today is April 29 and Robert Carneval’s “Things We Do and Don’t Say of the Rain” is the prompt. <br /><br />I 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.<br /><br />Here’s a poem I wrote where I also tried to play with the power of the paradoxical question.<br /><br /><br />The MASKS<br /><br />For half a life I’ve worn them<br />to put on smiles, fake real <br />beliefs and hide anger.<br /><br />So, if I stop the fake smiles,<br />and have faith there will be<br />love, I have no anger<br /><br />to hide. So, in a nutshell, if you <br />love me why do I need the <br />masks?<br /><br />And if you don’t, how can I afford<br />to lose<br />them?<br /><br /><br /><br />Basil Rouskas<br />Basilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-73612203297624593652017-04-28T10:04:34.785-04:002017-04-28T10:04:34.785-04:00This is a deeply moving and beautiful poem. Thank ...This is a deeply moving and beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing it with us, Basil. The "dismount" is superb!ADELE KENNYhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09556261298519747516noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-86616642705059062082017-04-28T01:23:55.311-04:002017-04-28T01:23:55.311-04:00Today is April 28 and Nancy Lubarsky’s poem “River...Today 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.<br /><br />For 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:<br /><br /><br /><br />OUR FIRST HOUSE<br /><br />Condemned for occupancy<br />in a neighborhood bombed<br />by guerrilla artillery, <br />she still stands — a two story stucco —<br /><br />our home in the war years. <br />Inheritance battles in Athens <br />courts keep the spider webs in<br />and the bulldozers out.<br /><br />I go there when I revisit<br />the homeland. I turn<br />into the narrow street and <br />struggle keeping my eyes dry.<br /><br />In the drizzle, I turn on the <br />windshield wipers and gaze at <br />her tired two-story frame<br />next to the Megalophon family home. <br /><br />One of the brothers became <br />a doctor — that much I remember.<br />Their basement tenant,<br />the ghost of a lonely slow woman<br /><br />in her fifties, approaches me <br />with half the neighborhood cats <br />trailing her in the back yard.<br />A dying palm tree still upright,<br /><br />the trunk an exclamation point <br />under the pierced roof of a shed — <br />remains of artillery strikes on the German<br />Kommandantur building next door.<br /> <br />I park the rental car<br />and walk the narrow <br />street. On the second floor <br />the gendarme (our tenant)<br /><br />still plays the violin.<br />Mrs. K’s dogs growl <br />at me when they figure out <br />I am not their Ulysses.<br /><br /><br />Basil Rouskas<br />Basilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-76012428558431219612017-04-27T14:18:47.356-04:002017-04-27T14:18:47.356-04:00Kudos to Basil for all the wonderful poems. I reme...Kudos to Basil for all the wonderful poems. I remember his work from previous years. Sandy R.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-28487567246584808632017-04-27T11:48:06.427-04:002017-04-27T11:48:06.427-04:00One of your best, Basil! Thank you for all the sha...One of your best, Basil! Thank you for all the sharing!ADELE KENNYhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09556261298519747516noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-41384322663918009442017-04-27T11:45:24.441-04:002017-04-27T11:45:24.441-04:00Today is April 27 and “Revelation” by Charlotte Ma...Today 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. <br /><br />I 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.<br /><br /><br />PRAYER TO SEE THE INVISIBLE<br /><br />The best books,<br />wrote Orwell,<br />are those that tell us<br />something we know<br /><br />but I think best roads are<br />those that point us<br />where we can<br />not go.<br /><br />May I inherit your fresh <br />eyes to see my<br />invisible <br />stars.<br /><br /><br />Basil Rouskas<br />Basilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-76848429965386867312017-04-27T09:33:18.948-04:002017-04-27T09:33:18.948-04:00I'm just loving the posted poems and all the w...I'm just loving the posted poems and all the wonderful poems posted by Basil Rouskas. Wonderful sharing. Thank you!Jamie Morrisnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-64993245540705340402017-04-26T19:45:20.665-04:002017-04-26T19:45:20.665-04:00Today is April 26 and the prompt poem is “Colored ...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.<br />Here it is:<br /><br /><br />THE MULTIETHNIC WEAVE<br /><br />Black River Circa 2010<br /><br /><br />In his 70‘s, he pulls his car<br />into my driveway on this <br />sticky-skin Sunday afternoon.<br />I’ve done my yard weeding,<br />and I am about to swim.<br /><br />He parks and asks<br />about Mrs. Fritzl<br />and other fishing folk <br />along the river. He now lives in <br />Chatham (ran a newspaper there)<br /><br />and he remembers family names <br />of tumbling brick chimneys <br />and fieldstone boundaries of <br />this extinct bungalow <br />community of 60 years back.<br /><br />But I ponder sixty years forward:<br />A Spanish speaking father<br />(weekend archaeologist)<br />will bring his kids <br />to these lands<br />where developers haven’t <br />yet touched Hacklebarney Park.<br />He’ll still see NO TRESPASS <br />signs and tell his kids <br />about the Lenape Indians’<br /><br />battles with the white man.<br />He’ll miss the history of this house— <br />my Greek name as the 3rd owner; <br />he’ll miss Havana’s top architect’s <br />name who designed it in the 70’s<br /><br />(running from Castro) as a gift<br />to his daughter. He’ll also miss <br />the Bolivian contractor’s homemade <br />sign “HECHO POR THOMAS” <br />low on the NorthWest post of my bridge.<br /><br />And he will never learn about the old Norwegian who lived on above <br />Pottersville Falls and in his early years <br />did business in South East Europe —<br />just north of my homeland borders.<br /><br /><br /><br />Basil Rouskas<br />Basilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-24971053641688417322017-04-25T12:17:17.544-04:002017-04-25T12:17:17.544-04:00It is April 25 and today’s prompt is Peter E. Murp...It is April 25 and today’s prompt is Peter E. Murphy’s poem “Grand Fugue.”<br />By 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />TEA LEAVES<br />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.<br /><br />Basil RouskasBasilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-62370769818094343672017-04-25T07:35:08.578-04:002017-04-25T07:35:08.578-04:00So many beautiful poems to read and remember! Than...So many beautiful poems to read and remember! Thank you for this, Adele!Cara Michaelsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-75515908119670651382017-04-24T11:37:48.090-04:002017-04-24T11:37:48.090-04:00April 24 and the prompt poem is “Evolution” by Jes...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.<br /><br /><br />STREAMS<br /><br />This morning I walk the path by the narrow stream<br />where we parted<br /><br />I have learned to come here from other directions<br />but you still<br /><br />immerse me in your <br />stream<br /><br /><br /><br />Basil RouskasBasilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-16452800584124817072017-04-22T17:02:37.640-04:002017-04-22T17:02:37.640-04:00April 22 and Deborah LaVeglia’s “Trains: The Memo...April 22 and Deborah LaVeglia’s “Trains: The Memorial” is the prompt.<br /><br />This 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />THE TRAIN PLATFORM<br /><br />This April Friday I’ve come again<br />to the platform we parted<br /> <br /> because of words you say you <br /> did not mean but couldn’t undo<br /><br />although to take them <br />back I tried <br /><br /> but the hurt still there <br /> and we now are with others.<br /><br /><br /><br />Basil Rouskas<br /> Basilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-46628922076183193732017-04-22T12:57:33.026-04:002017-04-22T12:57:33.026-04:00April 22 and Deborah LaVeglia’s “Trains: The Memo...April 22 and Deborah LaVeglia’s “Trains: The Memorial” is the prompt.<br /><br />This 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />THE TRAIN PLATFORM<br /><br />This April Friday I’ve come again<br />to the platform we parted<br /> <br /> because of words you say you <br /> did not mean but couldn’t undo<br /><br />although to take them <br />back I tried <br /><br /> but the hurt still there <br /> and we now are with others.<br /><br /><br /><br />Basil RouskasBasilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-52395397467248773542017-04-22T08:18:26.716-04:002017-04-22T08:18:26.716-04:00What a wonderful idea -- something for every day o...What a wonderful idea -- something for every day of National Poetry Month! Thank you!Karennoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-28070972976393445412017-04-21T12:16:45.997-04:002017-04-21T12:16:45.997-04:00It is April 21 and Charlie Bondhus’ ekphrastic poe...It is April 21 and Charlie Bondhus’ ekphrastic poem “Built Fire” is the prompt for the day.<br /><br />Unique in selection of subject, this poem seems to incorporate a series of opposites:<br /><br />Crossed slats (Opposite-directions)<br />Painted-Weathered pieces of wood<br />On the inside - On the outside<br />Aflame - Extinct<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><br />CAUTION<br /><br />Beware, my son,<br />of the flame extinct<br />before its time<br /><br />Don’t heed my words, son,<br />and in time you shall be <br />a frustrated arsonist.<br /><br /><br />Basil Rouskas<br />Basilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-47919867969143166772017-04-20T10:04:25.495-04:002017-04-20T10:04:25.495-04:00This is perfection, Basil. Thanks for all the shar...This is perfection, Basil. Thanks for all the sharing this month!ADELE KENNYhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09556261298519747516noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-74907929029645955402017-04-20T02:13:33.557-04:002017-04-20T02:13:33.557-04:00It is April 20 and today’s prompt is SILENCE by Da...It is April 20 and today’s prompt is SILENCE by David Crews.<br /><br />I used the exercise Lewis Oakwood described in yesterday’s post:<br /><br />I picked the words “my mother,” “little boy vs. little girl,” “dark wood,” and “footprint” from David Crews’ poem.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><br />DAWN SILENCE<br /><br />The forest footprint<br />stops at Black River’s southern bend.<br />The sun is about to rise and I miss mother.<br /><br />Basil RouskasBasilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-4410705427399566012017-04-19T10:14:06.682-04:002017-04-19T10:14:06.682-04:00Beautifully written, Basil! You've captured th...Beautifully written, Basil! You've captured the feeling perfectly! Another journey, maybe another book? Thank you for all your sharing this month! ADELE KENNYhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09556261298519747516noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-39061331032007381222017-04-19T09:56:44.942-04:002017-04-19T09:56:44.942-04:00This is a fun exercise for me as well. It feels li...This is a fun exercise for me as well. It feels like a pleasant problem solving with (often) surprising results.<br /><br />In your poem, I like the device of "highly explosive" and then 5 lines later a deafening "BOOM"<br /><br />BasilBasilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-7337033703295239852017-04-19T04:26:48.847-04:002017-04-19T04:26:48.847-04:00This comment has been removed by the author.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-85944431341089648592017-04-19T03:31:31.440-04:002017-04-19T03:31:31.440-04:00April 19, 2017 and today’s prompt is
“Thanksgivin...April 19, 2017 and today’s prompt is <br />“Thanksgiving” by Martin Jude Farawell<br /><br />A symphony of blue ridges, mountain forests subtly blended with reflectons of a man about his life and pursuits.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />EAST WEST <br /><br />Normally sun swept,<br />in blue skies<br /><br />and Pacific air,<br />the west coast town <br /><br />I moved to four months ago<br />from New Jersey<br /><br />does Thai Chi this morning <br />in a mat of fog <br /><br />like the grey clouds do between<br />Pocono and Kittatinny.<br /><br />And I touch the wet wintery <br />barks of ash and oak<br /><br />near my old Black River<br />home and see images<br /><br />of the lonely old man <br />I used to meet on my walks.<br /><br /><br /><br />Basil RouskasBasilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09663203702515912643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-76738871311233496822017-04-18T18:12:46.995-04:002017-04-18T18:12:46.995-04:00There's a lot of richness in these poems. What...There's a lot of richness in these poems. What a delight to read them and to be inspired by them.Jeannienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6272430209314356497.post-25270337793601769122017-04-18T14:55:38.811-04:002017-04-18T14:55:38.811-04:00This comment has been removed by the author.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com